By dgearing, Jul 7 2020 03:35PM

This is a second atttempt at this post - feels like everything is sick some days.

But the sun is shining and things may be changing slowly in the UK, although it looks like a game of grandmother's footsteps - two forward, three back...

Yes, there was work. Yes, it was put on ice - a new version of Stone Soup for God's House Tower in Southampton was stopped in early rehearsals; an application for funding for work in September was silently pulled along with everyone else's and that money was steered to arts workers to feed them and keep themafloat. Rightly.

Positive things happened - a lovely film was made by Hannah Preston, Colin Macallister, Amber O'Connell, Vix Hobbs of some of the poems for Stone Soup. And people watched it in our online world. So when we come to actually perform it live, I hope some of them will be in our audience.

Theatre is suffering, but money will come to support buildings and venues and organisations. Let's hope some will be there for the backstage workers, creators, actors, musicians, dancers, makers who make the work that brings them alive.

I'm writing and trusting.

This period of pandemic is marked by untimely deaths, not always covid-related.

I mourn the loss of my dear friend Nita Gale, who smiled, laughed, sang, danced, acted her socks off through life. Tap those heels, Nitty. My brother Henry , Ruby's Moon, Stone Soup, The Hope, so many days with children - how I will miss you.

By dgearing, Feb 12 2020 05:28PM

That's what this seems to be - written once a year only. I don't know why - I've been busy with things I am really proud to have been part of. These are principally being part of the permanent exhibition in Gods House Tower, the medieval tower in Southampton, and producing THE HOPE in 2019, a promenade play starting in a carpark and ending in a popup pub. The lastter project was really a huge labour of love, prompted by something that happened to me a couple of years ago, when I was going home late at night and discovered an unconcious woman lying by the side of the road. It gnawed at me for a very long time. When the opportunity for some seed money came up, a friend pointed out that now might be the time to do something with that story. It was a huge amount of work - I had to get permissions, an alcohol licence, organise it all, but THE FUSE COLLECTIVE and especially Annie from NEW ROAD THEATRE are all fantastic and we did get it done. And I think it was the best thing I ever did. And the most frightening. I felt responsible for everything. I will never do a project like that without a stage manager again! But oh, the actors, all of them - we were joined by students from Solent University on the Musical Theatre course, the audience, the city, the city, the city.

God's House Tower is open and such a lovely place. I did some writing for the permanent exhibition, working on stories from the archives. There is a pamphlet of poems and dramatic monolgues in the shop: THE TURNKEY'S WIFE AND OTHER POEMS, and I'll be recreating the poetry/theatrical event STONE SOUP in May. Busy Busy. More and more I see that history and location are important to me, but human stories and our interaction with the natural world are a deep part of my need to make things. I am learning to think about my work from a different perspective since I have been spending more time with visual artists. I love printmaking - it's a different way of thinking about something; the hands are occupied and flow is the thing. I think more about what I have made when I have done it. But there's no necessity for it to mean something big. Sometimes just the doing is enough. It certainly helps keep my head straight. Plays and writing sit in my brain and occupy me differently.

By dgearing, Aug 20 2018 11:33PM

By this I mean - it's around a year since I thought I'd start a blog, which is pretty rubbish, but here I am again. And I'll keep at it this time, I hope. I'm starting to think of the Tower again - Sarah Filmer and I have put in for some money for an exciting project, which I really hope comes off. I still find myself wandering down to the Tower, thinking of more things to do there. Building has started and in 2019 God's House Tower in Southampton will have a whole new lease of life as an arts and heritage centre, under the wing of Dan Crow and Aspace. Dan is a marvel - wooing councils,owners of empty properties and heritage bodies into making space for art to happen. It's a tremendous boost for the town and the community of artists here. I wonder what it is that makes someone so quiet and thoughtful so successful at doing this. For sure, hard work is part of that.

Like writing - it won't happen without the hard work.

Sometimes it's hard to write, but if you don't, nothing will come of it. Art, writing, making theatre, film-making - all these things require graft and commitment and we have to stick at it if we want anything to happen.

I was reminded of this when I went to Berlin recently. I first lived there in the early 80's, and whilst I was there I made some of my best and now oldest friends. My friend Baerbel Freund, film-maker, had a restrospective with some friends in the Arsenal Kino at Potsdamer Platz.. One of the films shown was Die Spielregeln, a film we had made together following our work with a theatre group there - Stimme und Bewegung. When I was young, and acting was all I thought about, having a film on at the Arsenal (then in a completely different place, of course) would have been my dream. And now - many years later - that film was on in the Arsenal, and I sat and watched it. And it was odd - to see myself so young, so huge on the screen and be that person, but not that person any more. I was able to see the film as a whole, to understand better what it was doing, and also to see how good it was, how good all the film- makers that evening were. And they have stuck at it, through thick and thin, making their films when they could. And I found that quite moving - and I admire them for it.

You can't pull theatre out of the bag years after it's happened - we are live, a performance is a vanishing thing. That's partly what makes it special, what connects it to ritual. Video records are thing of their own. They are not theatre. I enjoy some of the new productions in the cinema, but I appreciate them as a slightly different thing, their own thing. Most video records are flat and static and can't give us much beyond the disposition of bodies on stage and technical 'how' of a production. The breath is missing.

I feel as though I am coming full circle now, as I start to perform my poems. It seems to make sense - I can read them, most are made to be read. It's a new challenge but one I hope will also take me to some new spaces this year.

