Thursday, 28 January 2016

TigerFace Day 2: What Did You Want To Be When You Grew Up?


What Did You Want To Be When You Grew Up?


This is the question I started off asking myself today. I ended up putting it out there on Facebook, and to my total surprise got a loooooad of amazing answers (all of which I will share at some stage, possibly in piechart form).

As an adult that works with children on a regular basis, it's a question I always hesitate to ask.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

As if there is but one almighty answer, and it should be practical, achievable and within the realms of your given talents and abilities. The tubby fat boy can't say Olympian. The speckie freckly ginger girl can't say model. The dumb kid should avoid saying Doctor and no one can say astronaut, because whats the point? Our adult cynical selves might think.

"A dinosaur" a child might respond, and we might reply "Aw that's sweet, but no, what really?"

The question it's self also alludes a greater more philosophical view point that perhaps we shouldn't really be any one thing. But the obvious nature of our indoctrinated predetermination from gender (boys = blue and army. Girls = pink and barbie) to race, from sexuality (You're a male nurse... And you're straight, right?!) to nationality influence our place within the social and economical structures we live and exist in. Career planning, mortgages, lifestyle, location they all revolve around this predetermination. From being asked this question in Primary School to doing Work Experience in Secondary School.

Regardless of whether or not you think the question is a good one (and there is an awesome TED Talk all about it by Emili Wapnick, check it out here) it's one we've probably all been asked and all have an answer for.


I didn't want to be a "theatre maker", mainly because I didn't know what that was, but I didn't want to be an actor or a performer or an entertainer or even an artist really.

I wanted to be one specific man from an insert out of the Kays Catalogue. He was tall, blonde, roguishly handsome, clean cut and clean shaven. He was in a full grey suit with a blue tie, holding briefcase and was in mid-stroll down a busy high-street. I found a similar looking location in my local town of Oswestry and used to actually fantasise about being this man when I was older, to the point I almost convinced myself the man in the catalogue was my older self. I imagined and measured my future success based on how close to that image I would come. I wanted the smarts for business and the looks for lady hunting. I wanted the papers and files that would fill the briefcase, and one of those huge mobile phones I'd seen in a movie once. I wanted to be a man about town, a busy city slicker with leather belt and some extremely shiny loafers.

That's the thing I remember wanting to be most vividly, but the absolute truth is the answer would forever change. Sometimes I wanted to be a vet, sometimes an astronaut, sometimes a ballet dancer sometimes a cowboy. My friend Steph will tell you the very first thing I ever wanted to be (and I think we must have been about 4 years old when I said this) was a duck. Yurp.

This isn't me as a child, I mean, I fucking wish, right?!
I'm not a duck, I'm not a cowboy, or an astronaut, a deep sea diver, or a presenter on Blue Peter (that was more Mum's dream for me) and I am certainly not the successful handsome suave businessman from the Kay's catalogue. I actually just laughed a bit typing that. I'm a 28 year old male who is slightly overweight, unfit and out of long/full term employment. I rarely shave or get my hair cut because it feels like an unnecessary expense and I frequently have less than £80 in my bank account. I've never been able to buy myself a suit, unless it's out of a charity shop. I'm not married, I'm single with a string of failed relationships and I don't (and probably will never) have a mortgage. I have no savings, no real assets, no career path set in stone, no office and definitely no briefcase.

I am not what I wanted to be.

...

I've had such fun thinking and writing about this question today. I'd like to DEEEEEPLY thank everyone who put an answer on Facebook. It was really, really, really helpful and it's a strand of this research I'm definitely going to continue.

Without further ado...

Please enjoy this short educational video on the subject, and until next time: Heart and Star.



Mucho,

J


Tuesday, 26 January 2016

DAY 1 - TigerFace Residency at Chapter


DAY 1 TigerFace Residency at Chapter


TigerFace - Fuck You

I know right, I can hardly believe it either. Chapter Arts (big thanks to Alice Burrows) have actually given me two weeks of lovely space to work on my long time "in production" piece TigerFace.

For those of you who don't know who TigerFace is; he's an asshole. Really, a crooked, morally corrupt, miserable, nihilistic version of my inner self loathing self.

Presumably a former Children's TV presenter, TigerFace now spends his evenings re-running his old routines, telling the same old jokes and showing you what he made earlier, much earlier, in like, 1997. The problem is his material hasn't changed and for some reason he's stuck performing to adults, and audiences of people he really can't stand.

