Change of season


In Sardinia, autumn is the season of new beginnings. After the harvest, it’s time to plan the year ahead. During the summer months we revel the warm evenings; we endure long idle afternoon hours sheltering from a merciless sun; we long for the sea. We secretly await September to bring some respite from the heat. Then Cabidanni arrives. Cabidanni is the Sardinian for September. Caput anni: the beginning of the year. Anything of importance is always deferred to cabidanni: house maintenance, weddings, studies, diets. September is the real start of the year; a new start without the pomp, the expectations, and the inevitable anticlimax of New Year’s Day.

I submitted my thesis a year ago and I was awarded my PhD this spring. I enjoyed a glorious Bristolian summer. The most extraordinary feature was the amount of time suddenly at my disposal. Beyond my nine-to-five job, I felt I had all the time in the world: guilt-free weekends, reading fiction, long chats with friends, and some long-overdue family time.

September, time of new beginnings, is the time to get back into teaching and research. The break from academia was beneficial in many ways. Finding an academic routine healthier than the one I experienced during the PhD and, crucially, more productive and efficient is not an easy task. There are exciting projects in the pipeline.

As I start my new career, one of my theatrical heroes passed away. I’ve never been able to comment on the news of the day, but Dario Fo’s passing is one of those events that marks the end of a cultural era. The world celebrates him, and rightly so. There isn’t much I can add here. Yet, if I have to single out someone, Dario Fo and Franca Rame are, without a doubt, the practitioners that made me fall in love with the theatre. In the darkest moments of my doctorate, their work reminded me why live performance matters. Their practice informed my understanding of the relationship between art and politics; their plays shaped me as a researcher and as a practitioner. Once again, I have to go back to their work. If you haven’t seen Mistero Buffo, here it is.


Notes on Idiot-Syncrasy

Procurad’e moderare is one of the most popular Sardinian protest songs. It was written during the anti-feudal uprisings of 1794 and it has become one of the most-loved songs in Sardinian language. It starts with a threat to the land owners (barones): if they don’t change their ways the people will soon revolt. But the land owners are soon put on one side, and the focus shifts on su populu, the people. An impoverished and exploited people who has suffered non only the landowners’ greed but also its own ‘ancient indolence’ (indolenzia antiga). A people that finally wakes up (finalmente despertadu) and acknowledges it is in chains (s’abbizzat ch’est in cadenas). Call me an old leftie, but it gets me every time. And I wasn’t expecting to hear it here in Bristol, at the Arnolfini during Mayfest, of all places. And yet, this is how Idiot-Syncrasy begins. Igor and Moreno step on stage, they stand still  and observe the audience for what seemed a long time. It’s a moment of playful scrutiny, cheeky smiles and complicit gazes go back and forth between the stage and the auditorium. It’s a silence we are not used to, a stillness we find difficult to endure in a world where we desperately cling to our smartphones at the slightest inkling of boredom. No, let’s stop for a moment, let’s look at each other and enjoy the silence. First come the silence, the stillness, the gaze, the discovery of each other, perfect strangers sharing the same room for the next sixty minutes. We might as well spare a few moments to see what we look like.

Then the protest song fills the room. Igor and Moreno sing beautifully and they linger on the song in the same way they stretched the exchange with the audience at the opening of the piece. Verses are repeated several times. They savour the words. We rejoice in their voices. I might be wrong but I have the feeling that the protest song was lost on the British audience. No matter. From the protest song comes the jumping. A quiet and subtle bouncing at first which grows and develops throughout the piece. The choreography is stripped bare. The jumping is explored from every angle. Igor and Moreno are technically skilled dancers, but they do not indulge in their own virtuosity. They are after the essential. They wear everyday clothes, no make up, a white vinyl floor covers the stage, white backdrop and three white wings add dynamicity to the space. Warm white lights, no music, just white noise. The jumping is interrupted only towards the end when singing comes back. This time the performers sing to each other, they hug, they hold one another as the light dims. It’s an intimate and moving moment. In dark times, stop and think about what you actually need. Look after what you hold dear. Look at the world around you. A protest song will bring us together to fight injustice, but looking at each other, holding each other, that’s what will keep us afloat.

Occupied Odéon

After similar occupations in Montpellier, Toulouse, Caen, and Bordeaux, workers in the entertainment industry have occupied the Odéon in Paris. Here is their statement.

