Theatre

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Another quickie, written from the rehearsal room. I’ve been working on music & sound for “Epic”, a devised show by Lucy Foster (long-term collaborator & former housemate) and Chloe Dechery (newly-met French performer). Having become a little bored with all the devised shows in the world dealing with personal minutiae, they decided to do something enormous and…well, epic. It’s a look at the entire history of the 20th century, with movement, interviews, film, music, and an impression of Boris Yeltsin.

There are going to be performances of the work-in-progress next week at Battersea Arts Centre, as part of their festival of Scratch performances, on 5th 6th and 7th May (although I’ve just been told the 5th has sold out). You probably won’t see the following scene in the show but, given there are a few days left, it’s possible it’ll sneak its way in…

This is how rehearsed readings should make you feel.

This is how rehearsed readings should make you feel.

If you’re a regular reader of this here blog (and, let’s face it, you probably aren’t, unless you’re me) you may remember my mentioning writing a play in a day in the middle of last year.  It was, if you recall, a pretty horrible play, with a lot of stuff dressed up as comedy.  You can get away with a lot of it’s perceived as a funny.

So, after an internal rehearsed reading last year, at which a few of the plays flaws became apparent, the Finborough Theatre have said they’d like to have a public reading of it, as part of their Vibrant! festival.

Again, if you know me, you’ll probably agree that VIBRANT is not a word that clings to every fibre of my being.

In any case, the facts are that you can witness a rehearsed reading of a new(ish) play of mine at the Finborough Theatre on 8th October this very year.  I think the Finborough’s blurb (as all blurb) is a bit misleading, but there you go; the amazing Kate Wasserberg is directing, which will make it all the better.

Also note that you can see work by former-Apathist Simon Vinnicombe and the excellent Michael Lesslie as well, so it’s an excellent week for fans-of-theatre-in-my-friend-group.

More information and ticket stuff here

Mike Bartlett & I are on a writing retreat, working on Thrown, a play-with-music for the Royal Court.  It will have two rehearsed readings as part of the Court’s Rough Cuts season, for which you can buy tickets here.  Mike’s new play, Cock, opens at the Royal Court on 13th November 2009.

If you’re a regular reader of my thoughts [Hi mum!] you might have read that I’m not a big fan of musical theatre. However, as someone who both writes music and plays, I’m well aware of the power in both artforms; this all came to a head around a year ago, when Mike Bartlett asked me to collaborate on a play he was writing, called Thrown; it was still in development then (as it is now), and he was also interested in finding ways to allow dramatic action and music to interact and inform each other, without ending up with what we both perceived as the superficiality of musical theatre.

In true socialist fashion, the first thing that I did was to write A Manifesto.  As with nearly everything that sets itself up in opposition to something else, it’s a flawed statement of intent, but it did succeed in fixing a lot of the thoughts that we wanted to work on.  What with the usually hurried process of rehearsing for a reading, we had a limited time to get things together, and lots of my/our high-faluting ideas had to be left by the wayside, in order to get something performable ready in a couple of days.

So, fast forwarding to now- Mike and I are now in the town of Hunter, NY in the Catskill Mountains, courtesy of The Orchard Project and the Royal Court Theatre.  We’re here to work on the project some more and, in particular, make our links between the musical and theatrical elements clearer, bringing in some of the manifesto thoughts that we’d had to leave out of the play’s earlier incarnation.

What we’re striving for, while we’re here, is a piece of work in which the form and content inform each other- there should be a dialogue between the narrative of the play, and the structure we’re creating in order to tell that story.

Prior to coming here, I was a little baffled as to why the Court thought it was a good idea to send two English people, writing a play about England, and living within a 1 hour bus ride of each other, off to the Catskill Mountains, at great cost and inconvenience.  Having been here for a few days, though, it seems clear: what The Orchard Project have is a large number of artists in a small area, for a short period of time, all of whom are keen to talk about their practice, and to learn from the experiences of others.  Late-night discussions have become a commonplace, and it’s clear that there are a lot of extremely passionate theatremakers coming up through the colleges and universities.  I don’t think Mike and I would have been able to do the work we have so far, had we not been in this environment. It really is good not to have to be in London, sometimes.

I’m sure I’ll have more to say while I’m here; in particular, I’d like to talk a little more about how Mike and I are working on the play.  If, god forbid, you happen to have any questions about any of this, please do leave a comment and I’ll answer as fully as I can.

