Author Archives: Hannah Sullivan

About Hannah Sullivan

Hannah is a performance maker and freelance producer based in Bristol.

circumstance: A Folded Path

Like a deep sea dive in your own city, A Folded Path is a brisk urban walk with stimulating surround sound created by location-sensitive speakers carried by the participants. We gathered at the Watershed, Bristol, to each be handed our custom-built small wooden box with a soft leather handle containing a speaker. We all held our new gift to our ears hearing the soft rumbles of electronic composition inside, mine sounded like a distant lost whale in space, if you can imagine that. We are split into three groups of around ten, each with a high-vis clad leader who will direct us on our journey. What follows is a pedestrian cinematic experience as our boxes begin to sing louder with bleeps, strings, and warbling tones. We become a collective orchestra that alters as we move through various spaces in the city. The collision of space and sound send the imagination on a trip…

Approaching vine covered temples, cast over in sun and shadow.
Frozen buildings topped with snow, a scene from Twelve Monkeys.
A submarine bleeding in the dark, lights fogged with algae.
Pilgrims descending on their destination, exhausted in the thousands.
Two dusty groups greeting in the desert with offerings of peace.
Lilting Jamaican and Welsh.
Meat air and piss corners.
A child opening a present, an expression of ‘is this really for me?’
A cellist practicing from a high window, sound tumbling or creeping like ivy.
The shower in my ear, blocked and waterlogged.
Sinking lifts, sinking sand, and sinking ships.
Drowning radio transmitters.
Electropop rave gathering.
Swallow murmurations, ant trails, and slug slime.
Tokyo road crossing.
Swimming ghosts in the market rafters, folding time.
Rising up higher with false angels and cupid’s horns.
Arrows pointing upwards, held taught on the bow.
Smoke reversing out from chimneys.
Minibuses of noise and blood.
Drunken lullaby.

The walk was devised so that our individual group wandered together through back streets getting caught up with bin men and surprising loiterers, to then cross over or gather with the other groups allowing all 30 speakers to swell and fill the square or park with sound. As a participant you are both experiencing the piece and gifting it to the city, people stop in their tracks as we envelop them with our trailing sound. I have often been keen on those who carry boomboxes on their shoulders announcing their sound into the city with confidence rather than slipping between each other silently.

When the speakers fade away and we are left standing by the harbour the trickle of the fountain amongst the enormous white noise of people talking becomes a delicate soundtrack. A Folded Path ignites your ears to the symphony of the city. By whitewashing the city for 40 minutes in electronic sound you emerge with a refreshed sensitivity. Sitting here now I can hear the drone of a passing aeroplane, the fizz of the neighbouring car wash, and the intermittent screams of playing children. I wonder how long this attentiveness will last.

Still House: Of Riders and Running Horses

On the top floor of a city centre car park the world premiere of Still House’s Of Riders and Running Horses took flight in sun, wind, and rain. My experience of this new dance event began with excitedly queuing on the pavement outside the NCP car park holding on to the fact that something going to happen up there and I was about to part of it.

Once ascended the audience gathers around the natural/unnatural dance floor made of the blue and yellow painted bay markings; to one side is a small white marquee with festoons sheltering the makings of loud music; drum kit, guitar, electronics.

It starts with a song. Sam Halmarack’s voice sings alone, piercing and fragile, the lone singing voice combining both strength and vulnerability, he is direct and unapologetic. The words are delivered with a sense of urgency and immediacy, the song is a call to come out of our houses, to create community, to be active against isolation. Then, the beat kicks in summoning five young female dancers from their camping stools, who had previously been stretching like boxers before the fight. They ride the music with contemporary style, merging freestyle, hip hop, and folk formation.

A choreography of play begins as the dancers interpret the music with their bodies, letting it shape them, keeping up with it. This then shifts as one dancer, making stern eye contact with the drummer, begins to orchestrate the music with her body. Now it is the drummer keeping up with the rising tempo of her footwork. This playfulness between the music and the dance combined them equally, generating a clear drive and energy that propelled the whole event. The dancers are epically energetic, smiling at each other and us; they come to the borders of the performance space, where we stand nodding our heads.

The piece was an assemblage of ensemble choreography which conjured feelings and images of African, morris, and club dancing as well as galloping, racing, and strutting horses, created a spell with the ancient, the contemporary, and the human/animal, fulfilling the aim of creating ‘a new kind of old dance.’

The solos provided space for reflection, amongst the energy-swelling ensemble dance, a particularly special solo for me was thick and slow within a constant electronic drone capturing that individual moment of connecting the body with sound. There were also moments of exhaustion and of grief. My toes were tapping in my shoes the whole time, a credit to musician Luke Harney (aka Typesun) whose range of rhythm continually fed us with sound sustenance.