Après les occupation de théâtres hTh – CDN de Montpellier, TnBA – CDN de Bordeaux, Comédie de Caen – CDN, et du TNT – CDN de Toulouse, c’est au tour du théâtre de l’Odéon – Théâtre de l’Europe à Paris d’être occupé depuis 18h30 ce dimanche.
Deux banderoles ont été déployées sur la façade : “De l’argent il y en a, construisons de nouveaux droits” ; ” Pas de droit du travail sans droit au chômage”.
Nous, chômeurs, étudiant.e.s, précaires, salariés en poste ou en formation et intermittent.e.s de la culture et d’ailleurs, avec ou sans papiers, occupons ce lieu public pour signifier notre complet désaccord avec les “négociations” en cours de l’assurance chômage comme avec le projet de loi travail.
Comme bien d’autres, les salariés du théâtre de l’Odéon ont fait grève contre le projet de loi travail les 9 mars et 9 avril dernier.
Ce 28 avril de nombreux salariés seront à nouveau en grève contre la loi travail dans tout le pays.
D’ici là, partout, des actions vont avoir lieu. Vu l’obstination de ce gouvernement, la mobilisation va se poursuivre et s’approfondir.
Les négociations de l’Unedic prévoient de priver les chômeurs, précaires et intermittents de 800 millions d’euros, alors même que la majorité d’entre eux ne sont pas indemnisés.
Ces coupes budgétaires brutales sont préconisées par le gouvernement. Et la plupart des partenaires “sociaux”, Medef en tête, avalisent déjà cette orientation catastrophique.
La CFDT et le MEDEF ont prévu de réaliser proportionnellement davantage d’économies à l’encontre des intermittents que des autres chômeurs (cf. lettre de cadrage du Medef). L’État serait prêt à verser au pot plusieurs dizaines de millions pour compenser en partie les économies faites sur les annexes 8 et 10. Ces rustines, ne règlent rien. Un tel financement “réservé” ne serait rien d’autre qu’une manoeuvre de division destinée à prévenir la mobilisation de l’ensemble des concernés.
La mobilisation en cours contre la loi travail a commencé à faire savoir que le droit du travail resterait attaqué en permanence tant qu’un droit au chômage ne serait pas instauré. Voilà pourquoi, l’État doit abonder pour tous les caisses de l’assurance chômage et leur trouver de nouveaux modes de financement.
Poursuivons la mobilisation !
Chômeuses, étudiant.e.s, précaires, salariés en poste ou en formation et intermittent.e.s de la culture et d’ailleurs, avec ou sans papiers, occupant le théâtre de l’Odéon – Théâtre de l’Europe.

After the thesis: out of the writer’s den

Writing a PhD thesis can often be a lonely process. Long days spent in solitude staring at a computer screen and trying to make sense of reading material, theory, case studies, and ultimately your own writing (that what-on-hearth-was-I-thinking feeling!). Through the process you soon realise that beyond being utterly exhausting and unnerving, many lonely weeks of scratching your head and chewing your pen can also be depleting.

I submitted my thesis in September and I passed my viva in December. The first few months after submission have been dedicated, for the most part, to tide over my finances. This new semblance of relative financial security made me realise to what extent researching on the breadline could affect not only your thinking, your productivity on an academic level, but also your sense of self, your sense of worth. I did not dare aiming higher because I was so afraid of what was going to come next. Insecurity was like a constant drop of water, hardly perceptible at first but extraordinarily powerful in the long term. Insecurity also meant that I always rolled up my sleeves and prevented myself from complaining. You need a certain degree of confidence to tell your employer that your working conditions are not good enough.

The break from academic writing was needed, and not only because I desperately needed to pay off a credit card debt. It was needed because the the PhD depleted my intellectual energies. I submitted not because I thought it was ready but because I had run out of steam. During the summer I realised that I had given it everything I had, there was nothing left, it was time to let it go.

The post submission break was productive in other ways. I reconnected with friends and family. And with my husband (not enough is said on the strain research puts on relationships, many friends in long term relationships have experienced a similar situation. As postgrads we were utterly unprepared to face this aspect of our work.

It is now time to start writing again, starting, funnily enough, from the thesis. After many years of extenuating work, I need to come to terms with a work that is far from perfect but that paved the way to some kind of intellectual maturity. A work I hope might be of interest to others, a work that might be even helpful.

