It's entirely possible - and this is still sinking in, some three weeks after the event - that this might've been the last Beckett of the year. Heavens. It had to end somewhere, and the failure to secure tickets for Harold Pinter's performance of Krapp's Last Tape in October means that it probably ends here. In many ways, that's perfect: it seems absolutely inconceivable that Pinter could find any way to improve upon John Hurt's Krapp, perhaps the most monumental of all the centenary's peaks. And it'd be such a shame to end this journey with a sense of anticlimax.
Besides, this is just right. Back at the bookshop, a triple bill of female roles offers both conclusions and fresh beginnings. In a way, it feels as if we've finished, as if there's a firm underlining and a solid full stop on the end of the sentence. All done. It feels like that watching Footfalls, a piece that - and this is rare, contrary to perception - is just a bit obscure, a bit inaccessible. A bit difficult. Somehow, it doesn't have the clarity and purity of Beckett's finest writing, and there's visible effort in Virginia Byron's performance as a consequence.
It isn't helped, perhaps, by the context. Some of these plays have taken on a wonderfully intimate warmth in this little backroom...but this is a ghostly world that seems to require a bigger, emptier space. It needs distance, for things to hang in the air, for footfalls to echo, for breath to become mist. As if to emphasise the point, Rockaby immediately shows us that intimacy, that warmth...and it suddenly all works beautifully again. The most musical of Beckett's plays, it's nudged gently along by a reserved, conservative reading from Tamara Hinchco...and that's a genuine compliment, for these are lovely, familiar, cherished words that require nothing more than to be let out of the box from time to time. We briefly wonder whether the addition of an echo on the key phrase - "Time she stopped..." - falls into the category of unnecessary fiddling; we decide that it does, and yet that it just about works. Just about. But, really, when it comes to Rockaby, you will never be wrong if you play it safe. It ain't broke.
Which, after a short interval, leaves us with Enough, and one last revelation for the road, the dot-dot-dot to open up that sentence once more. Because this is why it seems impossible to tire of Samuel Beckett, why there's always something to revive your interest. Why it's never really finished. A quiet, understated performance of an unfamiliar prose piece in the back room of a bookshop...and it simply takes your breath away.
Alison Stillbeck perches on the edge of the stage, almost within touching distance, and politely implores us to understand her relationship with a mumbling, crippled, belligerent other. She does so with captivating energy, eyes shining with love, face beaming with the desire to communicate; it's more than an expressive reading, it's a striking and brilliant piece of characterisation. Apart from a brief stumble, writing and performance are in complete harmony: one, deft and subtle, with shades of humour, love and, somewhere in the background, the darkness of cruelty and abuse; the other, letting the words cascade and flutter around the room, as if re-living the most contented times. Wherever you choose to spend your evenings, you could not possibly wish to see anything finer.
The last Beckett of the year, then. Which ought to be the occasion for grand conclusions and so on and so forth...and sod it, there's no conclusion, for there's no end. This is writing that lives...sparkles and fades and always lives. Maybe that won't be so forever; maybe there'll come a time when it's not possible to find something new and surprising in Samuel Beckett's work. Then, it'll be time for conclusions. For now....
25 September 2006
06 September 2006
Howard Hodgkin at Tate Britain
You're already too late. Sorry. Howard Hodgkin's life-spanning exhibition at Tate Britain finishes this very day; come the morning, the moment will have passed. One imagines that it won't be the last time that a significant body of his work is exhibited in this space; one hopes, at the same time, that it won't happen again for a while.
Because he hasn't finished yet, quite clearly. One of the most striking aspects of a genuinely joyous experience is that Hodgkin's most recent paintings, gathered together towards the end of this chronological collection, have the same vitality as those from what would generally be considered to be the peak of his career. Indeed, they offer a couple of mighty highlights to send you on your way: "Come Into The Garden, Maud", clusters and swirls of petal-like colours on a bare wooden frame, is particularly breathtaking.
