A Fortunate Man – In The Darkroom

Tuesday 20 June 2017 | Author: Michael Pinchbeck| Featured image: Julian Hughes

Last week we spent time in the rehearsal room at New Perspectives devising A Fortunate Man. It is a tribute to the book of the same name 50 years on from its publication. It is a tribute to its author John Berger who passed away in January. It is a tribute to Dr John Sassall, its central protagonist, who is torn between being an ‘old, traditional country doctor and a doctor of the future’. Our show starts with some archive footage from 1967 showing an old traditional country doctor doing his rounds in by horse and carriage. He says in his clipped, upper class accent that he can see up to 12 patients a day by travelling this way. It soon reveals itself to be a study of the NHS in 2017 when doctors are under pressure to see up to 36 patients a day.

Image by Jo Ferenczi

In total, there are 12 people involved in the project so far. Six writers/performers and six artists/photographers. Different people have been joining us on different days and at the same time pairs of writers and artists are visiting surgeries and health centres to gather research for the project. Taking pictures. Conducting interviews. Writing in waiting rooms. This has been a really interesting collaboration so far, working with artists from different art forms to respond to the book. As Jean Mohr said of his work with John Berger, ‘That spirit of collaboration is rare between a photographer and a writer.’ I have been collaborating with Julian Hughes, our photography mentor, to find the scaffolding for the show. We decided to use photographic terminology to structure the scenes we want to make. Contact is Berger and Mohr discussing the birth of their project. Focus is a series of audio interviews about what it is like to be a doctor today. Negative is the story of how Dr Sassall, a man who set out to help others, is unable to help himself. Development shows him catching water in buckets.

Image by Julian Hughes

In the spirit of the book, we want the images the photographers have taken to be in conversation with words the writers have written during their visits to the surgeries. One of my favourite scenes so far features an acoustic piece of guitar music composed by Ryan (one of our writers) that soundtracks the text written by four of the team alongside a projection of images taken by our photographers. The images have been monochromed and formatted to look like the photographs in the book. Mohr and Berger ‘retained the right to the minutiae of the book’s layout. The position of the text on the page. The position of the pictures within the book. The combination of text, page turn, and picture.’ We want to be faithful to this relationship between the paragraph and the photograph. In a 21st century twist, we read these texts live on our mobile phones, ubiquitous in surgery waiting rooms, despite all the laminated signage informing us to switch our phones off. So, what have we learned so far?

Image by Mira Ho

We have learned that doctors don’t take lunch breaks. We have learned that they aim to see every patient within 10 minutes. We have learned that patients don’t always go in to see them with the condition that they really want to talk about so much of that 10 minutes is spent guessing what the real reason for their visit might be. We have learned that it takes the same time to process a film as it does to give a pint of blood. We have learned that the conversation is still the cure in a lot of cases and some patients just want someone to talk to, someone to listen. As John Berger said, ‘If I am a storyteller, it is because I listen.’ We have learned that when you project images onto the folding screens you find in surgeries it looks like pages in a book. We have learned that a photograph of unwashed cups in a kitchen sink tells us more about the NHS than anything we could write. As Jean Mohr said ‘… it became apparent that I could say with one picture what he could articulate only in pages and pages of words.’ We have learned that doctors don’t really want to talk about politics today but we can’t avoid our show being political. We have learned that to understand a context we have to situate ourselves in it. We have learned that doctors love what they do. When asked to name the best thing about their job many of them tell us it is the people or the patients or the place. We have learned that they want to make a difference to peoples’ lives. And they do. We have learned to listen.

EP 2017 – The Barefoot Doctor

Tuesday 30 May 2017 | Author: Ed Roberts | Images: Susana de Dios

You ever trod on a plug or stepped on a piece of lego? It hurts more than you’d imagine in truth, don’t you think? Well, imagine doing that over and over again. Every step having that level of pain and discomfort. In those circumstances every step an individual takes must be laden with purpose and conviction. You’re either walking towards something or hoping that every time you put one foot in front of the other that the pain you experience is taken away.

