An insight into the festival

Edinburgh Festival Fringe Programme 2010, with Edward Petherbridge's flyer for his 2005 fringe one-man show 'Pillar Talk/Slapdash'. Image by Dora Petherbridge

The first time I saw Edward Petherbridge perform on stage was at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe 2005 when he brought his one man show ‘Pillar Talk/Slapdash’ to the Pleasance Dome. To say it was an experience would be an understatement. This was my first proper insight into the world of fringe theatre, the stripped back nature of which allows the actor to perform freed of the trappings of distracting props and other such trickery. Luckily we were in the capable hands of Mr Petherbridge, who is nothing if not a consummate professional. However in lesser company I’ve seen this style of theatre go horribly wrong. And this always puts you in an unfortunate position as a critic at the festival, for many companies rely on a good review to attract people to their shows. A little known fact, but apparently ThreeWeeks (the festival reviewing publication) and the Scotsman are the only reviews that really translate into tickets sold off the back of what the critics have to say.

So when Edward emailed me this: ‘I know it is a testing discipline to review sometimes 2 or 3 shows a day, each of them in 120 words: it seems everyone is in it together in Edinburgh - August is a cruel but exciting month’, he’s not kidding. There’s an art to this business whether you are a writer, reviewer or performer. Most of the time it seems like the fringe is one of the most culturally invigorating places to be, at others mainly when you are traversing a city made of hills, alleyways and secret stairways on foot, just as the heavens open a torrential down pour, you are on the verge of an existential crisis. I suppose what I am trying to say is that you can’t come here and have an authentic experience if you don’t at least live a little bit by your emotions. It is after all impossible to be indifferent to the world’s largest arts festival.

In response to my previous post ‘Scotland Has Talent!’ Edward took the time to write these words about his experience of the festival as an actor. As you will read there is more to the fringe than turning up on stage and performing your piece. Indeed one becomes their own PR and promoter, as well as fitting in the time to watch other performers embarking on their own fringe experience.


Edward Petherbridge as Pierrot. Image by Arthur Petherbridge.

‘Your vivid Fringe piece takes me back; you and another critic made up the entire audience of a one woman show! Last time I performed on the fringe a journalist from the Guardian who was going to interview me came to see my one man play about Saint Simeon Stylites. I was up my pillar and he was in his seat on the front row - end seat on the left. Nichola McCauliffe, a fan of the play, had come to see it a second time and sat on the back row near the exit, but had to leave early for her own performance, so for the last three quarters of an hour it was just the journalist and me - worse - in the last 15 minutes I did a separate piece, a stand up comedy routine. He did not laugh. I remember stapling the good review from ThreeWeeks to my attractive flyers and trying to tout for trade with charisma and dignity - and still finding time to see 22 shows on the Fringe or in the main festival between times.

I finished my run with a sudden heady rush of punters coming to see me - at least twenty for the last performance! But I remember their laughs still and pin drop silences, their cheers and whoops at the end, and felt vindicated. I know it is a testing discipline to review sometimes 2 or 3 shows a day, each of them in 120 words: it seems everyone is in it together in Edinburgh - August is a cruel but exciting month.
Edward P’

A Room With a View

In way of a continuation, here's another evocative skyline. This time its all orange and firey swirls, befitting of a warm July night at sundown. We truely do have a room with a view here ...

'Firey Sky' image by Dora Petherbridge.

Tonight I'm linking back to Edward Petherbridge's 'Petherbridge's Weekly Post' which is full of literary insight into the world of an actor and the theatre. He also posts some wonderful poetry - that rhymes, always the best kind I think. Edward will be 74 this year and he's been in the business for about 57 years, so he's bit of a veteran. On his latest post he said positive things about our free-writing exercises, so by way of thanks I'm mentioning him in the hope that whoever drops by here might fancy a look at his blog too.

