Author Archives: Thomas Bacon

About Thomas Bacon

Thomas John Bacon is an artist whose current practice focuses upon the conception of the body, being & the idea of a multiplicity of self/s in performance. His work can be located within the framework of live art and philosophical/phenomenological investigations that look to de/construct and challenge perception, alongside the assumed liminal barriers of body-based practices. Thomas is due to complete his doctoral research at the University of Bristol, with his thesis Experiencing a Multiplicity of Self/s. He is supported by the Arts Council England and is also the founder and artistic director of the live art platform Tempting Failure.

Idiot Child: I Could’ve Been Better

I Could’ve Been Better takes us into the world of the wonderfully unique James, a thirty-something social oddity. Gangly in limb, adorned with a nondescript blue shirt tucked deep into pleated plain trousers that hover at his ankles above verruca socks, he stands with his back toward the incoming audience.

As we take out seats, rarely does he let his attention slip from the film of an out-of-focus figure projected upon a large screen at the rear of the space. Its footage constantly evolves and revolves around and through a dreamlike milieu of domestic chores as we glimpse a figure in iconic yellow marigolds who at times appears to incongruously shadow-box as much as wash dishes. This presence is James’ centre, it is the Sun in his universe and his reason to be. Surrounding it, as part of Chris Gylee’s set design, are the objet d’art more befitting a child than a grown man: toys, a wooden railway, a swimming pool made of sweets, and a cardboard cut-out of Duncan Goodhew to name just a few. Each holds an invaluable worth and is deftly brought to life by James as he welcomes us into the cut and thrust of his life as a Railway Station Announcer in a sleepy English hamlet.

Jimmy Whiteaker’s performance as James deftly mixes comical physicality with a sense of the truth and realism at the heart of this character’s mixed up world in a way that is disarming and extremely powerful. The performance begins with the words, ‘Nothing is Happening’, and in a similar way this false start somehow unsuspectingly draws us into a tale which on the surface is very funny, yet is also deeply poignant. For here is a world of failure; of could-have-beens and almost-hads. It is at heart a classic comical tragedy, with our protagonist the victim of circumstance and his own inability to succeed.

With the spoken narrative told in the present tense, Whiteaker vibrantly lives moments both past and present before us in a desperate struggle through which failure is ultimately celebrated rather than cursed. From the nervous heights of a diving board, to the boredom of waiting for the delayed 4:14 from Biggleswade, we are taken on a unique journey. Acknowledged through spontaneous improvisation, we are witnesses to his attempts to succeed, but this breaking of the fourth wall never truly detracts from the world – by being involved and connected with James we love the obscure fool all the more. Indeed James doesn’t think in a linear way, and so for the man ‘who has never been on a train’ it seems appropriate that moments of spontaneous distraction should be encompassed by the performance as he recollects how at 30 he entered an over 10s swimming competition to attempt to defeat his 12 year-old nemesis, Veronica ‘ShitFace’ Barr.

It is ultimately the strength of this wondrous company that, as with their previous production You’re not doing it right, they effortlessly strip back external perception to reveal the heart of a character with simple key changes of dramatic tone. The life of this man is not simplistic. He is beautifully complicated and the song ‘My Funny Valentine’ has never felt so appropriately applied than here within the world of our station announcer’s life.

Anna Harpin’s direction of the tragic lives of misfits continues to be intelligent and real. Ending with points failure and delays at the station the denouement of I Could’ve Been Better is beautifully heartbreaking, and Idiot Child is becoming a company not to be missed.

www.idiotchild.com

Jo Bannon: Exposure

To see the world through the eyes of another is a difficult task. Yet Jo Bannon asks through her new work if that is even possible: can we ever really see each other as we really are? Exposure is the first in a projected series of works exploring concepts of ‘looking’. Set in the pitch dark, it is a ten-minute performance encounter for a single audience member. One-on-one, Jo guides us through an autobiographical account of who she is, blending a mix of silent torch-lit instruction, moments of darkness, bright revelation, and a prerecorded audio account via shared headphones.

Upon entry, the prevailing silence of a consuming dark space brings tension and a sense of unease; however, this is quickly overcome with calm, intimacy and an introspective process that overwhelms and surprises. Jo guides us from a prerecorded past, attempting to capture images of herself in the present; alongside the snap-shot-like glimpses of the physical woman before us we see documentation, such as an image of the inside of her Albinism-afflicted eye, or a forgotten childhood photo. But it is in the moments of complete darkness that the work comes alive – here the captured voice documents an unseen self, perceptible in that she is very much with us, yet unseen, and the voice of the past juxtaposed with the presence of the individual invisible yet mere feet away, is an intense and very profoundly intimate thing. It is also in these moments that one begins to reflect upon one’s own being: who am I, and what makes me who I am?