As it sounds: The Royal Court Theatre (of Sloane Square, London) are sending me, and playwright Mike Bartlett, off to a theatrical retreat in the Catskill Mountains in the north of New York State, so that we can work on a play together.

I’m not making this up.

Questions are arising in your mind, I imagine.  Questions like ‘Why are they sending you to New York, when you both live in London?’ and ‘Why now, when the project had seemed to be dead?’ and ‘How fucking lucky can you be?’.  I don’t know the answer to these questions, dear reader.  What I can tell you is that I’m going to be spending a lot of time writing music alongside Mike’s script, and that I’ll be taking lots of photos of a mountain, and quite possibly writing a lot of blogs about how totally sweet it is being up a mountain while you’re fed and watered and just expected to come up with some art.

It’s a hard life, eh?

[A tiny caveat- I wrote this, it seems, exactly 2 years ago, and I've just found it again.  Clearly I'm trying to provoke discussion.  As I write it up, I'm sure I'll think of reasons why my thinking's flawed.  Perhaps you'd like to join in?]

As far as I know, naturalism doesn’t have a definition, in critical terms.  I’m not talking about Emile Zola and his ilk- I’m thinking of the mode of theatre that’s often classed as naturalistic. If you’ve ever taken part in a theatre-writing workshop, or been taught ‘how to write’, then you’re bound to have come across the term.  It appears to be one of those words that, because they are used so commonly, enter into the critical vocabulary without any concerted effort to define exactly what it is we’re talking about.

In short, it’s used to describe a form of theatrical presentation that attempts to mimic reality; almost analogous to photorealistic paintings, there’s never any suggestion that what you’re looking at is, in reality, the thing it’s pretending to be.  A spectator is never asked to believe that a painting is a photograph, or to believe that a play is reality; instead, the audience is asked to believe that what they’re seeing is an accurate representation of what might, or could, happen.

Elements that might be present in a naturalistic play include:

  • an attempt, by the writer, to capture nuances of dialect, pronunciation, stress and rhythms of speech, culled from observation of the real world.
  • an attempt, on the part of the actors, to portray a Stanislavskyan, well-rounded, believable character.
  • a realistic set, resembling objects and setting as close to a convincing version of reality as possible.
  • sound effects, to mimic the sounds of occurrences on, or off, stage.
  • an emphasis on believability of character action and plot progression.

So far, so obvious.  The first (and perhaps most obvious) problem with naturalism as a dramatic mode is that an accurate representation of real, actual life, as lived every day is not at all dramatic, in the textbook definition of the term.  Dramatic events are rare, and life-altering when they occur in real life, and yet they must happen frequently onstage in order, so we are told, to engage an audience.  This is precisely the reason why watching Big Brother Live is not interesting in the slightest: it’s non-event after non-event.

So, of course, in order to make something ‘interesting’ to an audience, dramatic situations have to be created: someone’s brother returns home after many years of absence, Big Brother turns off the water supply.  What we end up with is not all natural, but is naturalistic- it’s an awkward mode, balanced between wanting to seem real and wanting to be ‘dramatic’, and rarely succeeding at either.  An audience is presented with something that isn’t itself believable, but with something that they can imagine could be believable.  It’s an attempt to achieve a compromise between two modes that are basically incompatible.

Naturalism is, at the moment, the dominant mode of English-language-based theatre, for a number of reasons too many and various ever to know entirely, I suspect; one can make some sort of educated guess. though.  It is, of course, much easier to use an existing form of language than to attempt to define and use a new one, and it is much easier to find an audience for something that’s performed in an easily-recognised dialect or language.  From this (or, perhaps, in parallel with this), runs the concept of the realistic character who uses a familiar language, and behaves in a believable way.  The exact reasons why he does something may not be overtly stated, but they are present in some way.

So, we also come across the methods of acting currently en vogue and propagated by the various mainstream theatre schools.  These methods are all based on the same principles as the dominant thinking behind the writing of plays: the creation of believable characters who have reasons and motivations for their actions, and whose every statement is a result of his/her wanting something.  One feeds the other- writers create plays that actors will be trained appropriately enough to perform, and actors continue to be trained to perform the existing canon of plays.

