JTC
LAST CARESS
Suddenly, and unarguably, a bewildering sensation took his mind, his body and of course his soul. His unique brand of misery seemed depleted as something beautiful and black was dredged up from the materials of the universe around him. Objects from littered tabletops, ashtray contents, old lipsticks, and empty beer cans hovered and collided and formed a wewe, and as the wewe grew it shone silvery and twinkled brightly. It began to simultaneously revolve and dissolve, and as it did it tore a large hole through the thin air in front of him. Invisible fingers pushed a botox smile onto his face, and then they disappeared leaving behind a natural grin. His internal organs dissipated. Hair grew rapidly on every centimeter of his skin, as he simultaneously shed old skins and grew new skins. His right foot lifted, and he let the drone of, and thunderous tone of The Misfits lift his size 9 soul. Passageway through this dimension was granted, only, by the amount and variety of prescribed and unprescribed substances he had taken four hours previously in that desert the rest of the world was calling a party. Occupied by cacti with human mouths and human minds. How he came to be here, he does not now know, and now as his inflated chest leads the way as he passes through bright white light and enters a glittering and blistering inferno. He steps through, and eventually floats through the newly torn hole and discovers a better place. No longer bewildered by each limb that slopes off his body and floats off into the ether, he treats this phenomena as inertia and simply relaxes into it. He becomes one with the void he has found himself floating through. Tomorrow he will wake up, and re-realise he is a non-metaphysical being in a world regulated by the laws of numerous sciences, but for now he is returned to our natural state. Consciousness as dust, drifting through oblivion.
ICE
She slowly placed the phone onto the receiver. Her withered, thin skinned hands trembled, relieved that another night’s attempt had ended and again he had not picked up his phone. She put this down too luck, for he could never know it was her who phoned and surely no man with such importance as he would simply refuse to answer the phone each night. Luck, fortune, fate, kismet, call it what you will, but her heavy heart could rest a little more gently in knowing that each night, at least she tried.
Sitting silently and quietly she marvelled at the image of herself reflected in the icy window of her study. Drinking in the bitter sweet image of herself, she let out a slow warm breath and it left it trail of mist in the air as it floated toward and clung to the window. Leaning down, towards the ground slowly, she slipped off her thermos slipper and pealed back the four thick, Sherpa lined socks she wore. Then she took her old foot in her hands and spent a few minutes massaging it before her hands grew stiff and pale and her feet had lost their feeling, she closed her eyes and smiled in the rare delights of this. Slipping and tucking her feet back into the safety of her heat-preserving garments took some time. She was old now. Much older than she had been before she met him, older than she had ever imagined she would ever be. She was one of only two people in the town who had memories of the long day light. She remembered the world in such a different way, before the axis change, and her memories of this place were especially fond.
The steam of the tea she had poured herself had long since gone, she had been sat next to the telephone for such a lengthy time before mustering up the courage to dial those dreaded numbers, that her tea had turned cold. But cold tea was to her tastes and as long as it hadn’t turned to ice she would still enjoy sitting quietly, sipping at it, watching her ghostly figure smiling back at her in
the window pain, reflected clearly against the cold, pitch black sky of the night. If only he had answered. Would she have even had the courage to speak, or simply slammed the phone down and retreated into the next room, refusing to answer each time he called back, now knowing she wished to speak to him. A frown suddenly came across her face. Why hadn’t he even answered his phone? Four consecutive nights she had called and each night he had given no answer. She wondered where he may have been at such a late hour, what he may be doing out at such a time, a man as old as he ought not to brave this weather. Perhaps he was in, but if he was then why did he not answer?