Jo’s work is expertly edited; it is both a joy and a treasure to be given a moment which you may feel is unique to you. The trick in the work is the idea surrounding seeing; she has picked elements that one can conceivably witness externally: this is not necessarily all of who she is and rightly so. We are by our very nature judges of external appearance and Jo dissects this process, taking us beyond the seen and into the realm of the perceived, both seen and unseen. The construction of identity and deconstruction of self is at play here, and excitingly, as the work continues, this happens not only for the performer but for the spectator as well.

In its final moments silence and light return. The experience and process is confronted; we are exposed. It is not a social stand-off, but a sense of knowing that we now openly observe one another; it is awkward, charming, comforting and true. Words are not needed by the end and this work is certainly very special. To fully know one’s self may be impossible, but Bannon gives us a chance to explore that possibility, and, oddly, this is a rare occasion where you may leave the space wanting to thank the artist rather than simply congratulate them.

www.jobannon.co.uk

Lost Dog: Triple Bill

Formed in 2004, Lost Dog was created with the express aim of making work that blends theatre and dance within pieces that are framed by unique, character-driven stories. This triple bill at the Arnolfini presented three of the company’s short works.

The Overhead Project opens with two individuals on stage in what at first appears to be a simplistic and joyful roleplay between a nervous dancer (Rachele Rapisardi) and the architect of her inner monologue, a live artist (Ben Duke) scrawling her thoughts on acetate and projecting them through an OHP. Initially seeming to be predictable and limited, this construction is effortlessly subverted as the narrative between the pair evolves and an excitingly thoughtful deconstruction of the perception of an individual unfolds through ‘their’ story on stage. To explain the catalyst of the eventual narrative reveal would spoil a neat twist in the work, but importantly what we are left with is not two separate entities but a single individual: a dancer prepared. She is an artist, her thoughts and soul laid bare – nerves, anxiety, preparedness and demons exposed. Most importantly though the piece is the exploration of a person’s own struggle with their self – a disembodied self that is presented through what we initially perceived to be a separate entity: projected through another, the performer is her own architect. The Overhead Project is a confident and inventive performance that relies suitably on stillness as much as slick choreographed movement to explore a self removed from the physical confines of a single form.

It Needs Horses continues the theme of the sacrifice that performers may pay as two desperate hacks of vaudeville take us on a grotesque journey: a circus of human savagery. What price must they pay in order to satisfy us? This is a darkly comic tale that repositions the role of the audience in relation to their action. It asks questions of suitability and humour in a painfully adept way. A finely tuned slapstick relationship between a clown (Christopher Evans) and burlesque act (Anna Finkel) who have both seen better days sets cheap laughter popping in the crowd, but this sense of hilarity sharply alters as the pair shift towards base animalistic thrills in an attempt to gratify us. Here the play of sexual dominance between the couple reciprocally fluctuates: it is at times awkward to watch and rightly so; we as audience must pay with our emotions. As some laugh and others watch, one wonders what laughter means at times like this? Are we satisfied and thrilled or repulsed and awkward? It Needs Horses defies an audience to vicariously sit in the darkness in judgment of performance: why should they suffer for our benefit? And as the work evolves we are taken to the extreme edge of darkness – even the thrill of the danger that may have existed evaporates in a desperate and climatic maelstrom of pain: these characters need us and endure for us; they give themselves for us, and look at how it leaves them. This is one of the best short pieces of dance theatre in recent times and excitingly says as much emotionally and physically of the desperate desire behind performance as it asks of its audience’s role.

Somewhat oddly then, the evening opened with a screening of the dance-for-camera work Pave Up Paradise, which, while it suitably established the core theme of sacrifice that can be seen throughout the triple bill and has been a well-received piece in the past, seemed somewhat lacking. It competently exhibited the technique of dance-forms, perhaps more strongly than elsewhere in the evening, but form alone does not always result in depth when creating work that blends theatre and dance. While it was edited together well and ticked many of the right boxes, it failed to ignite, and alongside the other two very striking works it felt dated and unoriginal.

www.lostdogtheatre.com

Third Angel: What I Heard About The World

Before us is a collection of rescued objects. An apparent undergraduate bed-sit of reclaimed clutter: a pharmacy sign, wallpapered stag-head and lifesaver ring adorn Seventies G-Plan furniture and beaten lockers, while an incongruous unoccupied fish-tank, ill-looking houseplants and eclectic seating break the mise-en-scene into thirds. Three men occupy this environment – a living archive of rescued objects and expressions of thought that will come to be a testing ground for rumour and fact.

