“What does this look like?” “Is this standard?” “What is the point of this?”
Happily, our day-long workshop with Hannah Ringham of Shunt threw up more questions than answers. Our focus was on the audience, on drawing them in, implicating them, leaving space for their imaginative engagement. On practising what might usefully be termed a dramaturgy of generosity.
Hannah’s work, she told us, has been informed in a big way by her collaborations with Tim Crouch – not least in clarifying her desire to pick over, prod and probe the unwritten contract between performer and audience. Talking about Dance Bear Dance, the show that first made a name for Shunt when they performed it in a railway arch in Bethnal Green in 2002/03, Hannah recalled moments during the show in during which the audience was asked open questions to which no response, including no response, could be wrong. This sense of an invitation, of the certain validity of everything and anything an audience might bring on any given night, inspired us.
Inspiring, too, was Hannah’s playfulness, her trickery. The image of her standing at the front of the stage with a look of sheer abhorrence painted across her face, pinching a dirty napkin at arm’s length and demanding of us “who left this piece of shit here?” is etched in my mind. Likewise, a GIF-like clip of her stamping on an apple, smashing it to smithereens. “Objects,” Hannah insisted, “can break, be moved, be handled, be played with, modified, changed, mended, cleaned, examined. They are always in motion, in a state of constant arrangement.” Like any good teacher, Hannah nurtured in us a sense of exploration, of discovery, of unruliness. Without these qualities, after all, what is the point of anything?
Gwilym Lawrence
@its_me_gwilym
Happily, our day-long workshop with Hannah Ringham of Shunt threw up more questions than answers. Our focus was on the audience, on drawing them in, implicating them, leaving space for their imaginative engagement. On practising what might usefully be termed a dramaturgy of generosity.
Hannah’s work, she told us, has been informed in a big way by her collaborations with Tim Crouch – not least in clarifying her desire to pick over, prod and probe the unwritten contract between performer and audience. Talking about Dance Bear Dance, the show that first made a name for Shunt when they performed it in a railway arch in Bethnal Green in 2002/03, Hannah recalled moments during the show in during which the audience was asked open questions to which no response, including no response, could be wrong. This sense of an invitation, of the certain validity of everything and anything an audience might bring on any given night, inspired us.
Inspiring, too, was Hannah’s playfulness, her trickery. The image of her standing at the front of the stage with a look of sheer abhorrence painted across her face, pinching a dirty napkin at arm’s length and demanding of us “who left this piece of shit here?” is etched in my mind. Likewise, a GIF-like clip of her stamping on an apple, smashing it to smithereens. “Objects,” Hannah insisted, “can break, be moved, be handled, be played with, modified, changed, mended, cleaned, examined. They are always in motion, in a state of constant arrangement.” Like any good teacher, Hannah nurtured in us a sense of exploration, of discovery, of unruliness. Without these qualities, after all, what is the point of anything?
Gwilym Lawrence
@its_me_gwilym