It is now time to go back to writing with joy; to go  back to writing for myself, to go back to practicing being a better writer. Remembering that writers must get out of their den from time to time, they must nourish their craft interaction, emotion, connections, experiences.


Primo Levi’s voice

I had no idea this interview existed. Primo Levi speaks to Sue MacGregor on The Woman’s Hour in 1986

Levi is one of my favourite writers by far. Beyond his invaluable insight into one of the most shocking crimes of the Twentieth Century, his prose, elegant, precise, measured, evocative should be a model for any writer.

Thank you, BBC!

15 days into 2015

Grim start of the year. Ignoring the elephant in the room would be pointless.
There is something about the Paris shootings that shook us to the core. Is it because the ‘clash of civilizations’ hit our doorstep, a place culturally so close that we can almost hear the gunshots? The more I think about the Paris events and the debate that followed, the more confused I am. Unanswered questions pile up. Immediately afterwards all you could hear was the loud cries of those mourning the decline of the West, unaware (or maybe not) that they were endorsing islamophobic, racist, even colonialist agendas. It seemed like we could not mourn the dead without exhuming the good old ‘clash of civilization’ narrative – a great classic, we are never tired of it. In this fashion, what would normally be called ‘shooting’, became a ‘terrorist attack’ and a satirical magazine was glorified to champion of free speech. The immediate gut-responses have been disappointing at best, crass, boorish and borderline fascist in the worst case scenario. So far, I’ve found only two truly compassionate, insightful, and thought-provoking interventions, here and here. But then again, these are not ordinary minds.

Mainstream media and social media jumped on the bandwagon, felt compelled to defend freedom of expression via hashtags. Changing our facebook profile picture for the occasion makes us feel ever so democratic. A week later we finally started discussing what is it that we actually mean by ‘freedom of expression’, where does it turn into bullying and hate speech, and where do you draw the line. Journal irresponsable, admits Cherlie Hebdo’s subheading. Responsibility, cumbersome word. Should satire be responsible? To whom, of what?

Many complex issues interweave in the current discussions, terrorism, religious fanaticism, communication, free speech, responsibility. The debate that is likely to develop in the next few months should attempt to separate them.

I have no authority whatsoever to talk about crime, terrorism. I would rather leave any comment on the matter to those who have a better understanding.

I am a theatre expert, though. And a political theatre specialist. Representation and politics are my bread and butter. From this corner of academic expertise (limited as it is) something very interesting is happening. For the first time in decades we have started a broad, popular debate on free speech, often only by misquoting Voltaire, but there we go, it’s a start. The Paris events are challenging European values, uncovering the ambiguity of the narratives we live by. Questioning values we take for granted, reminding ourselves why they matter (or not) is usually painful but ultimately healthy.

As Michela Murgia argued, there is something disconcerting, and even ironic in the fact that the target of Islamic fanatics was a satirical magazine. Iconoclast religions – Islam is not the only one – are ill at ease with the West’s obsession with representation. The divine is unknowable and representing it in human form is a blasphemous attempt to invert the factors of creation – the creature substitutes herself to her creator. Good satire reminds us that our worshiping and trading of images, our dependance on images is ludicrous and that the the symbols we live by are often questionable. The tragic irony of this nasty story is that politics and media have now charged Charlie Hebdo with a set of symbolic meanings they perhaps never intended to carry (Western values, free speech, non-confessional democracy, etc. ). Those who dedicated their professional lives to ridicule symbols, have been transformed into symbols themselves.

Few years ago Daniele Luttazzi reminded us that satire is essentially about four things: politics, sex, religion and death. True. And it is by definition grotesque, excessive, and, yes, iconoclast. Yet, defending satire for satire’s sake will not take us anywhere. I don’t buy the argument ‘you-either-support-free-speech-or-you-don’t’.  I wish it was that simple. Sadly, power relationships are always a lot messier. When it comes to communication, context is fundamental. The decoding of an image, any image, does not happen in a vacuum; it is embedded in and shaped by complex networks of images, narratives, social and cultural practices. It is precisely the relationship between the image and its context which makes it subversive or conservative, sagacious or puerile, irreverent or racist. It’s not only a matter of what we are representing, but of who is speaking, from where, from what cultural, economic and social background the image is stemming from. We should remember it next time we defend satire sight unseen.