It is only natural and perfectly ordinary that there should be a dominant mode of expression in any art form; it seems impossible to imagine a situation where all modes are equally present in the world.  It’s when a mode becomes ubiquitous to the point of monopoly that the art becomes stagnant and cloying.  As people, we have a subconscious tendency to view the passage of time as an improving and refining force and thus, in this situation, that we’ve been honing our approach to making theatre for thousands of years.  By extension, what’s happening now must be the best theatre that’s ever been made.  Looking around, though, that seems very unlikely, doesn’t it…?

The notion that naturalism and our current concept of dramatic action are what constitutes theatre itself is a dangerous one.  The end result can only be the circle of writers’ and actors’ intentions becoming tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller, until there is no looseness, no movement, no play in the play.  It will be a solidification and codification of an art form, based on the false idea that one mode of expression is that art form.  It’s a little like the idea that all songs should be in 4/4- it is the most commonly recognised time signature, but that doesn’t mean that an audience can’t understand others.  When Take 5 reached number 1 in the US, people were dancing to it quite happily, blissfully unaware that they were dancing to an unusual beat.

The dominance of naturalism can only be a bad thing.  It’s perpetuated by theatre producers, afraid that their imagined audience will be unwilling to watch something that differs from what they’ve seen before.  Writers are afraid (and justifiably so) that their work won’t be produced unless they write in this naturalistic mode that a producer will recognise.  Actors are afraid that they won’t be employable unless they know how to act in a particular way.  All of these are guilty of the horrific crime of underestimating their audience.  Once you start defining ‘audience’ as a single entity, interested solely in instant entertainment, with a short attention span, uninterested in anything more complex than surface glamour, then you’re not only patronising and underestimating the group of people you’re in the business of entertaining, but you’re also damning yourself to the role of a production line, reproducing work in the template of artworks that have come before.

I reject this naturalism, with this caveat- only an idiot discards a tool he may one day need.  Here, and now, I reject it.  The language of naturalism (by which I mean the entire construct by which theatre is produced, not only the written word) is inappropriate for contemporary theatre, as it has an inherent acceptance, on a basic linguistic level, of how the world is.  An acceptance of everyday language use implies an acceptance of everyday meaning, values, morality, and the status quo- in other words, the very things that a contemporary theatrical aesthetic should be challenging.

I reject naturalism because I don’t believe that entrenched values and concepts can be opposed solely by using the language that defines them and because, if there is one thing theatre should be doing, it is challenging these entrenched values.

So.  My friend and infinitely-more-successful-playwrighting-companion Duncan Macmillan has asked me to write something for one of the Paines Plough Later series of events (and there’s more information about the Later events here).  Paines Plough, in case you’ve never heard of them, is one of the highest-profile producers of interesting new theatre writing in the UK; they have a habit of running small series of shows at places like the Menier Chocolate Factory and the Shunt vaults, as well as running an ongoing competition to win mentoring from their organisation (which, while being a highly prestigious scheme, has the slightly awful name of Future Perfect.  I know.  I know).  All told, they’re a force for good, like the Ewoks.  Duncan, as well as being a successful writer (and now, it seems, director) is Paines Plough’s current writer in residence.  The bastard.

So, Duncan’s asked me to write something for one of these late-night events, probably because the more successful of our friends were all too busy being successful somewhere.  The event itself is a night of short things, made by collaboration between playwrights and cabaret artists; I myself am working with two lovely ladies (both called Laura.  Seriously.) of the Korova Milk Bar burlesque troupe.  If you’re reading this, I can only assume that you know me personally (hello) and, as a result, will know that my knowledge of burlesque is minimal.  Or, at least, it was.  After Laura The First gave me a crash course in the theory of the whole affair in a Sydenham cafe at the weekend, I now at least know a little about it.  And, in my usual heavy-handed way, I fully intend to subvert the whole lot by doing something ridiculous.

I recommend you come along, folks.  It should be a great night, despite my best efforts.  If I can work out how my snazzy new touchyphone works, I’m going to try to video the whole thing too, so stay tuned for some strangenesss…

Tickets can be booked by clicking on me, right here.  Go on, have a click.

I’m only really writing this list so I can try to get my head around it- I feel like I’m precariously balanced on the verge of completely losing my mind.

