shifting seasons under an ever-moving sky

I've always been surprised at the frequency with which one seems to get asked about one's favorite season.  Personally, I've never really had an answer.  I mean, how does one differentiate between hot, hotter, and hottest?  Granted, I'm not being completely fair, but most of my life has measured seasonal change in temperature and little else.  Even in Oregon the seasons weren't particularly radical.  At least, not where I was walking through campus with my head stuck in a mountain of books.  Drizzly, rainy, sporadic sunshine.  Nothing too exciting.

But here, here I love to watch the seasons change.

Granted, most of winter wasn't particularly spectacular, though there is nothing much lovelier than snow falling in glowing lamplight.

But these days the world is awash with sprinkling petals -- consumed with flowering trees.

And in our college courtyard, I watch a tree, day by day, unfurl tiny, jewel-green leaves, sure I've never seen life bloom so gradually. 

But the autumn is definitely how I'll remember Oxford (due, in part, to the reality that it used to be the only way I remebered Oxford and will always be the way I saw it first).  The walls of ancient colleges ablaze with flaming vines.

As Virginia Woolf put it, "If the spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is in the courts and quadrangles of Oxbridge on a fine October morning."

And over it all, a sky that changes day by day, hour by hour.  That glows in swimming blues, and yearns in charcoal grays.

To quote Woolf again (from Jacob's Room with some small alterations [and I'll reward anyone who spots them]):

They say the sky is the same everywhere. But above Oxford -- anyhow above the roof of Christ Church -- there is a difference. Is it fanciful to suppose the sky, washed into the crevices of Christ Church, lighter, thinner, more sparkling that the sky elsewhere? Does Oxford burn not only into the night, but into the day?

What did I do to deserve to live somewhere so spectacularly, hauntingly beautiful?

Oxford in Bloom

Spring, it would seem, is finally here.  Yesterday and today: actually WARM outside. 

Just ask Corinne.  

  

Cressida: "the nonsocial, nonpolitical, nonhuman half of the living structure" [Cixous]

Here's a reflection I wrote on the 2nd best play of the term, Troilus and Cressida.  Somehow I failed to post it (I really need to stop doing that).  
_________________________________

I went to watch Troilus and Cressida last night (Feb. 8th), with a group of friends from college.  It was a student production, playing at the same theatre where I watched The Last Five Years in the fall of 2008. 

And, once again, I left the theatre shaken. 

I had never watched, nor read, Troilus before, and so had no idea what to expect.  I knew it was, on some level, about two lovers in the midst of the Trojan war, but I didn’t know that it was also, much more forcefully, about the dissonance between the heroic world of warrior men, and the women’s realm they took for granted and violated without notice. 

Never having read the text, I’m unsure how much of the theme’s prominence was due to the original and how much to directorial choices, but either way it was a powerful (and sickening) depiction. 

From the beginning, women, clad in silk nightshifts (for the Greeks) and adapted Grecian togas (for the Trojans) set up the space – space that was then vacated of female presence (or, in the few cases that women remain on stage, active female presence).  Initially, I found the costume choices jarring, not least because of the dissonance between the semi-historical Trojan dresses, and the modern military attire of the men.  But as the play wore on, I came to appreciate that dissonance as a symbol of the utter separation of the two worlds.  As Kim (my  flatmate) pointed out during intermission, she disliked the costumes because they made the women vulnerable, and these “were not vulnerable women.”  But I think that was the point.  They make the women vulnerable despite themselves—barefoot in a world of boot-clad men—as the play goes on to graphically demonstrate that they are. 

But where I first truly grew uncomfortable (and began to sense the direction the play must be going) was in the “joyous” scene where Troilus and Cressida finally come together and swear their vows, and where Pandarus declares that if Troilus is true, let all faithful men be named Troilus, but if Cressida is false, let all faithless women be called Cressid.  She cannot be honored for a faithfulness that is expected of her, only dishonored by betrayal. 

And, of course, the injustice of this curse is staggering.  For women are not granted choices in a time of war.  They are treated as property, not beings with agency, yet they are still judged by adherence to ideals they have no choice in upholding (or violating). 

And so it is that Helen is talked about in all male-councils, bargained with as a possession that will increase or decrease male honor, and kept or given away on this basis alone. 

So it is that Cressida is traded to the Greeks, while Helen kept, because giving Helen back (despite general consensus that she is a whore without worth) would lessen Trojan honor, proving that they could not keep what they had stolen.  So Cressida is traded in order to return a captured Trojan (male) and uphold Trojan (male) promises. 