Anyway. In far less important PhD news, I can finally see the end of the extraordinary adventure that has been chapter four. The section on Compagnia della Fortezza has shaken few assumptions about theatre in prison and confirmed the political relevance of their work. For more details, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.

How to close an institution

The absence is justified, I promise. I’m currently finishing chapter four of the thesis. It has been a fascinating journey. I immersed myself in the extraordinary practice of Giuliano Scabia and Compagnia della Fortezza and I had the opportunity  to finally study Italian anti-psychiatry with the necessary attention. Of all the incredible intellectual and political practice developed in Italy between the 1960s and the 1970s, anti-psychiatry is one of the richest, and undoubtedly one of the movements that radically changed the face of Italian society.

Here is John Foot’s beautiful, short introduction to the work of Franco Basaglia. Enjoy!

The Life of a Writer

Roald Dahl on working as a ‘businessman’ in the City of London in 1934. And on writing, of course.

I enjoyed it, I really did. I begun to realize how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn’t go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.

R. Dahl, Boy: Tales of Childood (1984)

Research, Politics and Paywalls

‘Il Valle non c’è più’. ‘the Valle is no more’, said F. bitterly at the end of his intervention to what was arguably the most heated debate at the 2014 Euronomade meeting in Passignano sul Trasimeno. We were a large group, at least fifty people, crammed outside the auditorium under the afternoon sun. Few seconds of silence followed F.’s words.The thought of having lost the physical and symbolic centre of of an extraordinary movement suddenly hit us. One thing is reading about it on the paper, another one listening to the occupiers’ voice.Ruminating over the end of the occupation might not be the most useful activity, and yet, this is perhaps the right moment to start reflecting upon the Valle’s achievements, potential and setbacks. At Euronomade we only begun to scratch the surface.

teatrovalleoccupato esterno

For those among you who do not know the Valle Occupato’s story, you can have a look at the special issue of Theatrama or at the documentary Occupying the Commons, both good introductions for the English speaking public. I have been following the occupation since the very first days, albeit from afar.  Their work was so unique and inspiring, and yet so little known in British theatre circles. I got in touch with the occupiers in the summer of 2012 but I managed to visit them only in March 2014. It was a difficult moment. The Angelo Mai collective had been evicted only a week before my arrival, the dialogue with Rome City Council was at a standstill, and the authorities had just rejected the Teatro Valle’s application for legal personality. Tension was palpable. And yet I found many occupiers willing to talk to me, happy to answer my questions or to have me around during assemblies. Considering the circumstances, they had been incredibly generous with their time.

I went to the Valle out of curiosity and political solidarity, and with the best of intentions. I wanted ask questions, to understand, to listen. I hoped I could be able to help. I listened, I asked my questions, I observed, I tried to understand. Helping, though, was a different matter altogether, and I left the Valle feeling in debt, a debt I could not repay. I justified my trip to Rome telling myself that academic writing that could potentially amplify artistic practice. And in part, it is true. My paper on Teatro Valle at the IFTR Conference gathered quite a crowd, and the Q&A went far beyond the allocated fifteen minutes, eventually taking up most of our lunch break. Researchers from all over the world wanted to know more, to understand, to dig deeper to see if the Valle’s story could illuminate other political and artistic practices.Yet, I cannot help wondering if I am the best person to tell this story. What perspective can I possibly bring? How do I relate my reflection to the occupiers’ struggle? Although sympathetic, I am outside of that struggle. I cannot consider myself an activist. And I cannot shrug the feeling that my research parasitically exploits their work.

Three years of observing and listening to the occupied Valle – and indeed the other occupied arts spaces all over Italy -were bound to have an impact on my practice too. The rich debate around the commons, the backbone of Valle Occupato, eventually compelled me to radically reconsider the nature of academic work and scholarly research. What can research give back to struggle or to an artistic practice if only other scholars listen to our conference papers? How can we engage in a broader discussion if our articles hide behind a paywall or are available only to the lucky few affiliated to an academic institution? Who are we writing for? Does our work benefit anyone or anything except an increasingly self-referential academia? When I stepped into the occupied theatre I expected to encounter a lively political experiment. What I could not foresee is that the occupation would slowly but irreversibly transform my understanding of scholarship, my conception of the researcher’s function, my view of academic institutions. And that, at the same time, it would confirm that there is still a higher education worth fighting for.