 

Away from the past. Away from what you know. Away from those who understand why you continue to walk. But for Sassall, this wasn’t the playground. He wasn’t walking away from the bully who stole his marbles or taunted his youthful longing for the sea. In that moment walking away would be wise, commendable and mature. But Sassall’s issues are not so simple and infantile.

Yet, the way he addresses the situation is to not address it at all. To pretend the trauma just isn’t there and simply “walk away”. The man a community turned to in their hours of need was incapable of coming to his own aid. This is a wound he can not cauterize, stitch or plaster up. And so, he walks. And so the pain festers. The squalor of the mind under lock and key.

The grief that becomes pain, that becomes depression, that becomes a numbness to life, that becomes…

Dr John Sassall died in china in 1982. He’s been learning the ways of the traditional barefoot doctor. Although the details of his last moments and hours are lost, this is where his mortal story ends, his legacy as the every man’s Faust of the 20th century lives on in the words and images of Berger and Mohr. The paradox of A Fortunate Man is how Sassall acts as an example to be lauded and a warning to be met with caution. The General Practitioner whose search for the universal helped all those around him, but whose existentialism made the final chapter of his story one of isolation, loss and heartbreak. Learn from Sassall, accept yourself. Accept who you are, what being you means and go out there… and be happy.

EP 2017 – Blood – Gallery

On 11 March, EP members Suzanne Reynolds and Susana de Dios to a trip with Julian Hughes to a Nottingham Blood Centre to document Julian’s blood donation. Susana de Dios took the photos in this gallery, and the group then wrote responses to the images based on parallels found in John Berger’s 1967 novel A Fortunate Man. You can find a blog post about this experience written by Suzanne Reynolds here.

“I’ll have your hand” AFM: ‘We give the doctor access to our bodies. Apart from the doctor, we only grant such access voluntarily to lovers – and many are frightened to do even this. Yet the doctor is a comparative stranger… what can such intimacy mean?’

AFM: ‘It is as though when he talks or listens to a patient, he is also touching them with his hand so as to be less likely to misunderstand: and it is as though, when he is physically examining a patient, they were also conversing.’

AFM: ‘The function of fraternity is recognition. This individual and closely intimate recognition is required on both a physical and psychological level. On the former it constitutes the art of diagnosis.[…] On the psychological level recognition means support.’

“Keep your arm warm. The warmer you are, the better it will flow!” AFM: ‘The air is cold. The floorboards are cold. It is perhaps this coldness which sharpens the tang of the hot cup of tea.’

“Are you alright? Just pop your head back for me” AFM: ‘That’s where I live, where you are putting the needle in.’ ‘I know,’ Sassall said, ‘I know what it feels like.’

EP 2017 – Blood

Thursday 11 May | Author: Suzanne Reynolds | Featured Image: Susana de Dios

Blood. We all have it; I guess it is one of those commonalities that we take for granted – well, at least until we need a blood transfusion. There we are, in an emergency situation, haemorrhaging following childbirth, as I did, or through loss of blood caused by a road collision; whatever the reason is for your need, you can be sure that someone here, in a Blood Centre such as this on North Church Street right in the centre of Nottingham, will have enabled that to happen – simply by voluntarily donating one pint of their blood.

It is to witness one of these selfless acts, by regular blood donor Julian Hughes – along with photographer Susana de Dios – that we are here, as part of our research towards an exciting theatre project with New Perspectives based on John Berger’s A Fortunate Man – The Story of a Country Doctor, first published in 1967.  This research, with a host of co-collaborators from a range of artistic disciplines, will lead to a new piece of theatre that will first be shared at Lakeside in June as part of the NRTF conference.  One of the key aims of this timely research is to consider the state of the National Health Service fifty years on.An image from Julian’s Friends, Lovers and Strangers project

You can sense my hesitation…it’s true, both Susana and I don’t like needles, so volunteering to observe Julian donating blood at least averts both our minds from what we are about to witness; except that, just as we are ushered towards a private meeting room, we are asked, quite rightly to leave, as this part is confidential. Julian laughs later as he tells us there are many reasons why people cannot give blood on that particular day – some of which you will know, I’m sure.  He also tells us that he gets nervous, even now – even though he has been donating blood for over ten years; his first donation being given on February 14^th.  He invited, as part of a photography project, people that he knew for a pint, only for them to discover that they were going to give a pint, rather than drink one; many of these are still regular blood donors.