Perhaps he slept heavily with his television blaring, or he may have been in the bath or he was simply entertaining. But if he was entertaining, then whom did he entertain? That horrible twat of a woman Mrs Pugh?! She’d wanted to sink her claws into him since the day she came. Mrs Pugh had moved to Spreake a widow. Much speculation had arisen as to why she chose Spreake; but she had, and her choice in adobe had been peculiar also, to say the least. She had t first bought a small sandwich apartment in the centre of town, there she lived for seven years before selling and buying a huge property, the biggest property in Spreake which was on the east side of the town, paid for no doubt, with her husband’s inheritance. Although the state now takes a large proportion of the dead’s wealth to fund the Nation’s Heating Service, word around town is her husband was a very rich man indeed. She grew instantly angry, and then fell instantly calm in the realization that of all the people of Spreake, Mrs Pugh was under the category of “most unlikely” to currently be being entertained by him... But it couldn’t be ruled out. She flipped her phonebook to P and ran her thin blue finger down the page until P met U.
“Pee, you, ghee, hache” flitting her eyes between phonebook and telephone she dialled each number precisely and with pneumatic force. She waited. It began to ring.
“Hello?” the commandingly prudish and sharply harsh voice of Mrs Pugh could have been heard distinctly through the ear piece of that telephone had someone been listening in another room! She slammed the phone down and giggled in the delights of knowing Mrs Pugh was not being entertained... And that she had just made her first ever prank phone call. Joyous in the delights of knowing what inconvenience she had caused to priggish old Mrs Pugh, she stood slowly and made her way to the kitchen clasping her empty mug. Suddenly, the phone rang. He head darted one hundred and eighty degrees the fasted it had turned in as many months. Her eyes wide, her mouth aghast, she clutched the kitchen doorway either for some form of comfort, or to support her from falling to the floor. The phone rattled on its receiver with every ring. She slid down the door frame and sat like a child on the floor watching the phones rigid rattle, its sounds echoing about the house.
BLOG
THAT GUY
He was "That Guy".
He didn't want to be "That Guy" anymore, but somewhere along the pathway toward his "That Guy" destiny his control over that decision became non-existent.
His biggest fear now, was that he would always be "That Guy".
The bare bottoms of his feet where all that could be seen poking out of pile dirty clothes and sex stained sheets that lay strewn over the bed. Underneath those sheets he lay naked with a burning coke-nose and dry lips. Beside him, and wrapped partly around him, was a devoted fan. She was fast asleep too.
He was dreaming. He was dreaming he was bobbing up and down in a pool of purple water underneath a starlit sky. He was experiencing himself symoultanously from two different camera angles. One camera was underneath the water, capturing him at an up angle from behind. The other camera bobbed in front of him lapping in and out of the water. This angle captured his clean shaven but worn-tired face. His eyes wide open in awe, gazing at a burning Hollywood hills. He'd never been to Hollywood before, and thought he'd maybe seen this exact thing in a movie he'd watched once. Suddenly the water developed a kind of current, a wave. He struggled as it became increasingly difficult for him to keep his head above the water as it lapped and bashed. He trod the water and paddled, and as he did his head went under and his view of the burning Hollywood hills dipped in and out of the purple water. He could breathe, and then couldn't breathe, and then suddenly he needed to piss.
Underneath the mass of dirty bed cloth, "That Guy" begins to urinate.
In the purple swimming pool in front of a blazing Hollywood hills, "That Guy" began to urinate.
In that instant two momentarily confused signals manage to make sense, spark and bridge the gap between his conscious and unconscious mind. He gasps awake, innately aware of the fact he's pissing the bed, almost like the dream version of himself told his real self to wake the fuck up and stop it. He leaps up and dashes over to the corner of the room. There he stands and pisses in a small wastepaper basket.
"Why don't you just use the toilet?" the rudely awoken, fan suggests as she sits up and rubs her eyes.
He turns his head to the left and can see the toilet through the open bathroom door, he winces his bloodshot eyes and adjusts his vision, now he can see himself in the large mirror that covers the bathroom wall, and in a way it sort of looks like he is using the toilet. In a way. He looks down again and can see his
hand holding his dick dribbling his piss into the hotel's wastepaper basket. He doesn't answer the fan, but just carries on pissing. She's confused by the
animal nature of her one time lover. The now former fan covers her nakedness with the sheet and lays back down. All that can be heard is the traffic from the busy street below and the drum like patter of his piss hitting the bottom of the wastepaper basket.