Raised up amongst student flats and a church spire, the night sky darkened cueing the car park lights to come up, casting an orange glow on the sweat-dripping faces of the dancers. The site is key to the joy of this work, giving us space to dance and see each other, close to the sky rather than low and swallowed. An inventiveness and resourcefulness towards the use of urban spaces is vital in this time of continuing privatisation and challenging of the public’s right of access to communal space, plus the doom of an individualist society. Of Riders and Running Horses is an event that reminds us that this is what we need and this is what we have always done. Furious dancing in wide open spaces.

Dickie Beau: Blackouts: Twilight of the Idols

Dickie Beau, a ‘drag fabulist’ and ‘playback pioneer’, was among the opening shows of this year’s Mayfest. Taking the main stage at Bristol Old Vic, Blackouts was an audiovisual spectacle layering projection, performer and rare mesmerising tape recordings of Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland.

The show opens with a passionate recording of Judy Garland. ‘You can’t make me sing!’ She exclaims at a man trying to get her to go to her own concert. Strongly lit with bright white light Dickie Beau delivers her words, his lips curling outwards, his expression shaping our memory of her face. Dickie Beau’s lip syncing skill and physical attributes are powerfully engaging, completely absorbing you into the words of the tape recordings. His whole body stutters and flows with the tape, as if he himself is being ‘played’.

The words of Judy bring up the trappings of fame, the struggle to maintain your own life whilst fulfilling an idol persona. For me, it brought out thoughts on the sacrificial. The idols become false beacons of society, created to be fantastical and higher so we can watch with awe.

Solely using the words of the idols, the piece is a clever construction about construction, and more specifically the construction of portraits. Dickie draws a parallel between himself and the journalist Richard Meryman, who developed a style of writing which imitated the speech pattern of those being interviewed, Marilyn being one of them, and this became his shtick. The practice of drag can be seen as the creation of an animated portrait, taking skill in imitation with accuracy. Dickie Beau is extremely captivated by this parallel between his own practice and that of Richard Meryman, presenting him as a kind of future self, but in the past.

A translucent but visible projection screen veiled the whole stage giving a sense of looking into a memory or dream, an uncertain world spanning and merging decades with words and images recorded, copied, and performed. The projections sometimes aided this but sometimes interrupted the already rich flow of Dickie Beau and the tape recordings. An image that will stay with me is Marilyn’s floating white dress taken into surreal realms; a man’s tattooed body in white silk, blonde hair like straw, spinning in a whirlwind of dust, like an arrow being shot into the sky, her expression teetering between ecstasy and pain, a kind of idolised organism that had no end.

In the last moments of the piece, we hear a sound extract from Paris is Burning, a seminal documentary on the 80s drag balls and developing transgender culture in New York. The wisdom of senior drag queen Dorian Corey lulls out softly ‘You’ve made a mark on the world if you just get through it’, wrapping the piece back up with visions of drag culture and the constant interplay of reality and fantasy involved in the creation of ourselves, of our own self portraits.

A heavily self referential work, the performance was a complex psychological endeavour to grapple with the very practice of idols, idolising, and imitation. This created a kind of puzzle block of a show, a feeling from me in the audience of trying to ‘unlock’ it, trying to piece together the strands. This meant I struggled to emotionally connect but was taken aback by the richness of material, the potency of the images created and Dickie Beau’s transformative performance. Blackouts is a beautifully crafted and historically layered theatrical work that unravels in your mind afterwards.

Kieran Hurley: BEATS

Johnno McCreadie is 15 and lives in Livingston, Scotland. His friend Spanner is a bit of a bad laddie; his mum Alison is worried about those boys, about drugs. The D-man, a techno-head from the south of England, is taking Johnno and Spanner to a rave, Johnno’s first ever. Robert Dunlop is a policeman haunted by his own father; he will encounter Johnno not as a discontented 15 year-old son but as a hooded youth, a hooligan who needs to be taught a lesson.

Set in Livingston, a down and out town in Scotland with bitumen pavements, Kieran Hurley’s BEATS tells us a story about rave culture in the early 90s – specifically in 1994 when the Criminal Justice Act outlawed raves with legislation that banned ‘public gatherings around amplified music characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats’. It is told with the help of a live DJ/VJ and a collection of incredibly detailed characters delivered by Kieran in an understated performance incorporating swift and stunning accent shifts and a very evocative use of props.

Sitting in the studio of the Bristol Old Vic my body is transported to another place, to a place with massive speakers, lights that blind my eyes, and a bass that shakes my bones. The recreation of this environment is strongly affecting; I am excited and now connected to a me that jumps in a crowd that worships music. Kieran Hurley uses this atmosphere to send us hurtling through a tale of rave beats and techno music that strives to create euphoria. Each character is truly believable and has their own identifiable charm. Kieran brings a particularly emotive attention to the character of Johnno’s mum, Alison: waiting for him when he doesn’t return home; making a list of all the things she could do when he gets back, wrapped up with worry and love.