Recently I read something on a blog that questioned the motives of some bloggers, namely those who self promote by posting their blog's address in the comments section. This blogger made a point of saying they do their blog for free. One of the best pieces of advice I was given when I made my first tentative steps towards telling people that I wanted to write was, 'do it because you have to and don't expect to get paid. Don't let that be your motivation because your writing will lose its spirit.' I hold this to be true, although of course no one's going to turn down a book deal. But it would be foolish to go into a blog with the words 'book-deal', 'fame', 'fortune', 'name in lights'. I certainly don't blog for these reasons and I think I'd be plunged into an existential crisis if I woke up tomorrow and I had hundreds of followers. I could never imagine my random musings yielding such interest. I see a blog as a way for anybody irrespective of class or education to explore creativity and probably the majority do them for free. Edward said on his blog in response to our 'free-writing' exercises that he felt that this should be the nature of the blogging experience, a place where ordinary people can write from a perspective outwith the confines of commercial media and its chosen few. Self-promotion? Whatever ...

Let's finish on a high note, here's a rather wonderful picture of Edward as Pierrot. It was taken by his son. Photography clearly runs in the family.

Photograph by Arthur Petherbridge.

Jazz in an Art Gallery. 'Free-Writing' part two.

Photograph is of two postcards. Top one, 'Jazzy Waters'. Bottom is of Ertha Kitt by Ernst Haas, 1952.

Tonight we attended something of a 'happening' in the form of a free jazz ensemble in the auspicious surroundings of the National Gallery of Scotland. Beneath Renaissance paintings we were treated to jazz renditions by three talented players who according to the lady that announced the proceedings have performed for everyone from Bob Geldof to the Queen. Our motley crew of tourists, OAP's, art students and those who had happily stumbled off the street were clearly no pressure then.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I live in this city, where at any given time there is an outlet buzzing with cultural activity. Indeed we are after all surveying what truly is the calm before the storm, for next month will host the biggest fringe festival in the world.

In the spirit of last night's free-writing exercise we decided to make the most of the opportunity to listen to some free jazz in the National Gallery of all places, by committing to paper and memory a small snap shot of that half hour outwith the daily grind. I do believe it is a far better way to honour the experience than some of the ruder spectators who saw fit to flout the 'no-photography' policy by snapping away during the performance. Consummate professions the musicians didn't let it phase them.

Same as yesterday, Dora's is first and mine is second.

'The trio walked into the gallery all suits and sharp black, seeming rather formal for the somewhat ad-hoc proceedings – a jumble of folding stools and wandering rucksack-tourists, but joining the audience in its almost domestic repose, they took their places with informal humility. They were not grand with the ethereal harp, trumpet of brilliant brass and veteran double bass, but everyday, relaxed. At first I did not remember to look up at the paintings to see what they were doing while the musicians played their jazz. When I did glance up at Mary amongst angels, the servant girl with her geese, the pastoral scene, the anonymous lordly gents, I found the paintings mocked the music, remained aloof, wryly concerning themselves with other things. And in turn the music mocked the paintings, making light of the dull oils, cracking gilt frames and frozen figures. Until that is the trio gave us ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily’, and I’m sure something happened to the Crucifixion canvas high up on the wall – the tension in the picture leapt a little, muscles strained and the drama moved.' (Dora Petherbridge)


'The harpist tickles the strings with a lightness of touch, gifted by slim feminine hands. Standing her fellow player holds the bass like a woman he’s attempting to coax into a dance. A hand rests on the curvy waist of the instrument, mirroring a soft, yet firm femininity. A bald man plays the trumpet in defiant oblivion, blowing out the higher notes with an increasing vigour and reddening face. Jazz follows its own wild courtship, a union between player and instrument as the spectator watches on hot faced like they’ve just walked in on a pair of lovers. Although perhaps not here, where on the outer corner of the audience an old lady watches on, flannel hat clad head cocked to one side. Interspersed are the young, the old and the in-between, hands rest in laps, some close their eyes and rock to the tune, connecting the beat to an internal register. A sweetie is unwrapped and popped into a mouth. But if you’re watching and you're listening then your eyes will make their way back to the hands. The hands that convey a music of contrasts, the pinging of the strings and the masculine grip of the bass waist.'

