On an evening dark...the public bar of a pub. If you've been there, think something like "The Surveyor..." in Berrima. Fire going a few regulars. A few unknowns.
Subscribe now for unlimited access.
$0/
(min cost $0)
or signup to continue reading
Of a sudden, noise...raucous, joyous and gleeful...
Doors pushed open as a rousing group carry a woman on their shoulders into the bar.
She has just done a performance at the local hall. For them, she is La Diva. A renowned singer.
They shout/sing "Vive la diva!".
READ MORE:
She obliges their joy with some passages of her song...beautiful, majestic, splendid...
What they do not see, on a stool by the fire is a woman, usually unnoticed.
In response to the sounds she hears, she rocks back and forth...and eventually emits some sounds.
She sings in response to "La Diva" who is still held high.
The old woman sings and soars - flying above and beyond. A seagull riding the winds...
She eclipses "La Diva" - regardless of how rough, raw and unharnessed she is.
"La Diva" is put down. And the gathering picks up the old woman, and carries her even higher.
She has sung. Beyond beauty. Beyond anything. She is now reigning supreme.
This is an anecdotal tale told by Federico Garcia Lorca in his lecture on the DUENDE.
The force that inhabits the body and soul.
That enables the magic to emerge from anyone, anywhere.
It cannot be harnessed, but can be released...training on whatever level. But first comes the need to know that DUENDE is there. The gut, the sacred, the expression. And it does not have to be professional or applied by a select group. It is, finally, the release and utterance of whatever it may be that enables the voice to emerge: a potter, a teacher, a writer, a painter, prophet, actor, singer... you name it...so, let's for the purpose of this story, call them "Artists". "Creatives", if you will.
So, in the tradition of Aesop's Fables, what is the 'moral' of this tale? SING YOUR SONG. Be it a drum, a dance, a genius on the bowling green...but for the purpose of this story I am telling the passing on of the tale to be told by the 'Artist'.
The old woman in the pub, suddenly erupted. Unfettered by a shackle. She sang. Just sang.
She was in a village. She was moved.
And so, of us in the Southern Highlands, do we sing our song, whatever that may be? Right now, we do not. End of story. Certainly not publicly. It's called the COVID reality.
BUT, in these times, you don't suddenly stop.
Shift your 'dance'.
The artist, dances to the beat of a different drum. Cut off the feet of a dancer and they shall find a way to dance. Remove the fingers of a pianist and they shall find a way of tapping out a rhythm.
You cannot deny that which defines you, even if you cannot define it yourself. You have no choice. It is you.
Hey, let's say LA DUENDE cannot be denied, even if you have no idea of what that is.
LORCA, was from Spain. His major work from the 1920s to mid 30s. He was a writer, dramatist, poet, philosopher. He was abhorred by the regime of the day and finally assassinated when he hadn't reached 35 years old. Another story, another day.
BUT, for me, it is the definition of the need of the village, the local, the regional to tell its tale. Share the story.
So why am I talking about this in terms of this publication? Because, from the local comes everything.
You need the freedom of expression and places where this may happen. If you do not tell the stories from your yard or backdoor, you shall have nothing that means anything. It has no gut, no sinew, no relevance.
You are just regurgitating something that exists from somewhere else. The Broadway musical. The American paradigm, blockbuster experience.. Nothing wrong with this, but by relevance and international, we need to fill in the gap - we're talking American. The Yanks are fine. But they only tell their stories. We've bought this, hook line and sinker. Can we please tell OURS?
If we do something from "over there" - meaning anywhere but Oz - this is fine. Brit, Kiwi, Euro, Yank, wherever - fine. But make sure it speaks to you. But not at the expense of your own story.
Being an "artist" - and I'll stop using inverted's now, cos I know you've got the gist of what I'm saying - in the Highlands is like being a fish without it's pond.
Kill the arts and the expression thereof and you kill the life blood of the community. You stultify the expression of a body or soul. And, thus, you control the mechanism of freeness of thought, sustainability of mental health, belonging, purpose, and gently and quietly quell any opposition. The joy of expression is murdered.
There shall still be folk trying to attempt their 'dance', but it's beyond hard. First and foremost are places where you can DO your DO. Shimmy your hips, Dance Your Dance.
So what do we need? A place, sequestered, bespoke, dedicated to performance. Not a found venue, a school hall, a non-specific wherever. A space. And NOW.
To not do this, is beyond disgraceful. It shows an arrogance and sheer lack of intelligence on the importance of the arts to any town, region or city. It shows control. Sheer and simple. You may not know it, but have a think: everything around is designed. The weetbix box, the tea pot - whatever - there is ARTS behind it.
I have been an artist/creative since age five. Kid actor, singer etc.
I did shows, wrote for Homicide and Divvy 4 when I was 19, went to the MTC (Melbourne Theatre Company) and much else acting all over the globe and here I am, in Hill Top, Southern Highlands decades later and now ploughing my energies, into this community.
Teaching on many levels. Patron to Community Theatre Company Pigs Fly, mentor and Teacher to youth arts people SHYAC, Vocal Muster and more.
Yet my work 'outside' continues - in Oz, across the ditch and beyond.
Acting, teaching, informing, giving permission to those who want, no, NEED to be allowed to dream their dream. I have awards aplenty and nominations from British Vogue - wow - but who cares? I am now here. This is what is my imperative.
Imagine, if you will, a pond. In your mind's eye see a pond. Throw a pebble into that pond. It shall cause a ripple, it shall expand, expand and expand. It shall reach the shore...but the notion of that pebble doesn't disappear. It quietly continues, ever outwards. Waving it's "Hogwarts" spell and wand.
Being an artist in our Highlands is like taking away the water from the pond of the fish or frog.
Support for the arts is not simply benign, it is giving odd dollar amounts to keep the practitioners on the level of endlessly needing support. Thus, keep them hungry and you have survival mechanisms; ie. Control.
Not all, yet most members of our local council WSC on the Arts Funding level, probably unknowingly, have zero idea of this. But if they fund as a priority Cultural Tourism shall flourish. Multiple fold. Your community shall breathe a deep breath. Be enriched. Create significant things, like the Glasgow Citizens Theatre in Scotland or The Abbey in Ireland...wherever, from the local comes the international.
Our Highlands is vibrant beyond belief. I know of potters, musicians, painters, singers, choirs, writers, theatre practitioners, who live and breathe of our same air. Many professionals and perhaps famous. Yet we are now suffering from arts emphysema. And it is sheer bastardry of our council, WSC.
Build it and they shall come - a glib late 80's film with Kevin Costner - yet nonetheless, true.
We need a performance space - not yesterday - not a school hall for the moment - but build it. Do it. Councillors, do you want legacy? Act.
But, those who "do the do" - dance, sing loudly, utter it, spin that clay wheel, act, produce - and this is both professional and community - who cares if your book never gets published, who cares, if no one produces your play or gives you an exhibition. Who cares if no one sees your dance masterpiece...or your concerto...DO IT. Pick up your pen, baton, life force and SING YOUR SONG!
Dave Letch
Hill Top village