The truth is, I still don't know what TigerFace is.

It started off as an access tool for me to try unplanned, unorganised and drastically unrehearsed pieces of something in front of an audience at scratch nights, an opportunity to throw shit at the walls and see what happens as well as develop my reflex ability in the arena of unplanned performance.

I bought the suit for something Tin Shed Theatre Co. was doing at the time, and in a moment of thoughtlessness the photographer on the project (the awesome Dafydd Bland Eminent Photography) caught this image:


Upon seeing this podgy, miserable looking tiger man I immediately became compelled to tell his story and find out how someone with such a joyful exterior could really harness some truly terrifying feelings of bitterness and hopelessness.

Today I spent around 5 hours in the space and accomplished a lot in my head, but very little in the physical. I wrote a tiny bit and moved a tiny bit, but mainly juggled rubber eggs... With little success.

So this is me posting blog one of what will be many blogs keeping who ever is interested in the loop with a piece of work I'm really very excited to be finally making.

I'll be posting regularly on Instagram (it's my new favourite social media platform) so get me there if you're interested: Instagram

Or check out updates on my: Website

Anything else you can email me: mejustincliffe@hotmail.co.uk

For now

Mucho

J

<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned data-instgrm-version="6" style=" background:#FFF; border:0; border-radius:3px; box-shadow:0 0 1px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.5),0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.15); margin: 1px; max-width:658px; padding:0; width:99.375%; width:-webkit-calc(100% - 2px); width:calc(100% - 2px);"><div style="padding:8px;"> <div style=" background:#F8F8F8; line-height:0; margin-top:40px; padding:50.0% 0; text-align:center; width:100%;"> <div style=" background:url(data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAACwAAAAsCAMAAAApWqozAAAAGFBMVEUiIiI9PT0eHh4gIB4hIBkcHBwcHBwcHBydr+JQAAAACHRSTlMABA4YHyQsM5jtaMwAAADfSURBVDjL7ZVBEgMhCAQBAf//42xcNbpAqakcM0ftUmFAAIBE81IqBJdS3lS6zs3bIpB9WED3YYXFPmHRfT8sgyrCP1x8uEUxLMzNWElFOYCV6mHWWwMzdPEKHlhLw7NWJqkHc4uIZphavDzA2JPzUDsBZziNae2S6owH8xPmX8G7zzgKEOPUoYHvGz1TBCxMkd3kwNVbU0gKHkx+iZILf77IofhrY1nYFnB/lQPb79drWOyJVa/DAvg9B/rLB4cC+Nqgdz/TvBbBnr6GBReqn/nRmDgaQEej7WhonozjF+Y2I/fZou/qAAAAAElFTkSuQmCC); display:block; height:44px; margin:0 auto -44px; position:relative; top:-22px; width:44px;"></div></div> <p style=" margin:8px 0 0 0; padding:0 4px;"> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BBATTFyDeiv/" style=" color:#000; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; font-style:normal; font-weight:normal; line-height:17px; text-decoration:none; word-wrap:break-word;" target="_blank">Apperently being dressed as tiger doesn&#39;t help me juggle. An almost perfect routine. Getting there. #helpme #juggling #threeeggs #threeballs #juggler #showoff #failure #juggler #tigerface</a></p> <p style=" color:#c9c8cd; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px; margin-bottom:0; margin-top:8px; overflow:hidden; padding:8px 0 7px; text-align:center; text-overflow:ellipsis; white-space:nowrap;">A video posted by Justin Teddy Cliffe (@justinosaurusrex) on <time style=" font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px;" datetime="2016-01-26T13:56:16+00:00">Jan 26, 2016 at 5:56am PST</time></p></div></blockquote> <script async defer src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script>

Thursday, 5 November 2015

Dear World

Dear World,

This is an open letter to you from me.

I am a 10 year old version of myself, and I have a few things to ask.

I'd write to God, but, as it happens, he's never given me his forwarding address, although being omnipotent, I imagine he'll be able to read this anyway.

I was wondering, World, if you you clear up a few things I've been told.

Like, were you created by calculation or chance, and are you only 6000 years old?

Seeing as you've been here all this time, I thought you'd be the best person to ask. I know you can't really give an opinion, but in all the times I've asked God something, I've never had any kind of answer back.

