Tuesday, 26 January 2016

Rooms of my own

As part of their Whose London Is It Anyway? season, Camden People's Theatre have turned their window spaces into rooms – a toilet, a kitchen, a bedroom, a sitting room – and invited people to occupy them during the day. Each window has an A4 poster highlighting some appalling fact about the entirely fucked London property market: for instance, that a garage in Camberwell recently sold for £550K. Don't get me started. It's a nine-hour shift (initially advertised as 12 hours), which for me translates as the longest amount of uninterrupted time I've been able to sit at a computer since before the kids were born, so naturally I signed up and here is me earlier today:

Yes of course I hid behind a curtain of paper: what do you think I am, some kind of exhibitionist? I can't remember the last time I felt so painfully self-conscious. But as people, especially children, began to peek around the paper to wave hello, the exposure grew less excruciating. And it certainly gave me focus: I got more writing done today than I did in the whole past fortnight.

Back in the days when commuter trains were barely bearable (as opposed to wholly impossible), I used to see people with copies of the Evening Standard, and then the Guardian, encounter something I'd written, occasionally reading a few sentences but mostly turning the page. So I'm used to people ignoring my writing: it's a useful reminder to check my ego. Having readers is far weirder. Especially when those readers are standing on the other side of a sheet of glass, barely six inches away.

Their proximity made me glad that I believe, very deeply, every word they read today. It made me recognise something else about indifference, too. If no one cares about what you write, then you have the freedom to write as you choose. I know this, always have, but often forget. Thank you, CPT, for opening up a space today in which I could (re-)remember.

Below is the text (plus the images) behind which I hid. And seriously, if you haven't read A Room of One's Own yet, or even recently, treat yourself.


I was 13 when I first got a room of my own.

Before that I shared with my younger brother. Our room was a prison far from the playground; a forest and we its falling timber; the hideaway den of the Dukes and cousin Daisy. I knew I needed a room of my own the day I – oh, wait, I'm not allowed to tell that story here.

I couldn't decide what colour to paint my first room of my own, so we settled on pink-for-a-girl. My best friend at university thought it was hilarious, and bought me this postcard so I'd never forget.


My second room of my own was at university. Inspired by the painter Pauline Boty, I turned one wall into a scrapbook collage of my life. It's one of the best things I've ever made.

At university I read Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own for the first time. That was half a lifetime ago, so I don't really remember what I thought, but I was already feminist, so I'd guess it confirmed everything.


My third room of my own was in a rented flat south of the river. My parents had nowhere to live because they had bought a derelict house, so they became my lodgers. I laid down the ground rules. Amazingly, they agreed.

At 25 I bought a flat of my own. The older I get, the stranger this seems. I painted the walls sunflower yellow, crimson and teal, and saved the violent pink for the toilet. There was a room for sewing, a garden out of the kitchen, and my flatmate introduced me to swing. I still live there in my dreams.


When I got married I had a succession of rooms of my own. The first became the nursery. The second became a toddler's bedroom. The third was always cluttered with scooters and spare chairs and bags of recycling; then, in 2014, it disappeared to become part of the kitchen.

And that, my friends, is how motherhood affects personal space.


I re-read A Room of One's Own last week and might do so again every year now. It's astonishing. And painful. Woolf published it in 1928, but the world she describes and rails against is still recognisably ours. Patriarchal. Unequal. Shaped by and seen through “masculine values”.

Men, she noticed, didn't like feminists saying such things. They tended to respond with a “ cry of wounded vanity … a protest against some infringement of his power to believe in himself”. Social media and comment boxes are full of such protests, not only when women speak, but people of colour and queer gender or sexuality, too.


I remembered Woolf's call for a room of one's own, but not the accompanying cry for money – £500 a year. She makes quite the argument for Basic Income.

Woolf believed that, with a room of her own and money to support her, women would be able to write truly, of themselves: finding “some new vehicle, not necessarily in verse, for the poetry in her”.

I've always earned money through writing, and that money has always given me rooms to write in. The bit I'm struggling with is the poetry. The art.

Here's something else Woolf recognised: “Life for both sexes … is arduous, difficult. A perpetual struggle. It calls for gigantic courage and strength. More than anything, perhaps, creatures of illusion as we are, it calls for confidence in oneself.”

You could call confidence another kind of room: not physical, but mental.

That mental room is one money can't buy.


In her book Depression: A Public Feeling, Ann Cvetkovich argues that depression is “how capitalism feels”. How having money and a room of one's own feels.

I look at the entrenched inequality in this country, and of human existence generally, and feel not the strength of someone who has, but horror at how many have not.

I look at London, the room I was born in, and how much money it demands that people living here make, just to get by, and feel not the confidence of someone who got lucky here, but anxiety at what it means to embody a social system, and bring children up within it.

I keep writing through that horror and anxiety, but it feels selfish, immoral and wrong.


On the final page of A Room of One's Own, Woolf looks forward to the day when women have not only “five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own” but “the courage to write exactly what we think”.

I think we have a responsibility to use our money and our rooms to write our way out of this inequality.