He finishes urinating and shudders.
He zips up his flies and makes his way towards the sink. Jack's office is way too nice to have nice sinks like this, and "That Guy" makes the assumption that his 15 years of 10% paid for these nice sinks, so out of protest he tries to snap or bend or damage the tap with brute force when he turns it off, but he does nothing to it, except turn it off.
Jack was a man of many words, too many words in "That Guy"'s opinion and so he didn't like spending too much time with him, even if it was better for business. "That Guy" kind of had the opinion that you can only swallow so much shit before you start before you overflow with it yourself. He knocked and Jack's door, and Jack bade him in.
"What the fuck is this?"
"It's nice to see you too Jack..."
"Shut the fuck up and sit down."
"That Guy" had no idea what Jack was talking about.
"I buy the news papers every day, and every day I hope I'm going to turn to page ten and see your face in there, like you've attended some party or some shit, and who do I actually see? Not you, that's who. I never see you. I tell you to put on a suit, smell yourself good, get an expensive girl and walk the carpet at something once in a while. Stay in the public eye. Keep peoples attention. But you never do. And then this morning, what do I do, buy the fucking paper, like the fucking mug I am, and I turn to page ten, and I prepare myself for the absence of your stupid prick face, but this morning, this morning I see your stupid prick face and I smile".
"Good for you".
"Yeah, good for me... Until I read the fucking article. You little prick! Do you have any idea what this will do?"
"It's not a big deal, people do it all the time. Besides it's conjecture or what ever you want to call it. I didn't get arrested, nothing can be proved, I tried to score a little speed. Who gives a fuck?"
Jack's face, although this conversation is a mere 30 seconds old, is boiling. His veins are sinuous on his face, his eyes look closed but aren't, his lips are wet with spit rage, he looks like Danny DeVito if Danny DeVito was fatter and had some kind heart condition.
LAST CARESS
Suddenly, and unarguably, a bewildering sensation took his mind, his body and of course his soul. His unique brand of misery seemed depleted as something beautiful and black was dredged up from the materials of the universe around him. Objects from littered tabletops, ashtray contents, old lipsticks, and empty beer cans hovered and collided and formed a wewe, and as the wewe grew it shone silvery and twinkled brightly. It began to simultaneously revolve and dissolve, and as it did it tore a large hole through the thin air in front of him. Invisible fingers pushed a botox smile onto his face, and then they disappeared leaving behind a natural grin. His internal organs dissipated. Hair grew rapidly on every centimeter of his skin, as he simultaneously shed old skins and grew new skins. His right foot lifted, and he let the drone of, and thunderous tone of The Misfits lift his size 9 soul. Passageway through this dimension was granted, only, by the amount and variety of prescribed and unprescribed substances he had taken four hours previously in that desert the rest of the world was calling a party. Occupied by cacti with human mouths and human minds. How he came to be here, he does not now know, and now as his inflated chest leads the way as he passes through bright white light and enters a glittering and blistering inferno. He steps through, and eventually floats through the newly torn hole and discovers a better place. No longer bewildered by each limb that slopes off his body and floats off into the ether, he treats this phenomena as inertia and simply relaxes into it. He becomes one with the void he has found himself floating through. Tomorrow he will wake up, and re-realise he is a non-metaphysical being in a world regulated by the laws of numerous sciences, but for now he is returned to our natural state. Consciousness as dust, drifting through oblivion.
SNIPPETS
Steven held Sally’s hand, as he drove away from the roadside ditch into which he had dumped her body.
____
Bob received high 5s from all his fellow patients in the hospital hallway. Then everyone realised Bob had misunderstood the use of the word “positive” in this context.
____
Margret was happy to be sharing a bed with her husband again. It was well earned respite after seven hours of digging.
____
Jimmy wiped the blood & fur from his face, suddenly remembering his fathers advice on using the lawnmower when Rover was around.