So I was wondering, did we start off as single celled organisms existent only in the sea, or did we all come from two naked white people called Adam and Eve?

I've been told that God moves in mysterious ways, but you just seem to move the same way every day, and I must say, that I prefer that notion. That the atmosphere causes tidal waves in the ocean, or that tectonic plates that shift and vibrate causes seismic motion. Not some bloke with a beard and an agenda living in the sky, causes and then casually shrugs off massive genocide.

And on that note, World, did you once entirely flood? It seems illogical to me, but that's what I'm told happened, and like I say, in my opinion I think you're the font.

Did Noah managed to get them all, or did he leave anything we don't know about behind? Massive creatures with wings and flippers and grey fur and teeth? And whats the deal with dinosaurs? Did they ever exist in the first place? I'm confused because I'm being told that smart scientists are wrong, and that the words of a really, really, really old book are to be believed. Even though I've never seen a talking tree. Sounds like some kind of hallucination to me, and what with the server lack of medicinal understanding coupled with their utter lack of knowledge involving the intricacies of the brain, I might suggest that, that bloke was seeing things.

Also, if my vicar is so sure all this stuff happened, why does he go red and take off his glasses and raise his voice when I question there logic.

You can't really answer that though, World, because you're just a ball of chance matter that settled perfectly in one spot and allowed sustenance to grow and mould and shape and grow more. Fauna and flora, and slime, and fish and stuff in-between all that and me.

I've got to say, as a revolving, evolving emotionless ball of water and dirt, I way prefer you to this selfish, vein, anarchic butthole the Vicar keeps telling me about. He just seems like a twat.

Thanks, World.

Regards,

10 Year Old Me




Thursday, 15 October 2015

The Lady Countess Of Nowhere

She waits, very impatiently. Complete anticipation. Sat on the arm of the settee, half uncomfortable, half un, she is completely ready to jump. She bites her bottom lip, rhythmically bounces her left leg up and down, and with index finger and thumb gripped on gold, she twiddles her wedding ring whilst staring out of the window.

The clock says eleven-thirty-one. He’s usually been and gone by now. “A watched kettle”, she thinks almost aloud. She’s excited, but finds the wait unbearable. A Jeremy Kyle re-run spews violent noises from the TV speakers that battle with the kitchen’s Radio 4 radiations. A mess of noise that may as well be neat silence.

She’s forty something with short blonde hair, and in some indescribable way, just by looking at her, you can tell she prefers a life indoors.

A clatter. She springs. She twitches at the curtain to see. He’s just walked through the gate. He’s approaching the front door now. She stands; back flat against the wall watches the letterbox. It’s flap, flips open and from the space the flap had previously been flipped and briefly left a rectangular gap behind. From this gap a box protruded, before extending so far it fell away, in and down and bounced away from the door.

Excitedly, she grabs the box and rushes towards the sofa. Carefully, she removes each piece of tape. She opens the box, her hands shaking, a wry smile curling up the edges of her mouth. She can see it now. There, folded up inside the box. She closes her eyes and sniffs the contents. It’s like a drug. She up ends the box onto the table and out falls the fur. The animal’s skin. She unfolds it and spreads it over her lap. She’s ecstatic. She loves fur.


She is the Lady Countess Of Nowhere. Her home is nothing special, her bank account near empty, her T.V bought on finance, her children from home absconded, her carpet old and scruffy, her windows wiped clean weekly, her kitchen smells of bleach, her bedroom soft and cosy, her walls attached on both sides to two others, and one another, the flowers in the vase fake, the lamp lit bright and sparsely, the laptop permanently plugged in and the kid’s toys in the attic. She has little, but manages to get by. She buys fur to remind her of better times, imaginary times.

Monday, 28 September 2015

The Spark




Today my good friend Daffyd Bland made this image for me from a video he took in June (2015)...


I don't know what sparks an idea, or what thing happens in the brain when you suddenly get one, but I think I know the moment a spark happens that makes an idea stick.

I saw this image of me practising a belly-flop into a paddling pool of water, I'd almost entirely forgotten about how much fucking fun it was. Looking at this suddenly reminded me, and it made a little spark click, and I thought... This is actually something.

I was originally practising the belly flop for a one off trick to be performed at Greenmail Festival 2015. I was going to do one belly flop for the end of a show, and that would be it. All the effort I put in required reward, but I didn't get one because I didn't even end up attempting the belly flop because of Welsh weather.