But it is not alone. There is almost too much here, certainly too much to describe in detail. There are too many paintings that ask politely for your time and reward it many times over; from the very first room, in which Hodgkin enthusiastically starts to evolve his distinctive style, this is a wonderfully conversational exhibition. Some paintings shout and scream, others hang silently and indifferently. But Howard Hodgkin's paintings talk to you: they're intelligent and literate, sure, but they're also funny, kind, dramatic, and occasionally a bit rude. In short, they're great company...and I still haven't tired of them after two loops around the exhibition.
Of course, his colours dazzle most. They're bold and yet subtle, full of thought and feeling...and, just once, they're removed altogether to leave something black-and-white-and-grey, a bolt from the blue. Tellingly, the catalogue cannot capture any of this: it tells us what the paintings look like, but it doesn't tell us how they feel...and how they feel is what they are.
Above all, it's the range of which Hodgkin is capable that really astonishes. His style evolves gradually over time, but it's a means to an end...or to a number of ends, more accurately. Few painters can reach so far: this is a body of work that covers all manner of subjects, moods, thoughts, and yet never feels in any way compromised. Each painting is something different: a tranquil garden, perhaps, or a passionate love affair. A heartfelt tribute to a close friend, or the memory of a quarrelsome dinner. A room, a city, a landscape. Each time, the title gives a gentle hint to help you get along, and then you're left in the company of the work itself.
In the end, it comes down to this: it made me smile and laugh and gasp and frown and raise an eyebrow and mutter to myself in a slightly deranged way ("My God, that's fantastic!"), and I went around on my own. It filled me with innocent, teenage enthusiasm. It made me want to share it with anyone who'd listen, immediately.
My New Favourite Painter.
Because he hasn't finished yet, quite clearly. One of the most striking aspects of a genuinely joyous experience is that Hodgkin's most recent paintings, gathered together towards the end of this chronological collection, have the same vitality as those from what would generally be considered to be the peak of his career. Indeed, they offer a couple of mighty highlights to send you on your way: "Come Into The Garden, Maud", clusters and swirls of petal-like colours on a bare wooden frame, is particularly breathtaking.
But it is not alone. There is almost too much here, certainly too much to describe in detail. There are too many paintings that ask politely for your time and reward it many times over; from the very first room, in which Hodgkin enthusiastically starts to evolve his distinctive style, this is a wonderfully conversational exhibition. Some paintings shout and scream, others hang silently and indifferently. But Howard Hodgkin's paintings talk to you: they're intelligent and literate, sure, but they're also funny, kind, dramatic, and occasionally a bit rude. In short, they're great company...and I still haven't tired of them after two loops around the exhibition.
Of course, his colours dazzle most. They're bold and yet subtle, full of thought and feeling...and, just once, they're removed altogether to leave something black-and-white-and-grey, a bolt from the blue. Tellingly, the catalogue cannot capture any of this: it tells us what the paintings look like, but it doesn't tell us how they feel...and how they feel is what they are.
Above all, it's the range of which Hodgkin is capable that really astonishes. His style evolves gradually over time, but it's a means to an end...or to a number of ends, more accurately. Few painters can reach so far: this is a body of work that covers all manner of subjects, moods, thoughts, and yet never feels in any way compromised. Each painting is something different: a tranquil garden, perhaps, or a passionate love affair. A heartfelt tribute to a close friend, or the memory of a quarrelsome dinner. A room, a city, a landscape. Each time, the title gives a gentle hint to help you get along, and then you're left in the company of the work itself.
In the end, it comes down to this: it made me smile and laugh and gasp and frown and raise an eyebrow and mutter to myself in a slightly deranged way ("My God, that's fantastic!"), and I went around on my own. It filled me with innocent, teenage enthusiasm. It made me want to share it with anyone who'd listen, immediately.
My New Favourite Painter.
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