____
12 cows talk quietly behind the nervous farmers back. They laugh together under their breath, suspecting he doesnt have the guts to touch their tits.
____
And even though they only sat three feet apart, she used her words to cut out his heart.
WORK IN
PROGRESS
WORK IN
PROGRESS
WORK IN
PROGRESS
GARY THE EARTHQUAKE SURVIVOR
His eyes peeled open and the first thing he saw was the disappearing mist from the warmth of his morning breath. He hadn’t paid the gas bill and so now he had to wear two jumpers and a pair of jeans to bed. Rolling over he remembered that last night he shared his bed with the half eaten carton of home delivered Chinese food he couldn’t bothered to finish, and now dim sum or some dim was all over his legs.
Gary looked, and gently began to despise the limp, thin curtain draped across the condensation covered window, because it had holes in that let streaks of 2pm light into the room.
As Gary lay there, he hoped something would happen. That maybe an earthquake would come and tumble his dingy little flat. That maybe he might be swallowed up by the ground as the walls and ceilings cave in and cover him in his own filthy bedsheets and worthless possessions. It may give him a reason to stay in bed.
The local community would form some kind of rescue party no doubt. They’d meet in a surviving building nearby and discuss how best to form a refuge party. They’d take action by standing in single file, passing large chunks of rubble down the line, people would read about his plight on Twitter using the hashtag “GetGaryOut” and some would drive from miles and miles around to help. They’d dig and labour and tug at old bit’s of steel-frame and brick-work. Then, suddenly, the person at the head of the line moves an oven door and a bit of old breeze block to see Gary’s face poking out of the terrible rubble.
“We’ve got him! He’s alive!” The person at the head of the line would shout.
It’d probably go nation wide with BBC, ITV and Channel 4, all covering the event, getting ready to send emails vying for Gary to make a special appearance on their channels. He might meet Phillip Scofield, or Bill Turnbull, or maybe even Richard Wright.
“Gary, you’re going to be alright, we’re going to get you out of here”. The person at the head of the line would shout.
They’d give him cups of tea, special dressing rooms and private cars to and from the fanciest hotels in London. He’d probably be so enigmatic during his various television appearances that numerous celebrities would be offering to take him out to dinner, just to hear his incredible fucking story again and again and again.
“Hold on. I’ve got you now”. The person at the head of the line would shout.
He’d be front page news ’The Man That Survived’. He’d write a best selling book ‘The Man That Survived’. They’d commission a four part TV series all about his life, his strife and his struggles and they would call it ‘The Man That Survived’.
Before long, beautiful women would flock from all corners of the globe, just to be in the company the bravest man alive, the man that survived. He’d be a hero, a legend chiselled into the ever ageing ancient tablets of heroism throughout time. As his story is told and retold it’s embellished, details change, the time spent under the rocks gets longer, the amount of brick and stone that suppressed him grows in number, one version told in one of the remotest parts of the Tasmanian jungle tells of how Gary not only stopped the building from falling with his bare hands, but also managed to save every other resident and residents pet whilst doing so.
In the one and a half minutes it’s taken Gary to concoct this tale, he has become the stem cell for a future new world religion. He is the new messiah, he is Gary.
“That’d show Mr Patel” said Gary to himself out loud “always banging on about me not paying the fucking rent”. Who should really pay the rent around here? Thought Gary, not Gary, thought Gary. Not Gary the fucking Earthquake Survivor, thought Gary. If anything Mr Patel should leave him to live their eternally rent free, for everything he’s done, or at least could do in extremely rare event of an earthquake. God how he wished there would be an earthquake. That’d show him. That’d show Mr Fucking Patel.
NUT STORER
The squirrel had been searching for well over an hour now.
Jumping from place to place, thoroughly inspecting each patch of grass previously unchecked, before discovering nothing and hopping hopefully to the next one.
As he foraged and ferreted away looking for his long lost nuts, his little fluffy tail flicked and twitched with anticipation.
His little fury face harboured his large optimistic eyes that flung from left to right as they surveyed from side to side.