  1. transcribing 4 new pieces for The Monroe Transfer‘s new album
  2. re-doing scores for Philippe Parreno’s new exhibition at Pilar Corrias’s new gallery (even though I have little idea what the scores are actually being used for…)
  3. trying to work out when I can meet up with a burlesque dancer to collaborate on a short performance piece for Paines Plough’s Later event on 22nd October.
  4. writing a 5-10 minute piece for celesta, ‘cello & double bass (for some competition or other)
  5. trying to work out how to play various showtunes for a musical this week.
  6. desperately looking for funding to make a short film I’ve adapted from a short play of mine: 10:16 – 10:19 (twice)
  7. trying to meet with director and producer, to work out when we can actually put heaven on in a theatre.
  8. arranging rehearsals for The Monroe Transfer.

And, of course, none of this is paid, so quite apart from scrounging a seemingly endless sum of money from The Lady, I’m spending craploads of time doing the most important thing:

9.  FINDING A FRIGMOTHERING JOB.

I have officially chosen the worst time in the economic history to attempt this.  Today will either be incredibly productive, or the most frustrating time I’ve ever had.  Pasta will help.

Just a tiny note as I’m in the middle of clearing away the electronic, and physical, detritus that’s built up while being away for 8 days.

The Lost Theatre Company (who put on a performance of a short play of mine, Spiderhead, last year) are having their inaugural 5 Minute Festival at the end of the month, and something of mine’s going on there.  It’s called Something I wrote in a hurry, and has been performed once before, in the lobby of the Hampstead Theatre, so chances are that no-one’s actually seen it.  It’s being directed by my old friend Prasanna Puwanarajah, and should be fun.

The full line-up of shows can be found by clicking here, and there’s more information about the Lost Theatre Company at their site.  And, if you fancy getting a ticket, you can book them by calling 0844 847 2264 or on-line at www.tabardtheatre.co.uk - their shows do normally sell out, apparently, so it might be worth booking up if you’re interested.

Over the recent Bank Holiday weekend, I was left at home on my own as The Lady was away; I had, as I normally do, a huge list of things I needed, or wanted, to get done.  None of them involved writing a new play but, as it turned out, that’s exactly what I did.

Now, my friend and one-time mentor Simon Stephens did exactly this with his play Motortown- his wife and family went away for a weekend, and he just wrote solidly.  In his case, as I’ve since found out from him, it was all planned in his head for months before, and the writing was just a matter of putting it down on paper.  In my case, it wasn’t quite so straightforward- if you’ve ever read or seen something of mine, you know that there’s normally a lot of weird stuff going on.  In the case of this particular play, all the strange things had been floating around in my head for a long, long time, and over this weekend it was a little like sticking a screwdriver into my head, and the accumulated pressure blowing all this stuff all over the page.  It’s not a pleasant bit of writing, and the writing of it wasn’t particularly pleasant, either; it was a lot like lancing some sort of infection- disgusting, but strangely satisfying.

And, of course, spending about 20 hours a day in front of a computer on the same task, listening to ambient music (William Basinski, Taylor Dupree & Christopher Willits, Brian Eno and Arvo Part, if you’re interested) can have a strange effect on the brain, especially if it’s spewing all all this disgusting stuff onto the page.  Going outside into sunlight and air was a little strange, on the Monday morning.  Quite an odd weekend, all told.

So, taking Simon’s advice (and, indeed, doing what I would probably do anyway) I’m leaving it in a drawer for a couple of weeks, and then having a read through of it, seeing what occurs.  At the moment, my abiding thoughts are that it’s quite horrible, absurd and nasty.  It’s not a pleasant read, I don’t think.  At the moment, I like it.  Let’s see how I feel about it in a couple of weeks, shall we…?

When I was young – much younger than now – a different person you might even say…I truly believed that there was…a city inside of me – a huge and varied city full of green squares, shops and churches, secret streets and hidden doors leading to staircases that climbed to rooms full of light where there would be drops of rain on windows, and where in each small drop the city would be seen upside down. There would be industrial zones where elevated trains ran past the windows of factories and conference centres. There would be schools where, when there was a lull in traffic, you could hear children playing.

The seasons in the city would be distinct: hot summer nights when everyone slept with their windows open, or sat out on their balconies in their underwear, drinking beer from the fridge – and in winter, very cold mornings when snow had settled in courtyards and they showed the snow on TV and the snow on TV was the same snow out in the street, shovelled to the side to enable the inhabitants to get to work.