Through scripted conversation George, Alex and Chris take us around the world, exploring what they have heard about various lands and the people that occupy them. There is an appropriate air of the pub-philosopher to the proceedings, akin to those righteous conversations we all overhear and are so desperate to interject upon, but which make us guilty too as we judge them based on the small soundbites we hear. What I Heard About The World is an anecdotal archive, presenting truths and dissecting them in what awkwardly appears to be simplistic theatrical devising.

Chris, our righteous guide to the proceedings, bashes away at his electric guitar. His coarse, masculine, Northern tone resonates with a sense of socialist justice as he announces and denounces, vigorously contesting and clarifying the facts before us as our narrative weaves eccentrically around the world. Amongst the scratchings of hearsay, we are informed of the payment of mourners, global warming in the sinking Maldives, human trafficking across the Turkish/Euro borders, and African hijackers – until finally we settle on the concept of massacres. From the irritating to the humorous: whether it’s flaccidly over-compensatory masculine opinion pathetically advancing the oneupmanship of fact as it tests impractical theories (such as drinking sea-water to alleviate the rising oceans, while as a by-product simultaneously curing overpopulation via an appropriate means of slow death), or a toy machine gun and flake-blood splatter fest as a demonstration of ultimate carnage, we are left with what appears to be nothing more than men behaving badly.

But to look at the work in superficial judgement of these three young men as ignorant fools attempting to tell all and put the world to right by educating their audience is to misread the context of the entire work itself. The theatrical construct is far more complex than simplistic devising, it is a living anthropomorphic archive of thought. As an audience we innately judge: we enact the exact same misplaced certainty that they do. Yet this conversation is not an overheard one; it is directed straight at us. The work is alienating and forthright: it forces us to judge not only the construct of the archival evidence but the performances and ‘characters’ on stage. It questions our perception at the risk of its own success, which is brave when most companies are so eager to please. Alienation of an audience is dangerous and thankfully this is one company still willing to risk that. It is what this play doesn’t tell you about the world that is most interesting – what it makes you think about yourself.

www.thirdangel.co.uk

Darkin Ensemble: DisGo

From the moment we arrive at the Arnolfini and are asked to remove our shoes and put on white socks, there is a kinetic sense of anticipation in the air, the audience bunching nervously towards the entrance of the auditorium. Darkness envelops us, and the space into which we must step is fenced by shoulder-height LED tubing on all sides. Sam Collins’ lighting design is captivating, riffing on a smoldering palate of nightclub neon and UV with occasional white bliss and black calm; there is a sense of danger to the space that really emerges from the minimalist charm of his design. Collins proves he is not afraid to work with darkness, as well, and provides the perfect accompaniment for Glyn Perrin’s techno/electronica soundscape.

We have arrived in Fleur Darkin’s DisGo: an alternative, yet familiar space that sees the audience on stage, in amongst the dancers. DisGo’s premise is to ask the question, What do you think of when you are on the dance-floor? And it is this premise that makes the work a cause for celebration and concern: a dance floor should set you free, but questioning what you’re doing in each moment hampers the very release that the simplest of actions could or should bring. This concerning stimulus is justified and bravely integrated into the work, however.

There is something terribly engaging about watching able and expert dancers perform tightly choreographed sequences, and it is these moments that take hold in the mix and thrust of the action. Left dangerously motionless in awe of their expertise, you are quickly swept back into the world as the principal cast hug, hold and lead you into their lives, where a loose story foregrounds other basic actions and provides the motivation for repetitive cycles that intermingle or take you into small groups. In moments of express freedom you find the rhythms of the environment taking hold of your own body, but it is when hitherto unknown members of the cast suddenly break into synced rhythms of action that you feel simultaneously excited by the spectacle and self-aware at your inadequacy in not knowing the sequence.

Order and chaos conflict with one another as they are deftly explored through personal awkwardness, moments of free improvisation, choreography and even the order and symmetry of the space through the grand marshaling of the audience. All are appropriate and personally experienced in the real world in any given environment, from the mosh pit of a night club to an awkward family wedding dance. Yet with all of that, I personally wanted more; I wanted to experience a sense of euphoria, the freedom and release of being with strangers and letting myself go. If DisGo can go further in order to replicate those moments of shared experience en masse as in De La Guarda orFuerzabruta this truly could be fantastic dance floor journey.

Total Theatre