A lot of the past few months has been spent carefully dodging the question ‘So, what play are you working on now?’
My standard answer is some variation of ‘Creative side on the back-burner, this year dedicated to consolidating the business end of things’.
For a certain part, this is true. For the most part though, I have no way of explaining that I am negotiating the ridiculously self-appointed knife’s edge that still keeps the worlds of the artist and that of society separate. I have no way of communicating how the stability of making money of my art has severely undercut my ability to experiment, explore and simply take risks, in ways that I can’t even begin to understand. No desire really to get in to how jaded a part of me feels with the dearth of social comprehension that suffocates me like a poisonous fog. At times any way. I feel like I’d let people down if I somehow let it slip that I’ve become sensible but I still remain me.
Also, it probably bruises the ego to admit how cowed stability can make you. I mean, this is a company (yes, registered and all) that I worked my butt off to get off the ground. That did plays that were stopped by the police, that got plays done internationally, made the city first ever English Theatre Festival happen… the company that now sits around waiting, for something that I can’t yet define. A company that for a while had a lot of people associated with it, that has now become a front for a single artist’s (me) current inaction. A company that now feels the brunt of outliving public memory while straining under the weight of burgeoning nostalgia. A company that is an idea in search of makers.
A company that is taking a deep breath, waiting for it’s owner to dive in deep again, so that it can fill up her lungs maybe some day bring her back up again.
A company that needs to stop dreaming of being an organization, but embrace the individual that has always defined it.
An individual who is not yet dead. Just resting.