And Pandarus weeps, not for his niece given to the enemy, but for the boy who loves her, for this, he is sure, will destroy him.  It would be better, Pandarus declares, that Cressida had never been born than that this separation pain Troilus. 

And while Hector is welcomed into the Grecian camp as a brother in arms, worthy of honor despite the hundreds of deaths he has caused, Cressida, innocent of shedding a single Grecian’s blood, is met with sexual and physical assault. 

And, of course, Troilus sees her with Diomedes and judges her by standards of strength and choice she does not posses. 

Meanwhile, Andromache's pleas that Hector remain at home are received with the declaration that she is bringing him dishonor, for he has given his word that he will fight that day.  Never mind that Hector’s death, and Troy’s overthrow, will mean the enslavement of his prophetic wife and sister.  No, it is masculine honor at stake, not women’s freedom. 

And Achilles, who has promised his Trojan love that he will not fight, breaks his word to the woman in order to honor his love for his (male) companion, Patroclus. 

And the play ends with the Trojans singing, in the face of Hector’s death and Troy’s doom, of the honor for which they will be remembered.  And the women, weeping, sing with them – despite the knowledge that they have no part in the heroic deeds that will be passed down in memory, and will, instead, outlive their men to die in captivity and enslavement far away from home. 

And it makes me rage, because they simply don’t get it.  The men, with their honor and their male bonds and their realms of action and decision, do not understand the cost.  They break no promises, and are therefore innocent.  And, in their own way, so breathtakingly, fragily, beautiful.

The play itself was well acted, especially by Pandarus, Hector, and Thersites -- the wretched fool -- played by an actress with incredible physical control.  Cressida fidgeted too much, and though I understand the intention behind filling her with nervous energy, the movement was generated by the actress, not the character, and therefore distracted from the imagined reality, rather than adding to it.  Overall, Cressida, as a character, was not portrayed as overly sympathetic (this is not a girl I'd particularly want to know), but then I kind of think that's the point -- she doesn't deserve sympathy because we like her, she deserves it because she's just an ordinary human girl who's been wronged.  And thanks to some pretty impressive directing, the fight scenes, rather than being half-hearted and corny (as I feared they would be) were stylistic and interesting -- feeding the actors' energy and our own.    

"Medea I will become"

They huddled together, a mass of breathing, heaving, humanity: women, sibyls, witches, spirits, chorus, fates, woman.  Medea.

Medea unveiled.  De-masked.  Fractured, powerful, dangerous, vulnerable, mourning, mad, screaming, agonized, laughing, victorious, deadly.  Each of the actresses, both Medea and not Medea.  Medea as she becomes, Medea as she was, Medea as she is not.

By far the best play of term, it held us in its grasp for only fifty minutes.  A bare stage, a flurry of movement, a wailing, cacophony of voices.  It embodied the chaos of a conflicted soul, a woman torn between her choices.  This Medea was not guilty or innocent, evil or good, justifiable or monstrous, woman or demon, but all at once.  This Medea was the raging presence of all her sins and all her virtues -- her past guilt and long forgotten innocence.

It was a Kristevean revelry in the rage, rhythm, and passion of the chora, yet created from its chaos meaning that crystallized like diamond, digging deep.

And at its climax, splattered with the blood of a torn child, Medea stood, gloating in her furious, avenging glory, and crouched, shattered with grief, agonizingly gentle as she gathered the torn pieces of her once-breathing child. 

Here's a link to a brief clip from the play.

A Rowing Life

So, I never truly posted about rowing, so here's a taster from last fall, written by one of my teammates, the fabulous Corinne Smith: back it down, stern pair.  She's an English MSt student, the only other postgrad on the team, and I think she excellently captures the gist of the rowing experience.  If I had written it though, the title would be, "row it on, bow pair."

Our team has changed a bit since last term, as we lost several girls when the weather turned dreary (not that it wasn't dreary already), and our two captains now row with us (since, having rowed Christ Church, we're no longer a novice crew).  But the experience remains basically unchanged, the only real difference being that we now punctuate our midnight study sessions with erg training -- need to work on that stamina.   

And for the record, we did lose.  And lose.  And lose.  Good thing that I'm not in it for the racing.  Just the early morning training sessions.  =)

Oxford ghosts

Let me just preface this by saying that I don't write poetry.  But apparently walking home from the Bodleian in the dark does weird things to my psyche.  I jotted this down sometime in November. 
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Are there hauntings in these buildings?—

ancient effigies of stone—

where empty rooms

forgotten stairways

nooks and crannies unexplored

or turned

with whitewashed paint

to modern studies

where boys and girls

read ancient worlds

in artificial lamplight,

the warmth of dying coffee

in ceramic mugs

mismatched,

and fight to enter in

to empire

as shadows are dispersed

by rising sunlight on the river, tamed

until tomorrow

Oxford, London, Stratford: Theatre in 2008

So, I do realize that this post is more than two years too late.  But better late than never, right?  So here is a look at the shows I saw the last time I was in Oxford, partially recovered from an unpublished post, and partially written looking back from the present.  I have to say, I may have only been here for a semester, but I saw some fantastic theatre. 