The policeman’s conversations with his dead father allow us access to what came before all this – the 80s, the strikes and demolitions, the run up to a generational mentality fit for rave culture. The writing sets the context effortlessly – the sense that everything has happened in the past, that there is nothing left for a current or future generation. This is where Johnno comes from, a place of depression and boredom: as Johnno says before leaving with his friends to his first rave, ‘What about me?’

As the narrative enters the illegal rave and Johnno’s first experience of drugs is being played out for us, a huge, crude, bright red beating heart is projected onto the screen, like the readout from some video game. The part that drugs play within rave culture is an important area to stress; it is the reason for much of the condemnation of the subculture, and for the fear it causes within society. But Johnno is being taken over and is in love with it, with everything and everyone. A unity is formed with the crowd and in ecstasy Johnno repeats ‘what’s good for me, is good for you’. Suddenly he feels connected to something after so many nights of sitting shrouded in his green hoodie playing Zelda alone.

Kieran reveals fantastic empathy and understanding with all sides of the story, allowing us a completely rounded experience. The text neatly wraps itself up: the beginning that is cunningly delivered off mic, like a kind of introduction, weasels its way into the end of the narrative. ‘It means nothing, this is your lot, it means nothing, it means nothing,’ he says when it has become so clear that it does mean something – that this wave of music had a political drive that was counteracting a social oppression. By the end of the show it has come to mean something to us all, whether rave culture it was before our time or not.

Full of emotive touches and of historical and political importance, relatable and provocative, BEATS is a jam-packed story mixing up freedom, drugs, youth, police, music, family, friendship. Its expression of the hunt to feel like you have a place in this world, that you can belong, is utterly thrilling.

Jo Hellier: 97 Years

97 Years by Jo Hellier is an interactive installation, facilitated by the artist, in which the audience are given strings that control a delicately balanced soundscape featuring Jo’s granddad talking about his garden and his wife Marian. The composition of sound, film and performance has a light touch yet enormous emotional weight, evoking tears and leaving your heart stirred long after.

Waiting in the corridor of the Royal West Academy of Art we hear the echoing mumble of art galleries. Two large impressive doors are opened and as I enter 97 Years the room is filled with a slow pulsing low drone, a sound almost like difficult breathing. On the wall is a projection of blurred colours; above is a long wooden pulley system by which strings are weighed down with bags of apples on one side, then pinned down with a stack of red bricks on the other. Jo Hellier is sat in the middle of the space quietly arranging a collection of rotting apples on the floor in order of decay. She considers how they smell, their touch and look. She is dedicated to the task and takes her time. As Jo’s collection reaches order the film comes into focus and we can see apple trees.

Jo describes a garden that has been ordered and cared for. She tells us that this order is fading. She is talking about her grandparents’ garden. She removes the first string from the stack of bricks allowing the bag of apples to drop, and the sound in the space instantly changes. The strings, when released, bring a cacophony of sound. She hands the string to an audience member and whispers into their ear. She whispers ‘Pull the string until you can hear his voice’. As the audience member tentatively pulls the string we can hear an old man’s voice becoming recognisable and we strain to listen. He speaks from within a still present drone and swell of noise; he talks about his garden, which is being shown in fragments on the film. As more strings are handed out and pulled we discover how he met his wife, what he’s got in the kitchen for dinner and that Marion, his wife who he met when he was fifteen, has dementia and that sometimes she wont go to bed and just starts singing. The distorted speech and blurred film creates a general sense of disorientation that communicates Marian’s dementia before it’s even been plainly said.

When all fifteen strings are held by the audience, the buzz of sounds has transformed into silence and we can hear the last recording clearly. He says that all he values is Marian; he values her over faith. I feel that this is a poignant statement to make. I know for a fact that this would be a very bold thing for my own grandfather to say and so reveals how committed Harry is to his wife.

In the silence Jo explains that this is an empty moment, a moment of clarity and we are asked to hold onto it. Physically holding onto clarity, hands on a small piece of string, is emotive to the point of distress. The chance to identify with the situation of dementia like this is very powerful, because it is so tangible. The silence allows for the film to play out a beautifully mundane moment, Jo and her Granddad talking about teabags. This moment acquires a joyous sparkle as a few seconds of understanding amidst confusion and disconnection – to be with those you love.

Jo leaves the room, and we are left desperately holding onto our strings; everyone is reluctant to let them drop. As we do the drones enter back and the film fades. Clarity slips away as the string slides through our fingers.

A quiet yet attentive performance from Jo Hellier allows us to focus on the illness of dementia, the reality of mental decay. What prevents this piece from being completely heart-breaking is the love that Jo’s granddad, Harry, has for his wife Marian. We are allowed for a time to dissolve into this lifelong relationship in which they built a beautiful garden together. The piece introduces a simple yet memorable metaphor connecting relationships and gardens: both take time and love. Harry Hargreaves put a lot of time and love into both, and the garden we see in the film is so very beautiful.

Total Theatre