They, like Julian, having concluded their confidential meeting, will be ushered into a bright and relatively noisy space where each donor can see each other – it is not as I expected at all – not a curtain in sight!  He is invited to sit in a chair that is capable of being tipped right back; almost like a bucket seat that was in our red Ford Escort, back in the day when hubby and I were dating (I’ve learnt, people don’t call it ‘courting’ any more – it seems people seem to assume that you are some kind of offender!).  Anyway, whilst this Blood Donor Centre is busy, I am not convinced that making yourself as vulnerable as this is a precursor to the development of romantic relationships – although Julian assures us that people do talk over their tea, coffee and nibbles that they have afterwards, but he reckons he is about twenty minutes away from that currently.

“Are you alright? Just pop your head back for me” AFM: ‘That’s where I live, where you are putting the needle in.’ ‘I know,’ Sassall said, ‘I know what it feels like.’

Meanwhile, the needle, as it goes in, is described as somewhat “irritating” and “scratchy” – although I observe that his feet are no longer twitching quite so much with what I can only suppose to be indicative of a level of anxiety; think Jeremy Kyle on one of the many TV screens has helped to help take his mind off it. He laughs as he tells us, he once saw a snake being attacked by a mongoose as he gave blood, which had made him laugh and took his mind off the needled – he went on to state that the particular shade of blue that is in the room is comforting to him, as it reminds him of “engineering blue” (his dad worked as an engineer).

The nurse also helps to keep him chatting, as Susana moves effortlessly around the space, creating a photographic record of the event, as the nurse continues to chat, she then asks him about the project – at this, he visibly relaxes. She is very encouraging about the project, and is herself aware of the book; she goes on to say things like:

“You could do with staying a day here…see how it all works!”

“Every day is a different day; we get all walks of people here.”

With Julian’s blood flowing, she sets an alarm which beeps, slowly at first, but quite soon becomes faster and faster, until there is an audible increase in strength and volume, at which point, the nurse returns and informs him that he is all done:

“Seven minutes, that’s quick!”, she states.

Julian is astonished, as he tells us he usually finds the room quite cool, but today, as it is warmer, it seems to have “helped my blood flow quicker”.

The needle is removed, swiftly and with precision, and soon we are all sat around in a comfy area surrounded by an array of sweet and salty snacks, and where cups of tea and coffee are drunk in a relaxed atmosphere where there must be a real sense of relief, and what I imagine to be a recognition of ‘doing good’. (Maybe I should check whether I am able to give blood myself now, having been told that because I had a blood transfusion prior to blood being tested for Variant CJD, that I would not be able to; as medicated as I am due to chronic pain and fibromyalgia, I think this sense of giving something back could only be a good thing. Those who know me will already know that I can indeed be a bit of a mad cow!)

We depart the Blood Centre once Julian feels up to it, and decamp to a local coffee shop where we continue to talk about Berger and Mohr’s legacy – their collaboration, and how we might be able to bring A Fortunate Man to the stage in a way that does this text, required reading for every would-be GP, justice; especially as we approach a General Election where the NHS could well be a key factor in how people might choose to use their vote.

After this session the EP members paired images with quotes from John Berger’s novel. Visit the full gallery here.

EP 2017 – Session 1

Saturday 22 April | Author: Suzanne Reynolds | Featured image: Mira Ho

And, so it began…

I can’t believe I’m here; here amongst these amazing, talented people – as part of this team. We are here, at Nottingham Lakeside Arts, getting to know more about the A Fortunate Man project from Jack McNamara, Artistic Director of New Perspectives, Michael Pinchbeck, Theatre Maker, and Julian Hughes, Photographer – who each tell us about how long they had been planning to produce a piece of theatre based on A Fortunate Man: The Story of a Country Doctor – with words by John Berger, and photographs by Jean Mohr – and how they saw it being created.

