In this sequence of essays, I have written about the transformative capacities of art. I have examined about how art can not only transform space, but how art can also transform us – how art reminds us of our own, human, expressive capacities, of our own abilities to create and communicate and provoke and inspire.
But while Art is a trigger for change – a wonderful, exhilarating trigger – it is only a trigger: no more than that. If art cannot effect something, then it has no purpose.
One of my first teaching interviews was with a headmaster who was deaf and bald and swished about in a Harry Potter-style academic gown. Perusing my CV, he said, “So, an MA in Performance. That was rather a waste of time, wasn’t it?” Deciding that you no longer care about the outcome of an interview does give you a greater degree of freedom to speak your mind. So, for several minutes, I hammered into this man a very angry defence of the importance of theatre and drama and the Arts in society.
What I like about Shakespeare is that whenever I can’t quite put into words what I feel about something (when I get over-emotional and inarticulate and stuttery), I find that he has already done it for me. He has, somehow, already said and written down and reached into the very heart of the problems that I face and given me the exact words to match how I feel. That always makes me feel better, because it’s nice to know that other people have gone through the same worries and problems and fears that I am going through. It’s nice to know I’m not alone – even if my companion has been dead for four centuries.
Yesterday was my last English lesson with my U6 students. I have taught some of these students for four or five years: it feels a wrench saying goodbye to them, knowing that my time spent teaching them has come to an end. I will see them sporadically over the next couple of months, as they come in for final revision and exams – but then, that’s that, and I may well not – probably not – see them again. It makes me feel very sad, because they were a lovely group. It makes me remember again how I never knew as a student what I know as a teacher – that as a teacher, you remember and are as attached to your students, as they are hopefully to you. I shall miss them enormously.
I was a marvellous letter-writer in those days. And so he said to me, as I’m simply not as good a letter-writer as you, you oughtn’t to expect me to write quite as often. But you mustn’t stop writing to me; you simply mustn’t. I’d simply die if you stopped writing to me.
“Richard Landing at Milford Haven (After Shakespeare)” is a painting by Richard Hamilton, displayed at the John Soanes Museum in London. In 1399, Richard II landed at Milford Haven from Ireland, shortly before his surrender to Henry of Lancaster, afterwards Henry IV.
Your faith’s misplaced. I here disown
those expectations you have grown
that tried to make me more than man.
I cannot be but what I am.
I bear your crown. I am alone.
We slip of half-formed men confront our woe:
Six thousand thousand lifetime’s loss portrayed.
Yet we keep going – how, we do not know.
Warm truths you sent to cheer? These, we forego:
Our countless hours loom silent as the day.
We slip of half-formed men confront our woe.
Continue reading
To contextualise this essay, you need to listen to the following (20 minute) radio documentary.
In So Many Words, by Teresa Goff
This documentary is about Teresa’s father, Steve. Steve lives with aphasia after suffering a stroke, and aphasia – as you will have deduced – is a neurological disorder that hinders the brain’s capacity to use and form language.
This essay starts with this documentary to help you consider what it means to celebrate Valentine’s Day.
It may not surprise you to hear that I don’t particularly like Valentine’s Day. Continue reading
There is a character in Shakespeare’s play Hamlet called Ophelia. She is a classic Elizabethan woman: passive, obedient, subject to her male masters. At various points in the play, these men – her boyfriend, her father, her brother – all treat her with disgust, neglect and brutal carelessness: none of it deserved.
It is all too much for her. With nowhere to vent her emotions, her anger and her sadness and her frustration all turn in on herself and eat her away from within. Thus laments the King:
“When sorrows come, they come but in battalions.”
Poor Ophelia goes mad.
On the Double Double 