By dgearing, Apr 27 2017 08:59PM

The Fuse blog has languished. Fiona and I have both been caught up with different projects and had little to do together, although we still plot sometimes. I reluctantly said goodbye to Over the Wall, one of my favourite groups ever – and started other work. I’m currently Royal Literary Fund Fellow at the University of Southampton, which is a wonderful job and allows me to see how other people write and fashion writing, and I’m working on a mixed arts project in Southampton’s old town – in God’s House Tower, a fantastic medieval building which has allowed us in to play before it is remodelled and renovated and finds a new life as an arts and heritage centre.

The focus on the work in God’s House Tower is not strictly about co-working, but spending time together and sharing approaches in workshops has allowed us all an insight into different practices and some shared work will come out of it, I am sure. Stimulus often comes from work with the community. At the moment we’re all creating on our own, side by side. I’m making it my goal to do something with everyone, either during this project or afterwards.

It’s been interesting for me to see how visual artists run group working environments. They are all used to having ‘group crit sessions’, where artists gather to show work and get feedback on what they are doing. We have been using a methodology from dance, which has a fixed framework and stipulates the kind of questions which can be asked. I think this is really helpful – sometimes writing groups can be very bruising, very competitive, or go the other way and turn into mutual congratulation sessions and not examine the work properly.

I also think it’s difficult ‘sharing’ writing . Writers don’t have an object to present, our contributions are vulnerable to absorption by others. How should we protect our copyright without being forced into publishing? I think firstly it is essential that any copies given out are handed back at the end. And there has to be understanding that a poem or piece of prose is just like a piece of art – you wouldn’t take someone else’s drawing and put lots of feathers on it and then present it as your own, so you shouldn’t take someone else’s writing, the form of it, the breath of it, the run of ideas in it, and change the words to then present it as your work.

Last October was British Art Show 8 in Southampton and the Tower ran a fringe venue with our work in progress on show. The Tower was full of people come to share its loveliness, to participate in arts events and get a taste of what the building might be when it is finished. The busiest day was taken over by women; produced by Sarah Filmer, 700 women celebrated 700 years of the Tower and put a female mark in a building full of gendered history – a theme which occupies many of the group, of whom 7 out of 8 are women.

At our first group crit back in January – a nerve wracking experience, not just for me – I presented this poem, which explains my work process in the building. It is also the foundation for my other work, a cycle of poems, an exploration of my search for women’s voices in the records and history of the building and old town. Everyone was very interested in the idea of the stone tapes – a theory beloved of ghost hunters it posits that the sounds of lives past are imprinted in the walls.


( ‘La femme qui porte les lettres de la poste’, the woman who carries the post, is mentioned in the records of the French Church, 1704)


They do not know/I do not tell them

That I have pressed myself into

The walls of the Tower,

Skin on stone.

That I have eaten the dust

That I have lain on the floor

And offered myself,

Skin on wood.

That I have washed my eyes on the river

That I have flung my voice

Up the stairs and onto the Tower roof

And back down the stairs to the iron-studded door

And like a Tibetan monk

Chanted and sung to the stones,

Which did not hurl themselves in to the sky.

All this I have taken away

To sit in contemplation of white paper

To empty my breath

And squeeze out of my pores

The walls, the light of the sky on water,

The darkness, the smell of ancient sea creatures

Calcified; and the imagined


of a voice

A voice

From the past caught in my clothes.


I ask my son

Who studies sound

How to read an imprint

Left by a voice

On a stone

‘It doesn’t work like that –

The vibration travels on

Or is bounced back’

‘What if a sound is long

Or strong enough?’

‘Potentially, potentially,

Those aren’t quite my terms, but

It might force a rock apart


It wouldn’t be something you can hear.’

He knows I want to believe

In the hurling stones, propelled to the top of cliffs,

Powered by monks chanting and trumpets,


‘It’s not what you’re thinking.

There are no stone tapes.

There is no evidence.’


How shall I find her now?

She doesn’t even have a name.

They took her letters, they gave her letters –

Les Sieurs Jean Thomas, LeBlanc, Cabot.

She was entrusted with secrets

Not to be taken from the church

But she is not named.

For hours I beat out her path from the chapel of St Julien

to the arch of God’s House Tower.

Again and again. And again.

I walk fast

Then slow

Sometimes I stand in the shade of leaves

Waiting for the trance

Observing any small change

Out of the corner of my eye.

(There is a trapdoor in the archway above the gate

To the chapel,

A bee nuzzles for a cranny in the mortar.)

I turn back to the Tower,

And my footsteps ring on the road.

The air is empty.

How shall I find her, how shall I write her.

Her thin bones are powder,

Even the sea creatures are crumbling.

I can place my whole hand in the eroding stone

Of the tower,

There are roots, insects, ants.

Nature grows over unwanted homes,

Displaces the lifeless.

Nothing is the same.

Has it all travelled on, all of it?


A branch full of birds bursts into an old quarrel.

Through the Tower archway there is traffic.

A bench


Darkening pavement


The faint spatter of drops on paper gives way

To the thud, the beat of eternal rain.

Tattoo of stumbling footsteps as I gather my papers

Drum of my heels as I run to take shelter.


La femme qui porte les lettres:

The footsteps


the poem.

copyright April2017: Deborah Gearing

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