So it was to never be performed again.

Until Daff posted this image today and I saw it and reconnected with the idea... Not the idea to belly flop into a paddle pool of water, that's been done thousands of times before. The idea, to simply, make it something I can do.

Practise, get better, learn how to nail it, take the pain, pad the balls.

Perform it to crowds in swimming pools a few times before getting thrown out.

Hope someone books you off the back of your swimming pool show. 

Get booked at a really great event.

Tour the country visiting county fairs, family fun days, festivals and events, even splash into a paddling pool at my nieces birthday parties. 

Travel the world, go to Japan, learn how to do other stuff, encorperate it into a routine. Perform everywhere and anywhere, even splash into a pool in the middle of the set on This Morning. I'm talking huge ambitions here.

Jump from higher than you did before, then higher than that, then higher than anyone ever has.

Fly through the sky, smashing mightily into a million tiny paddling pools that explode and gush cold hard glory.

Grow old, forever being known as the guy who can do the really awesome pointless thing.

I'm talking about those sparks. The sparks that make you into something mighty.

Mucho,

Jx

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

A Philosophy in Funding


When we started Tin Shed Theatre Co. back in 2010 we didn’t know much about business side of making theatre. We were never taught about funding, or support schemes, we didn’t really know what R&D meant, and we never performed any sort of “work in progress”, we just made things and found places to perform them. We worked two jobs and paid an equal share into our productions to get them off the ground. Five years on, reflecting on our early work methods, the whole thing seems ludicrous, and never something we’d do now.

 We used to perform in bars and split the money we made on the door, which 9/10 times would just go back behind the bar before the night was through. We toured from town to town in a tiny car, rammed with costumes, props and pieces of paper on which we’d written the plays locations to save having to make sets. 5 years on we sit at desks, talk on the phone, send emails and type reams of wordy, eloquent bumpf in order to convince people we’re worthy of their cash. We drink more coffee and less beer, we no longer perform in the grubby backrooms of bars, but in lovely studio theatres, and although never content with “right now” always looking forward to “what’s next” I sometimes yearn for the days of “back then”.

 The philosophy this work ethic developed, I think, followed these rules:

+Don’t stop, just do.
+Talk less, move more.
+Make one another laugh.
+Always surprise the audience.
+Resist buying anything and use what you already have.
+Ignore all and any conventions.
+Turn “we can’t” into “how can we”.
+Never say no to anything.

 This early, almost accidental rule making has stayed with us and although has been slightly amended, has become intrinsically threaded into our work, and even though we now rely on funding and commissions for most of what we do, I feel we still have that spirit of poverty in us, and in a way, I feel our work was better back then. It wasn’t convoluted by the bending of ideas to appeal to the ever-changing demands of funding, or subject to a permanent state of “not-readiness” because we trapped it in development. It was wild and loud and raw and exciting and born of cardboard and charity shops. On some of the larger commissions we’ve had, I’ve been left feeling like the work suffered from an abundance of budget, resource, time, and paycheck, like we were swamped with possibility and prospect. The restrictions we’d become accustomed to, no longer exist.

 Now, don’t for a second think I’m anti-cash, or even anti-funding… Hell, if you’ve got some cash you want to give me, I’ll prove it. I’m also completely aware that some of the greatest work I have seen simply wouldn’t have existed had it not been for the fiscal component that supported the grass roots exploration, or the international collaboration, the initial opportunity or the overall prospect. I’ve seen phenomenal work that cost millions and phenomenal work that cost hundreds.

For me the problem arises when money makes the difference between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ for a young company. Too many times have I spoken to emerging theatre makers who have thrust their hopes into the hands of invisible forces that grant cash on what ever basis. I’ve heard so many ideas that will never exist outside of the types of conversations that evoke them. These early companies are often rejected for having no prior experience, and the result is, they make nothing at all. In the quest for budget, quality, time, space, production value etc. they are stuck on the corner square of the board, scared to roll the dice and make the first move.

 My point is this; I wonder if the current culture of funding, research and development, work in progress, support schemes and fiscally incentive initiatives sets an unrealistic precedent for young theatre makers. I wonder if it dilutes the spirit of “doing it” and prevents the taking of risks.


I wonder if, rather than encouraging the creation of new, exciting work, it creates a vacuum of discontent, in which it never gets made at all.



Mucho,

Justin