Having read the book a number of times in preparation, recognising with each reading the sheer beauty and wonder of this text and its quietly balanced photography – each image adding layer upon layer of depth to Berger’s beautiful language, I was excited to begin.

Photo by Susana de Dios and Ed Roberts

Never having worked in collaboration before, I was excited at the prospect of a new
adventure; they teamed each writer with a photographer and, before we knew it, we were off outside, exploring Lakeside, acting as ethnographers, detailers of lives, of images we saw, created through a lens – all the time, interacting with the space that was all around us. Whilst my co-collaborator utilised her skills as a photographer, producing wonderful images where the book became located in this landscape, I took to seating myself in the sunshine on a bench by the lake, and wrote soundscapes, attempting to capture the words, the sounds, the lives going on around me.

When we went back into the Learning Room, each group talked about how they had worked together, and showed what they had produced in response to this busy place, full of families at play, eating ice-creams, or to the architecture or natural elements of this place. It was so exciting to see and hear about what each group had done, and hearing and seeing these responses has just served to inspire me even more: I want to be able to be part of a team that does this book justice, and having started our detective journey, I have no doubt that what we will come up with, under Michael and Julian’s direction, will enable and empower us to offer a piece that is both creative as well as innovative – even to the way that it may be staged.

Images by Julian Hughes

As a writer (I am actually calling myself that, for the first time), I feel incredibly blessed and lucky to have this opportunity and to be a part of such a wonderful, inspiring and supportive team. And, whilst this might be my first ever blog, I do sincerely hope that you will come along this journey with us – maybe by reading the book, or becoming an ethnographer, a detective yourself, you never know where your own creative spark may come from! Mine was in response to a call out for
Emerging Artists – maybe next time, it could be you…

Read more on the project in Michael Pinchbeck’s latest blog.

HAUNTS: Site Visits

Saturday 8 & Sunday 9 April 2017 | Author: Jo Woolaston

There has been a weekend on my calendar which has been dancing and waving its hands in the air for some time now – simply titled ‘Site Visits,’ it suggests the need for a clipboard and a hard hat and does not really do justice to the two days of possibilities that lay ahead, days that would involve wandering around in beautiful and fascinating places, immersing oneself in thought and mood of a creative and inquisitive manner. You heard me right. Two days. In a row. And, for the moment at least, I am allowed to call this … ‘work!’

So, very happily wafting my farewell hanky, I abandoned my parental and domestic duties on the station platform and headed once again across the border to Nottingham, destination uncharted (well, it was for me) as Day One was set to introduce me to unfamiliar territories – locations new to me and chosen by the other writers for their own projects. I was excited to explore their ideas and learn more about their perceptions of what constitutes a good ‘Haunt’. And they did not disappoint.

We started in a pub – well who could be upset about that? And yet the Malt Cross  establishes itself very quickly as much more than that – a bar, a café, an art space, a venue, a community project – its present fulfils the legacy of its past as a beating heart of the city in its previous guise as a Victorian Music Hall, rich with character and history. It immediately opens up limitless routes on which to take a writing project, which both stimulates and scares me as a writer – there will be a deadline coming up at some point in this process, will I be able to uncover the true character, the central pulse of my own chosen location, in time? This is something I query in each of the subsequent sites I am introduced to – University Campus – would I write Students or Squirrels? The Hemlock Stone – Druids or Mountain Bikers? The writers of each do not appear to be phased however – quite the opposite – they exude a confidence, a passion, which leaves me in no doubt that all these locations are in safe hands.

Highfields Park

Hemlock Stone

Nottingham Tram

We leave the dusty downhill slopes of the Bramcote Hills behind, my inner ten year old screeching past the Mountain Bikers on my trusty BMX (I refer of course to the imaginary BMX I begged my parents for, as opposed to the rusty racer I received which would have delivered me to the bottom in a broken heap. Mum, Dad – take note) and we head for the tram, another chosen ‘Haunts’ site, and a people-watcher’s paradise. It is a quiet ride, allowing time for reflection, and the collection of snippets and gossip which we conspire to share at the end of the day over a pint or two. (And yes, I am still referring to this as ‘work.’)