And I was convinced that in this city I would find an inexhaustible source of characters and stories for my writing. I was convinced that in order to be a writer I’d simply have to travel to this city – the one inside of me – and write down what I discovered there. I knew it would be difficult to reach this city. It wouldn’t be like going on a plane to Marrakech, say, or Lisbon. I knew the journey could take days or even years quite possibly. But I knew that if I could find life in my city, and be able to describe life, the stories and characters of life, then I myself – this is what I imagined – could come alive.

And I did reach my city. Yes. Oh yes. But when I reached it, I found that it had been destroyed. The houses had been destroyed and so had the shops. Minarets lay on the ground next to church steeples. What balconies there were had dropped to the pavement. There were no children in the playgrounds, only coloured lines. I looked for inhabitants to write about, but there were no inhabitants, just dust. I looked for the people still clinging on to life – what stories they could tell! – but even there – in the drains, the basements – in the underground railway system – there was nothing – nobody – just dust. And this grey dust, like the ash from a cigarette, was so fine it got into my pen and stopped the ink reaching the page.

Well, yesterday’s post provoked my first comments from someone I don’t know personally. Excellent. So, while my post was clearly the work of someone expressing an opinion, I’d like to think there were some reasonably objective points raised there. So today, to conclude the document I wrote in response to my hatred of Musical Theatre, here’s what I wrote as a proposed framework for something better…

“A play with music” not “A musical”.

We will not concern ourselves with a West End transfer, CD sales, how memorable the tunes are, our target demographic or whether people come away with a smile on their face.

Specialised performers for specialised roles.

The writing of music & sound design will happen at the same time as the writing of the narrative & dialogue.

We will try to find a mode of performance in which the appearance of music is internally consistent with the narrative, characterisation and world of the play.

Music will arise from something happening in the world of the play, not from an out-of-world decision.

Music isn’t there to make an audience feel a particular emotion- it’s an expression of a situation in the world of the play, or of how a character’s emotional state.

We won’t take any shortcuts to emotion by repeating something an audience has heard before.

Music is not in the world of the play, in the same way that lighting changes are not in the world of the play- they are both there to illuminate the action on stage and show it to the audience.

If the characters interact with the musicians or the music, then there must be a reason for them to recognise this intrusion into their world.

If a character is going to sing, it should be as remarkable as when someone breaks into song in real life.

We will try to portray the real world.

Discuss away, if you have thoughts…

Mike Bartlett & I are, intermittently, working on a project together, involving music by me and words by him; we’ve already performed a short version of the piece at the Royal Court, who seem to be enthusiastic about our taking it further. As part of the preparations for this, I wrote a little bit about why I cannot stand Musicals and, a little later, went on to set out a manifesto for a different way of combining music & theatre.

In a small way, I’m a musician, composer and playwright; I love theatre, and I love music. This is why I despise Musical Theatre. Musicals are an affront to anyone who cares one iota about the impact that theatre or music can have. They can never express anything deeper than the purely superficial, and can’t show anything interesting about the world. Here’s a, far-from-exhaustive, selection of reasons why:

The music is always trite, cliché-ridden, cheap and emotionally manipulative, and the narrative likewise.

No emotion is ever expressed that can’t be summed up in a rhyming couplet.

The entire premise is inconsistent- the idea of naturalistic acting being interrupted by a band, and by breaking into song, is an incoherent mess of a structure.

The idea that, as emotional intensity increases, the only way to express oneself is through song is flawed. a) people don’t become more expressive as they become more emotional; if anything, it’s the opposite. b) any attempt to become more eloquent through music is immediately frustrated by the need for rhyme, rhythm, singing range etc, which confines rather than liberates the character & performer.

Singing well is hard. Acting well is hard. Finding one person who can do both these things is very, very hard. Finding a cast who can do both very well is nigh on impossible.

Musicals are expensive, and thus have to make a lot of money to make it worthwhile; this means appealing to as many people as possible, challenging nothing and offering a cheap emotional sop to all.

Part of this need to make money results in the need to make something showy, glitzy and gaudy which, patently, the world is not.

Music, sound and song are never the product of the world they’re in- they come from some out-of-world decision that “we need some song here”, not from an in-world activity or emotion. The music is just layered on top of the narrative.

