Oubliette 15 February 2017

Oubliette 15 February 2017

Though still rib-sore after eight hours of being corseted and crinoline-d, I am so glad that I did it - though it's full import has yet to make its mark. Over six months in the making, I have to pinch myself that I did it. What a feat. What a feat of genteel endurance. Sitting there on the floor, the giant doll's house by my side, I thought of Angela Carter's The Magic Toyshop and then walking through the gallery, my crinoline swaying from side to side, of Ada in Jane Campion's The Piano. It was the children who responded to me. A row of wellington boots, then a little girl, whispering hello and then goodbye. And some teenagers, giggling and screaming, it's so creepy. The adults. Well, most just forgot I was there. Sitting on sofas talking of bunk beds and shopping. It was what I'd hoped. I was the spectre in the room, the ghost of the nineteenth-century woman, doing woman's work. And yet, I wrote. I did write. One sentence. Painfully slow. I need time to take it all in. To digest it's import, its impact. It was a performance about writing, about domestic work, but more about being invisible. And what you take in when you are head-down and silent . The smells, of aftershave, shampoo, soap and the sounds. The constant reverberation of laughter, chatter, the squeak of rubber on the floors and my soundscape the rasping, tearing of thread through fabric. All I can say is thank you. Thank you for the experience. I think next time it may be on the Tube.......

Making Stories Workshop - February 14 2017
 

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Saturday, 18 November 2017
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