the true aerialist (the angel in the house)
- PDF / 56,134 Bytes
- 8 Pages / 536 x 697 pts Page_size
- 51 Downloads / 168 Views
The True Aerialist demonstrates some of the risks inherent for women in any moment of performance. It does this through a series of contradictions that begin with the True Aerialist’s claim to be a liar. When she goes on to reject various conventional ‘props’ of performance – narrative, dialogue, subtext, characterization and pretence in favour of clowning and spectacle, the True Aerialist enacts a brave, defiant and transgressive alternative strategy. This is a shortened version of the original script for live performance. The full text owes much to my work with devised, improvised, physical theatre. This prose version omits the many stage directions, which describe the considerable physical challenge facing any woman performing The True Aerialist.
feminist review 84 2006 c 2006 Feminist Review. 0141-7789/06 $30 www.feminist-review.com (141–148)
141
A woman dressed in an eclectic range of styles crosses the space casting one furious sideways glance at the audience before exiting. She re-enters and repeats her actions. She re-enters a third time, stops mid-space and takes up a jabbing, pointing action aimed at the audience. After a second or two her finger becomes out of control and turns towards her, making for her mouth and forcing itself down her throat, choking out her first words IyI liey Clamps right hand over mouth. Removes it with difficulty using other hand.
yconstantly. I deceiveyperpetually. I conceal what I see and I pretend what I am. Believe me, please believe me – you can’t. Because nothing about me is true. Even this voice is false; it’s merely an echo, a falsyetto. So do not count on my ethnic origin. It reveals nothing of my date of birth. My tongue, my mother tongue: ma madonnaish tangen says nothing. Absolutischen null. But a mother tongue has gender at least, whereas I – what am I? Mutable? Transverse perhaps? What do you think? Have a guess. Go on, do us a favour. Left or right? In or out? Back to front? What’s it to be? 50/50? 30/70? 100 to one? Whatever you think you’re wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m unclassifiable. The class of my arse changes all the time. You can’t rely on it. Some days I can’t even sit on it. But on such days, on such sweet, spring days, when the dew gathers on my fingertips. On such fine, blue days I canyalwaysyfly. Like ‘em? They’re all mine, my own wings. Oh yes, I can assure you there’s no artifice here. Some glue perhaps and I’m no angel, but that’s another matter. The shaft of my feathers is my own affairyentirely. And don’t jump to conclusions, I wear my knickers on my head for good reason. I fly by the seat of my pants, on a wing and a prayer. So wish me luck, because you never knowyChrist you never know! (Superstition being the enemy of belief.) Yes, you never know when you might come up on the lottery. So, I’ll buy a ticket. And if you see me there, praying in my lottery booth – my 20th century confessional – remember this: I’m hookedyhooked on flying, on swooping up and down, on wheeling about. Watch me, watch me. Here I come again. Look out! Duck! Whee
Data Loading...