I went to England about a week early, to have some time to hang out with Kohleun before school started. We spent some time in Scotland (in a B&B on the coast -- so beautiful), a couple of days in Carlisle with one of my best friends and her family, and then our last day in London. We walked around in Leicester Sq., ate lunch in front of St. Paul's (and waited for my migraine to go away), took a double-decker bus past parliament and Big Ben, visited the Tate Modern, took pictures in front of Shakespeare's Globe, and ate in a pub. Then we did what everyone must do when they visit London: we went to a show!
 
Specifically, we went to see Chicago. It seemed like an appropriate choice for a girls' night out, and all our other picks were a bit out of our price range. Although the storyline isn't my favorite, it had great dancing (better and more often than the film -- with the exception of Billy's role [after all, how can you beat Richard Gere tap dancing?]), and the woman who played Zelma was great. We also enjoyed Roxie's: "Think big Roxie! I'll have lots of boys!" (maybe it was one of those moments that you had to be there for . . . ).

Then, when Mommy came to visit, we went to see Wicked. I'd seen it once before, with a good friend in the States, but I really wanted to share it with her. It's a great show. Everything a musical should be. =)

Then, my amazingly talented older brother secured us seats to the sold-out production of Ivanov, with Kenneth Branagh! It was amazing. Definitely one of my life dreams fulfilled. I've wanted to see Branagh live since I first saw Much Ado About Nothing when I was nine.

That weekend, Jordan, Marisa, and I went to see Blood Brothers. Jordan and I had seen it before, in London during his senior year of high school, but it's one of our favorite shows, so we were really excited about seeing it again, and sharing it with Marisa. It's an incredible combination of music, story, and acting, and is known for reaping standing ovations -- every single night.

 
That next weekend my dad was in town, and we took a chance on a show neither of us had ever seen (or really heard about): The Lady in Black.  Turned out to be one of the most incredible pieces of acting (and remarkable shows) I've ever seen.  The crazy thing about the play is that it's meant to be scary . . . and it is.  I'm pretty sure I even remember people screaming.  Yet there are only two actors and a few boxes on stage.  Everything else (other than a few well-placed light and sound ques) is pretty much in your head.  An incredible exploration of the limits (or non-limits) of the medium.  Yes, you're constantly pulled back to the realization that you're sitting in a theatre seat, watching an empty stage with a room full of other people, but the remarkable thing is that there are moments in which you forget.

I saw The Last Five Years (which I've written about elsewhere) in Oxford with some friends, and Zorro by myself in London to celebrate my first completed tutorial.

And then there was Stratford.

 
During the first few weeks of our program, a visiting lecturer talked to us about Shakespeare.  An expert in her field, who had talked and laughed with the likes of Sir Ian McKellen, she informed us that Shakespearean history was being made at that very moment: the Hamlet of our generation was being performed in Stratford-upon-Avon.  She said it was the performance future students of Shakespeare (actors and academics alike) would study, and that whether we had to beg, borrow, or steal, we had to get ourselves there.
 

Easier said than done.  
 
Needless to say, it had been sold out for months, and without my brother's awesome eBay skills we were stranded . . . almost.  Luckily for us, the RSC believes in student tickets, and they reserve ten, priced at five pounds each, that can only be bought on the day of the show.  So we did what any committed fans would do, we jumped on a bus down to Stratford, pretended to be hobos in the RSC courtyard, spent the night shivering in the rain, and secured our tickets bright and early the next morning.

It was incredible.  The show, and the experience.  There was a matinee of A Midsummer Night's Dream on the same day, so we went to that too (also for five pounds).  Never my favorite Shakespeare, it was nonetheless excellently executed, and since the RSC is an ensemble, it was fascinating to see the actors perform such different roles.

Hamlet itself was nothing to look at.  No spectacle (other than a cracking mirror), on a nearly empty stage.  Which simply highlighted the fact that the acting was phenomenal.  I have never been to a show (especially a Shakespeare) where there was so little confusion over language.  Every line was pristinely clear, and not because I'm overly familiar with Hamlet (I'm not), but because the actors connected every line so irrevocably to intention and thought.

