Desert Storm

BY SHEREE TAMS

I call it “Desert Storm”. It looks like apple crumble without the apple. Brown sugar mixed with butter and oatmeal, perhaps a pinch of salt. Cooked for one hour on gas mark 4 in a square baking pan until golden brown. But if you look a little closer you’ll see that it is a typical Saturday night in the kitchen of my tiny flat in North London. I have my head in the oven trying to cook building sand. 25 kilos of it. Its everywhere…under my feet, in my hair, on the counter. Guaranteed to be in tomorrow’s lunch.

Working in London’s fringe as a designer finds you in some very odd places. Like trolling the sex shops of Soho looking for leg shackles for the African Slaves that will tour the country during Black History month. I wouldn’t like to guess how many hours of my life I have spent in a frenzy jumping on and off the bus …hitting every charity shop from Clapham Junction to Dalston, trying to find the right shade of purple gloves or size 12 open toe shoes that will match a peach dress. My body aches from carrying heavy bags. It’s never dull and very challenging especially with the limited budgets. You often end up sewing and building the set yourself. Whether it’s in your flat, on a roof, on the bus, in a laneway or in the park across the road from the theatre. I like to think that the city streets and public places are my studio, until it starts to rain.

We fringe designers tend to be isolated as artists. Friends tend to be theatre people who share the pain, laugh and commiserate. You try and support each other’s work while fighting the green-eyed monster. Our lives and relationships are often fragmented by a commitment to a show. Being out of town for months and then trying to slip back into your old life when you return is sometimes difficult. There is also a lack of recognition. Actors who think you are there to serve them, when really you are there to serve the play. Stage managers who shout at you and occasionally producers forget to pay you or don’t include you on the program or website. Critics may not mention your work at all. Directors often ignore you once rehearsals begin, you feel abandoned.

The director-designer relationship was once aptly described to me by one of my tutors as “A love affair. Intense and short lived, followed by a period of grief”. You always feel like you are on the outside. Perhaps our lack of recognition stems from our perceived value in society, our poor compensation, our insecurity as artists or the way we are taught at school. I remember the mantra “it is not about us…it is about the text”.

LONDON THEATRE BLOG 07