Day Two, and it is my turn to play host, at Bradgate Park in Leicestershire. At once I feel proud to welcome new people into a space so familiar to me I feel that I could walk around it with my eyes closed, despite it being over 800 acres of free-to- roam parkland. A small patch of ancient oak trees a short walk into the park is my destination of choice and knowing it so well, I am surprised to learn it actually has a name – Hell-Hole – dubbed thus due to the unusual characteristics of the trees; limbs gnarled and twisted, trunks split and stripped, and bark ravaged by time and exposure to the elements. I wonder, how will this new information change my initial thought processes, and once again my writer’s fear emerges – am I able to do this site justice? Will I get it ‘right?’

Yet on this bright sunny day, the name Hell-Hole seems ill-placed. Today, this is a place of calm and serenity, it offers a means of respite, a chance to climb, and to play, and already I realise that one visit is not going to be nearly enough. I remember the words scrawled on a post-it note above my computer ‘Don’t get it right, get it written.’ It is time to swap the imaginary clipboard and hard hat for a real note–pad and thinking cap, and (sorry kids, bills, and household chores) I have found myself a new office, so I anticipate many more ‘working weekends’ to come, and plenty of future ‘Site Visits’ dancing around on that calendar.

HAUNTS Week 3: Exploring Second Person

Saturday 1 April 2017| Author: Lucy Colgan

The ‘Haunts’ project, so far, has been a wonderful experience; the opportunity to work with New Perspectives Theatre Company, meet East Midlands writers and work with Will Drew as well as dedicate some time to writing has inspired new thoughts and ideas. Saturday’s session focused on the second person narrative….

…You were therefore excited about the writing session.

You drove there. You got up early enough so you could eat breakfast and pack your bag.
Lunch. Notebook. Assortment of pens. You love stationary and a ‘Things to do’ list. You had been set some homework: to look at two examples of second person narratives before Saturday. The first was a short story by Lorrie Moore called How To Be An Other Woman. The second was a piece of interactive fiction called Photopia by Adam Cadre.

When Saturday arrived, you enjoyed the drive through Nottingham. The sun was shining. You counted three early morning joggers, a family of four and two dog walkers. You listened to the radio for a while before calling mum. She wasn’t in.

You arrived in good time, just before 11am. “Anyone fancy a brew or a cup of coffee?” Theresa asked, in her sing-song manner. Everyone else started to arrive and, once we had settled, Will asked us to feedback regarding the homework. You had forgotten to do it. You wrote a note to self: you’re a fool!

You enjoyed listening to the group talking about how Lorrie Moore explored the theme of identity through the eyes of a mistress. You chuckled at the way the Jo and Susie explained their frustrations with Photopia. You kept notes, as all good writers do, and referred back to them when your boyfriend asked about the session. You wrote down the title of a book, If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller by Italo Calvino, and you vowed to purchase it on Amazon when you got home that evening.

You spelt words incorrectly, scribbled things out… You considered why anyone would be so driven to write. You remembered lyrics of songs you had started and never finished and doubted whether you were a writer at all. Until it happened. The group were invited to write something. You panicked and found this challenge difficult but, on reflection, realised that writing in the second person offered options and fresh perspectives.

You wrote about the ghost of celebrity. You were nervous about reading it out loud to the group but appreciated that it was all part of the creative process. You listened to the groups contributions too; you admired Hugh’s brutal honesty and humour, Jo’s ability to capture an atmosphere through use of language and Susie’s clear understanding of character and intention. Leanne’s exploration of ‘the sad clown’ impressed and inspired the group and you felt more alive and enthused on the drive home than you did on the drive in that morning. Dad used to call it ‘the fire in the belly’ and it was firing on all cylinders.

Today was all about you.