There’s no dialogue between the forms- one of the signs of something’s artistic worth is that the form and content inform each other. In the creation of the work, they should be considered equally; there should be a dialogue and interrogation between them that explains their relationship. In Musical Theatre very little, if anything, makes the musical and theatrical elements a cohesive whole.

“Hummable tunes”, easily achieved emotional gratification, a plot simply designed to string pop songs together, music and narrative composed by lumping together populist clichéd tropes like Lego blocks- these are fucking anathema.

Heaven

So, in terms of things I’ve written that may have some sort of future, it’s all looking quite quiet.  After some very positive feedback from the Film Council about a feature-length script called Lifted, I’m going to take another pass at it; I’m also slowly hacking through a pilot script for an animated comedy show called Soup.  Neither of these have any particular goal at the moment, but heaven (a play that’s had a reading at the Royal Court, directed by James Macdonald, no less) should be going on at a theatre somewhere in the future.  That’s about as precise as I can be at the moment but, at the very least, some people want to put it on somewhere.  The actual theatres themselves may have other ideas about it…

I’m sure I’ll write more about it sometime, but here’s a word cloud from Wordle – the words that appear most commonly are largest in the image.  I think it gives a pretty good impression of what the play’s actually about; have a click to see it a little larger…

[audio:untitled_web.mp3]

This is a short play I wrote a little while ago; at the time I was writing with a group called The Apathists (comprising me, Duncan Macmillan, Simon Vinnicombe, Morgan Lloyd Malcolm, Rachel Wagstaff and Mike Bartlett). We’d all met through programmes at the Royal Court, and through the 24 Hour Plays at the Old Vic, and wanted to have a night in which we were free to make short experiments, and try to push ourselves in ways we might not be able in other environments. We ended up holding a monthly night at Theatre 503 for a year, for which we each wrote a new, short piece of about 10-15 minutes; they weren’t readings, they weren’t works in progress, and they weren’t parts of a larger piece. They were small, short pieces of theatre that were meant to be unusual directions for the writers, and to be performed once at the night in question.

I’m quite an experimental writer as it is, and for me the real benefit of the nights was that I was actually able to see something of mine performed, hear how an audience reacts and see if there was any value in what I was writing. Despite not actually being that weird, nothing of mine ever gets put on, you see. In any case, there was a good reaction to what I was doing, and nothing that made me think about giving up immediately.

So- this particular thing had a couple of goals; firstly, to make a piece of sound art, and secondly to allow the various artists involved to respond to something someone else had made, and take it in a direction they felt could work. The process I came up with was…

  1. I write a script.
  2. Actor reads the script, responds with a number of interpretations, and records complete readings of these interpretations.
  3. I (in my new role as sound artist) respond to these recordings, and use the source recordings to make one new piece, adding in whatever sounds seemed appropriate.
  4. The actor and director then take this piece of sound art, and between them come up with a way of using this piece in a live performance on stage.

If it were ever to be performed again, then the existing script should go through the same process, from steps 2-4, with the new actor, composer and director.

Obviously, the MP3 above only takes us up to step 4; if you’re interested, the actor in question played the scene as someone going through a collection of mementos from a former lover, with the recording being something he had made for her. While playing the piece on a CD player onstage, he went through a box of belongings she’d left behind, reminiscing about her and, eventually, cut off the recording very near the end.

I hope the recording’s of interest; the voice on the recording (and the actor who performed at Theatre 503) is that of Leander Deeny, whose excellent children’s book Hazel’s Phantasmagoria can be purchased here and whose blog you can read here. It was directed by JMK Trust winner Polly Findlay, and was performed at Theatre 503 in June 2006.

Bam.

Well, after spending a few days discussing with my friend Ben Walker the merits of various different sites, in order to find an audience for your artistic outpourings, this seemed quite a sensible way of doing things. So, here we are. On the “About” page, it looks like you can find out more about me in general, and presumably I’ll be able to have a page where you can look at my CVs, and see if you’d like to employ me to do something for you. Lots of projects are nearing completion, and others are just kicking off, so hopefully I’ll actually have something to write about. But, of course, as with making music, writing plays, writing films, playing gigs etc. the real problem isn’t “doing the thing you want to do”- it’s “finding people who’ll want to be an audience” or, even more challenging “finding people who’ll want to be a paying audience”.

Let’s hope for the best, eh…?