And who were these actors?  Only the incredible Patrick Stuart and incomparable David Tennant (who, I have to admit, I had never heard of before the play, but I quickly learned to laud his wonders, and will be seeing him in Much Ado About Nothing this summer with the fantastic Sara Kelm).

All-in-all, nine shows in fourteen weeks -- not bad for a semester in which I also wrote over 34,000 words and read who knows how many pages of Greek tragedies, modernist novels, and secondary criticism.  It makes my current achievements look rather half-hearted.

Sweeney Todd [or the mystery of theatre]

Theatre is a strange, mystical, and unquantitative experience.

No matter how confidant I feel in my knowledge of the difference between good theatre and bad, there is always an elusive element -- something that avoids description and categorization.  That aloof presence that my high school drama class so hautighly rejected in their disdain for viewpoints -- a tangible energy that radiates from the actors to the audience and back, forming undeniable connections.

Case in point: I went to see Sweeney Todd at Pembroke College on Wednesday night, and by the end of the first fifteen minutes I was so disheartened that I contemplated walking out.  And I never walk out -- not from theatre, and not from something I've paid for.

What you have to understand about Oxford theatre is that -- while I'm constantly surprised by its level of excellence -- it is a product of hasty craftsmanship.  This is not George Fox, where I spent my undergrad, and where theatre is taken seriously as a holistic experience -- where props, costumes, and stage (not to mention sound and lights) are all utilized as aspects of storytelling.  As intrinsically connected to the development of meaning and theme.

Oxford theatre, thrown together in a matter of weeks, with no supervising faculty, no costume shop, no prop teams, and no stage to be carefully converted, doesn't have the time or the means to take the visual aspect of theatre seriously.  And so it relies, heavily, on the acting.  On the ability of the performers to transcend the tacky props and problematic costumes and transport the audience into a world of the imagination.  And, perhaps surprisingly, they succeed much more than they fail (I wonder sometimes if it this heavy reliance on the quality of acting that has led Oxford and Cambridge to produce some of Britain's greatest performers).

The problem with Sweeney Todd, performed in the college's dining hall, on a cluttered makeshift stage, was that neither the acting, nor the singing, were compelling (though I have to admit that the lighting was surprisingly excellent).  And without that entry into the world of the musical, we were just a bunch of random people sitting on uncomfortable chairs in a glorified dining room listening to bad music.  And I decided that I had neither the time, nor the energy, to make that worthwhile.

But no matter how much you aren't enjoying a show, you can't just get up and walk out in the midst of performance.  I have far too much respect for the hard work of actors and director to even contemplate it.  So I waited for intermission to make my escape palatable.

And that was when that strange, mystical aspect of theatre kicked in.  

 
Did the acting improve?  Probably.  The actors warmed up to each other and to us, and allowed themselves to actually inhabit the characters (and relationships) they were creating.  Did the singing improve?  Possibly.  Though certainly not on the part of Anthony and Johanna (the young sailor [i.e. stalker] and his love).  But whatever it was that happened between those first fifteen minutes, the intermission (when I didn't walk out), and the curtain call -- which left me energized, mesmerized, and (somewhat) shaken -- was the core of what makes theatre so mysteriously and indefinably wonderful.  And so very difficult to describe.

Spring ruminations from a Bodleian window

There really are not words to describe the glory of an Oxford sky
when the sun shines, and the blue is soft as summer dreams,
and the towers of All Souls gleam with half-articulated longing,
and the whole world trembles with possibility
and youthful, age-worn, promise.

surprises

One doesn't expect one's giants to be human.

Toril Moi --
bulwark of feminist academia -- is
in person
a school-girl
with crimpy blond hair
and a red handbag.

Bodleian hauntings

There is a woman who haunts the Bodleian.  I see her nearly every day that I make my way to the lower reading rooms to sift through dust-covered tomes on mythology and theory (which, if I'm honest, hasn't been for a while, since I currently spend my time in the upper reading rooms exploring Old Norse sagas and related criticism).  But when I say haunts, I do mean haunts -- I could easily believe that it is only I who sees her.  She walks -- or maybe glides -- from one side of the building to the other, her eyes invariably on the book she is reading while she roams (and who but a ghost could walk and read, never lift her eyes from the page, yet never stumble, bump, or trip?), her hair in the same loose bun, day after day, that could easily have made its way from the pages of the 1800s, and her waist-cinched, ankle-length black dress billowing around her.  If she is a ghost -- a female scholar debarred from the library during her time on earth -- I suppose there are worse ways to spend eternity than perusing the eleven million volumes in the Bodleian's collection.