'Free-Writing'

I once attempted a creative writing class but couldn't quite get over the intimidating atmosphere where much more experienced writers (some were writing novels, for goddness sake!) read aloud their work to a room full of virtual strangers. I know the old saying strangers are just friends you haven't met yet, but in spite of this utopian ideal, I couldn't shake off the feeling, that with its mixture of expectations, sensitivity to criticism and fear, that this writing class might descend into a from of group therapy. Perhaps it was just my shyness but with a heavy heart and £70 lighter, I stopped attending.

With creative writing on my mind I give you two snapshots of Edinburgh. The first is by Dora Petherbridge and the second is by me. We did these exercises in 'free writing' so-to-speak, following some excellent writing advice found at Backwards in High Heels. If only those genuinely thoughtful words had been around when I'd pitched up at my writing course ...

'The layout of the city is folly – buildings perch on steep banks and tumble into deep gullies, play hide and seek under bridges and split themselves with narrow staircases. In the old town the stones crowd each other, nestling and nesting, while in the new, they stretch out in shamelessly graceful and decadent curves, lavishly channelling light into the streets between. There’s always space for green in Edinburgh, and a generous allowance for wilderness too – the Crags barely tamed by a path convicts cut out, and a glut of yellow gorse taking on the heights of Arthur’s Seat to be ravished by the wind. Tourists and walkers make it up to the precarious top of the Seat and stretch their eyes over astute landmarks to the flat of the Forth with its tiny stationary tankers beyond.' (Dora Petherbridge)

'Pink Sky' by Dora Petherbridge

Why Edinburgh?

'For the hustle of Princes Street and its mythological tram line. For the special type of beggar who is one part street theatre and two parts hustler. For a city of contrasts, propped up by natural volcanic rock, open to the elements and embracing with a festival for the fringe. For lush greenery against a backdrop of granite and the seemingly gated community of the New Town. For the disconcertingly quiet streets, hidden alleys and piss strewn passageways of the Old Town and its lurking history. For the deadening pulse under the cobbles where the secrets of the vaults creep round corners and cast shadows. For the twinkly fairy lights of the Christmas trees. For John Knox’s house, Mary King’s close and the pin point precision of the Camera Obscurer. For the over-wrought audacity of the Witchery all red and gold gilt cornicing and boastful guest book. For the simple privilege of walking through streets weighted with literature. Because I share the city with Miss Jean Brodie. Because anything goes: the unicyclists, the exhibitionists, the tramps, the wee hard men and the gentry. But mostly for the elements. For the way the clouds chase each other in October. For how the wind howls sending unpredictable gusts that blow up immodest skirts and permanently tussle hair. For the setting sun with its pink sky and the light peppering of snow in December.'

On the Personal.

Late last week when I was feeling I was on a roll with the whole ‘spontaneous overflow of words’ stuff I got carried away and I wrote something personal. I didn’t stop there. I posted it on my blog. All this is hugely disconcerting as anyone who knows me in real life knows that for all my pragmatic ways there are huge lapses into neurosis where I worry about tiny little things I’ve said, picking out the intricacies of thoughts that realistically those around me are totally unaware of. That’s because these thoughts are nonsense. But goddamn it they are my thoughts and even if nobody else is interested, I might as well be invested in them.

I’m reminded of a lovely thing Samantha says in Sex and the City: The Movie, to Smith when she’s breaking up with him. It goes along the lines of ‘I’ve been in this relationship for 5 years, but I’ve been in a relationship with myself for 49 years. This is the one I need to work on.’ Now I’m nowhere near her age, nor will I ever notch up the life experience she’s had, mainly because she’s the work of fiction, but all this got me to thinking about this blogging lark, why I might be doing it and whether it’s a good idea to get personal. Perhaps this is down to my sensitivity and the eternally vexing question ‘Am I doing the right thing?’ It’s either that or its massive self-indulgence. But whichever way it is I feel this way about the writing business, for one must wonder in one’s room of their own, what the point of all this is.