That's what I'm trying to do in this little room, this minuscule room of my own, today. Wish me luck. And thank you for reading. x

Friday, 15 January 2016

To fathom the falling: A third take on Ponyboy Curtis

Note added 9 July 2021: following the discovery that, through all the years I was working with him, Chris Goode was consuming images of child abuse, I've returned to a self-evaluation process rethinking the work I did with him. That process began in 2018 and some of what it raised is detailed in this post from December that year, in which I acknowledge that I was complicit in some of the harms he caused, for instance by erasing the work of other women who worked with him, fuelling a cult of genius around him, and consistently asking people who criticised his work (particularly the sexually explicit work) to see it in softer ways. A second post is now in process in which I look in more detail at the ways in which Chris coerced and abused particularly young men who worked with him, using radical queer politics to conceal these harms and police reactions. I hope that any other writing about his work on this blog, including the post below, will be read with that information in mind.

Further note added 27 July 2021: that new post is now written and undergoing an extensive rewriting process as it's read and commented on by people who appear in it (that is, other people who worked with Chris in the seven years when I did). It could be up to a month before it's ready to share publicly, but I'm happy to share it privately in the meantime.

This is the latest in a series of writings on Ponyboy Curtis: the first, titled The first coming of Ponyboy Curtis, was published on this blog in May 2015. The second, titled Other Hospitalities: Reflections onChris Goode’s Ensemble Ponyboy Curtis and their First Performance,At the Yard, 12-16 May 2015, was published by Contemporary Theatre Review in October 2015.
This was written in January 2016, after attending an invite-only sharing of a Ponyboy Curtis 'field' exercise, at Camden People's Theatre, 14 December 2015.
This is supposed to have a quotation from Neil Bartlett's Ready To Catch Him Should He Fall at the end of section ii, but I lost the copy of the book in which I'd marked the relevant passage, and despite buying another and raking through it twice, I haven't been able to remember which it was. I've used a different quote as the opening sentence.
This is dedicated to CG and CR, with love.


Small gestures can be great pleasures, they can mean a great deal, when you get to know somebody else's body and its reactions as well as your own.

i. [you]

Even now, I can't pretend to understand what you're doing.
You ask what I see and honestly? For twenty or so minutes it's
nothing. Nothing! Just bodies
in space,
pallid in the half-light,
crouching, or standing, or walking with inscrutable purpose.
An abstract of porn, stripped of the fucking.
It's nothing
until it becomes everything.
And it doesn't seem to matter how much I watch, or think, or give my attention,
how much I absorb, am absorbed, it's still mysterious, unfathomable.
Maybe it would help to read more, but the words to explain are as hieroglyphs,
runes. I'm a believer in alchemy, transmutational process,
and that's what I see:
Bodies become pellucid,
irradiated by gesture
a touch so soft
so tender
as to be almost unbearable.
The light, the lightness,
are almost unbearable.
And I don't understand it.
But as I look around this room (not without sentiment),
the tightness of its walls,
it strikes me again that while I see the crescent,
you see the whole of the moon.

ii. [them]

Of course I wonder how it feels, suddenly to have this intrusion of people in what is usually your private space. Some of you
I know; we hug before it starts, while you're still wearing your clothes; we talk about books,
or how we are, not really asking the question this time, although there is a shrewdness behind the eyes,
a reading beneath and between.
The lights dim and immediately you strip. I watch you, and I watch the room,
for awkwardness. There is a wariness, perceptible as a tension flickering in the skin, or perhaps just a question:
what will happen and how?
Familiar motions at first: crossing, striding; it's like a game of basketball, minus the ball,
the focus instead on infinitesimal gesture.
And then
And then
I can't remember how it happens.
Maybe it's Paul and Gareth – does it matter? – close enough almost to touch:
body hairs, electrified, reaching towards the other,
that close, nothing more.
Maybe it's two hands clasped, just briefly; or the first of the falls:
a murmur – falling! – and then there he is, holding you, supporting you, not keeping you up, but helping you down to the floor.
Maybe it's one of you wearing another's shoes: the intimacy of that sharing,
the hushed, calm statement that however different, we are the same.
The same in heart and blood and bone, the same in hurt and longing.
For a moment I wonder about jealousy, and notice how irrelevant that is.
Another – falling! – or maybe bodies leaning together, the curve of the spine, the tautness of chest.
Of course it's funny sometimes, how you'll be watching two people intently, and then a third will cross that path of vision, and suddenly all you see is cock and balls.
But this isn't nakedness so much as openness: a generous reaching, not just to each other, but to all of us watching,
just as long as we're ready.

iii. [him]

His loneliness slashes through me like a whip through the skin of a useless old nag.
The honest answer to how are you is somewhat more withdrawn.
I watch these bodies and wonder what he misses:
the touch of teeth (in any sweet kiss)
or stomachs that squash like pillows.
The burn from spine to thighs.
I see fingertips brush skin, limbs begin to meld,
smell their heat, hear its crackle.
Loneliness chokes.


iv. [us]

I know from the way you pull up from the floor
as though hauling your body through tar.
I know from the way you lean on the wall
how strong the storm in your heart.
I know
I feel it too
here in the pit of my stomach
here in the weight of my lungs.
I know when I leave
I won't want to speak
to anyone, only to you.
We've seen nothing but warmth, solicitude, love, but its impact has unbalanced us.
All we can do is cling to each other,
buffeted still, but protected.
Mine says I know, I felt it, and thank you
for not asking anything more.