Hands, almost human like in shape and form dug and ruffled and neatly parted blades of grass.
Such an inquisitive, delightfully intelligent creature, with thoughtfulness enough to bury nuts in a season of abundance for a time when there will be far fewer.
I simply watched as he leapt about my garden, from place to place, searching, aspiring to find his secret stash of summer nuts to stave away pains of hunger.
But he never would find them.
Because I dug them up the day he buried them, 6 long months ago.
Have that you fury little twat. Have that.
THEATRE, PERFORMANCE, FILM
ABOUT
CONNECT
WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY
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HAPPINESSLESS is a new Arts Council Wales funded project being led by Justin Teddy Cliffe in collaboration with Charlotte Lewis, with support from The Riverfront & Dirty Protest, in connection with Urban Circle, REACT Support Services & the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama.
Throughout Sept 2023, a large creative team came together to co-create an experimental devising theatre piece that aimed to use tech and movement create a verbatim story telling experience centred around mental health and human psychology. The aim is to challenge us to think about how we can have better/more useful conversations about mental health, suicide, wellness and happiness.
During this process we explored a model of co-creation with mental health practitioners, psychiatrists and local community members. Taking place over 4 weeks, the work resulted in a work-in-progress sharing at The Riverfront, on the 15th Sept 2023.
This R&D version of the work saw us working to understand how we could construct a piece of live-art/theatre that could shift between known places to liminal spaces and from the normalcy of everyday life into the often more absurd kind of dreaming.
COLLABORATION & NEXT STEPS
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As we move forward with a plan to re-develop and tour the work we're interested in continuing the conversations we're already having with people about the work, as well as hear from organisations, venues, charities, groups and individuals who might want to connect to the project.
FEEDBACK
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If you came to see the work-in-progress sharing and want to share some after-thoughts:
VIDEOS
THE MAKING OF
THE Q&A
CREATION, REHEARSAL,
PERFORMANCE
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This short film was shot by Fez Miah, periodically throughout our process. It captures moments from rehearsal and audience feedback following the WIP sharing event.
QUESTIONS & ANSWERS
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This short video is a recorded Zoom conversation between some audience members and the cast.
If you want to listen to the 'podcast' version click the link below.
FULL (WIP) PERFORMANCE
This recording was made on the 15th Sept 2023 live at the Riverfront.
ABOUT
WHO
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Directors
Justin Teddy Cliffe
and
Charlotte Lewis
Mental Health Practitioner
Rebecca Nembhard
Cast
Macsen McKay
Hannah Lad
Ellen Thomas
Nick Hywell
Pete Morgan
Mohit Mathur
Arnold Matsena
Lorien Tear
Katy Arnell
BSL Interpreter
Nez Parr
Stage Pushers
Steve Evans
Eilir McShane
Movement Director
Jodi Ann Nicholson
Designer
Dan Southwell
Composer
Tic Ashfield
Visual Digital Designer
Jorge Lizalde
Company Stage Manager
Chloe Robson
Dept Stage Manager
Emma Gonzales
Technical Manager
Owen Davies
Production Manager
Chris Davies
Dramaturgical Support
Connor Allen
Community Youth Producer
Nyla Webbe
Community Charities Producer
Lucy Dickson
Producer
Alice Rush
Interim Producers
Chantal Williams
Ceriann Williams
Photographer
Lloyd Miller aka Photosapien
Special Thanks
Frank Thomas
Tori Lyons
Cath Paskell
Fez Miah
Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama
And All
FAQs
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The Word: I made up the word ‘happinessless’ to describe a collection of feelings we might encounter when searching for or aspiring to be happy. For me it includes a multitude of feelings as well as the lack of any feelings. It’s both active and inactive, and attempts to capture a sense/feeling that other emotional descriptors like “confused” “sad” “angry” or “lost” cannot. Through exploring this new word and what it might mean, we found an overall sensation for the piece; otherworldly, abstract and bemused.