Given everything I’ve just written its hardly surprising that come Sunday morning I rushed to my laptop and fired up the dongle (this never fails to make me chuckle) and in haste removed the offending personal blog entry. I could sit relieved at the kitchen table, sweat wiped from my brow safe in the knowledge that nobody would have to read my silly wee lapse into sentimentality easily led by blogger’s compulsive ‘post now’ agenda. No such luck, for over a bowl of muesli – surely all cold hard reality begins and ends with a bowl of what ultimately consists of sawdust and grit – I realised what a terrible fool I’d been. How cowardly I was to take down words of a personal nature, and more shockingly, how self-indulgent of me to think that my insignificant blog of some personal words might yield more than a passing glance.


Perhaps all this will be easier to understand if I just come right out and say it. The personal words were inspired by heartbreak. A heartbreak of some years ago that for some reason I cannot entirely shake off. For it hangs around like an inexplicable pain in the body – like a sore hip that only occurs on rainy days. It’s a heartbreak that haunts me. I’m hardly the first person in the world to experience this evidence of nature’s folly, were we’re built with the capacity to divine a special feeling for a certain person, all without a satellite navigation that will point you in the direction of someone who is also available and will love you back.

Far better people have written of this exquisite pain, some have even made whole careers of it. All the greatest songs I’ve ever listened to, the ones that have got me through grief, sorrow, life in general, are only in existence because of it. No shift in the planet’s axis will occur if I post my own small window of experience. Nobody has to even read it. But I wrote it and that’s significant. So perhaps in honour of the piece of writing’s insignificance and in its pure significance to me I’m re-posting it here. For as Cassandra writes on the last page of her journal in I Capture the Castle ‘Only the margin left to write on now. I love you. I love you. I love you.’

The sentimental, silly things ...

Some years ago the flat I’d grown up in was being sold and I had to return home from university to pack up the rest of the stuff I hadn’t deemed important enough to take when I’d left. Knelt on my old bedroom floor, a plastic bag at one side, a bin liner the other, I sifted through the remnants of the past.

It wasn’t long before embarrassing CD’s, teen magazines and mouldy sparkly make-up and dried up nail varnishes made their way into the bin bag. It’s not necessarily that I was slapdash, but the more stuff I picked up from my past, the more quickly it became meaningless in my hands. Trinkets once held so dear, birthday cards once cherished ceased to have a power or sentiment beyond the time they were collected or received. And I was swept up in the urge to just chuck it all away and purge myself of history.

I wasn’t entirely ruthless - one knows the worth of a silver pocket watch beyond its simple weight in your hand. So I set aside my papa’s father’s timepiece in the keep-sake section. Cold and solid, and not to mention its discovery coming mere months after his death it’s a thing worth keeping not merely for sentiment but for the sake of honour.

Sometimes it’s easier when you are dealing with what’s the ‘right thing to do’ to forget the tiny little things you ‘should’ do, even if they are done just for posterity’s sake. So that day I chucked the handful of Valentine’s cards I got in my ‘youth’ and the one and only love letter, I think, I’ve ever received. I say ‘think’ because I’m not sure it was a love letter at all, although its filled with friendship and ‘perhaps more’, signed off with a ‘love always’ that still stings when I think about it, even now, eight years on.

Four years have passed since I knelt on that carpet for the last time and I’m feeling the wave of sentimentality of a girl who wishes she could read those words again. This is a wave of sentimentality of a girl who would like to indulgently run a finger over the indentation of the ball point on creamy paper. And this isn’t because objects can ever bring back the past, but rather just for the simple, blissful, momentary escape into private history.

Perhaps this is why they want to fob off the young as foolish and in turn why we dismiss the old as silly fools.