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A main aim was to work with mental health practitioners, artists and members of the public to create a piece of work the broad subsection of the public could relate to and get something out of.
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Happinessless is a Research & Development project funded by Arts Council Wales, supported by Dirty Protest, in connection with Urban Circle and in co-production with The Riverfront. We also had support from React Support Services in Cardiff. The initial project brief was to make a show featuring one male protagonist, supported by two other performers. The aim was to explore a semi-autobiographical script about depression, modern life, derealisation, moments of dysphoria and mens mental health. Through collaboration and co-creation, the project changed dramatically as soon as we (me, Charlotte Lewis and Ceriann Williams) held group auditions. Through doing this, we realised a larger ensemble was exciting, and shifted the work to become more representative of a wider subsection of people, with various lived experiences. By accepting this new pathway, our cast of three turned into a cast of nine.
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The project had three main points of focus: 1) To explore ways in which we could have ‘better’ conversations about mental health. 2) To develop a radically different working methodology that could enable performers to devise and create work based off of their own lived experiences in a healthy and responsible way. 3) To explore how technology (and specifically AI) could enable us tell better stories and involve more people.
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The overall time we spent physically building the work was 4 weeks. Each week represented a new opportunity for a smaller cast of 3x performers to come together and engage in a co-ordinated creative process. In Week 4 these groups came together to form the cast of 9, and we re-built the work together in the studio.
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Process: The overall approach and process was developed by Charlotte Lewis, Rebbecca Nembhard and myself. It was grounded in a devising methodology that relied on none of the actors taking notes, whilst also rejecting any formalised form of ‘a script’. We worked with urgency and always to find what would happen in any given moment through improvisation, rather than forecasting forward too much and/or having any real expectation of what the content could/should become. We constantly asked; what is satisfying/interesting and what is unsatisfying/uninteresting, and followed that.
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Every group learned the exact same games and exercises. These games and exercises were the absolute foundation of how the performers would; move, speak and interact. They also gave us a shared performance language. These games ended up forming the nuts and bolts of the content for our piece.
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For each group the very first day of the process was the same. We started with a large blank piece of paper, on this paper we asked each group to write as many questions as they could about happiness. From here we had hours of conversation based on their responses. These questions would lead us into physical explorations in the space, and we would revisit them sporadically during the four days we were together. Never in an attempt to answer them, but to understand why we wanted to ask them in the first place.
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The technical work on this was huge. Looking at projection and integrated access captioning, microphones surrounding the space, the moving set pieces of the work having lights and sound installed etc. As well as this, we also had wireless headphones for the audience to wear in order to reduce the sound of the revolving stage and enhance the voice of the narrator. As is often the case, a lot of this tech didn’t work for us. The AI captioning is in a very beta phase, and was actually an R&D in and of its self, and the headphones didn’t end up being utilised as they seemed to create a separation between audiences and the work, during rehearsal.
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In terms of how we worked with Rebecca Nembhard to install support into a process that positioned the wellness of all participants at the forefront. It’s important to note that Rebecca’s role was co-ordination, pastoral and creative. Devising a working methodology together we took a pragmatic approach that acknowledged how important routine, schedule, time keeping and discipline actually are in terms of the way we treat the collective with responsibility and respect. We also understood the potential impact of making work like this might have from moment to moment, and always invited anyone in the room to leave for 15mins if needed. Rebecca also helped us set up a social contract for the groups which were about compassion, responsibility and mutual respect. Where she was creative in the work, Rebecca helped make decisions about how we would explore specific moments and what that might look like and feel like for audiences.
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Next steps: We are currently having conversations about the future of the work. We want to connect with more mental health charities and organisations in order to explore how the work could enable us to have better conversations with more people. The possibility of touring it is an exciting one, however, we know it will cost a lot and so are also interested in talking to people who might be interested in co-funding the work. We are aware we need more time to work on the detail and depth of the overall piece. We also need to consider how the work can offer opportunities to a more diverse range of people, to speak and share their experiences of ‘happinessless’.