New Labour, new community theatre

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Thorney Beginnings, Marvellous Middles and Moorends – a show by Excavate for the Right Up Our Street programme funded by Creative People and Places

The New Labour administration that began in 1997 is seen as a key moment in the relationship between the by then established community arts movement and the wider social sphere with an arts policy that embraced cultural democracy, increased funding, and was highly aware of the wider social importance of the arts. A dedicated policy group was set up to investigate how to achieve this and in its report to the DCMS advised that the Arts Council had a specific institutional role to play in addressing social exclusion: ‘ACE should explicitly recognise that sustaining cultural diversity and using the arts to combat social exclusion and promote community development are among its basic policy aims.’[1] The Next Stage report that was subsequently produced by the Arts Council in May 2000 reflected this recommendation stating the need to ‘develop the potential for relevant forms of theatre to play a role in tackling social exclusion’.[2]

Whilst it is clear that under New Labour this conjunction of the arts and social exclusion became a new imperative in the arts and funding ecosystem, I think it is worth backtracking a little to a moment that is often overlooked in the rush to identify the Blair government with an increasing instrumentalism of the arts. In 1994 the Conservative government of John Major introduced the National Lottery, which explicitly attached financial support to the arts to the idea of ‘good causes’. Suddenly it was possible to get public funding for arts projects through the Awards For all scheme, which was part funded by the Arts Council but administered through the Communities Fund, simply by showing that these projects had some social impact regardless of the quality of the art form.[3]  And many, myself included, rushed to take advantage of this economic largesse, creating all manner of small scale artistic interventions with community groups across the land.

The state had declared its interest in community art. Not in the art of the community art but in its social impact, in its by-product, or tied together in a package that George Yudice calls ‘culture as resource’, with the production of the work being a method for social and economic development. [4]  And the state was willing to pay because they had a list as long as your arm of the things that they needed help with.

This was not what the idea of cultural democracy that had fired the community arts movement was all about. But after years of tough economic times many community arts organisations, with buildings to support and wages to pay, were willing to engage in this new relationship. After eighteen years of Tory rule they were willing to embrace anything that (New) Labour offered them on the assumption that this was a move in some kind of new direction, and presumably a leftward one, however small that might be.

Perhaps this was always a possibility. As Owen Kelly indicated it had always been difficult to pin down any kind of artistic agenda for community arts leaving the definition to one of process and ‘a behavioural or moral position.’[5]  And the moral position was increasingly being viewed as one in which the aim was to bring as many people as possible into the arts tent, and once they were there to ensure that they were given the chance to participate fully.

Community arts found itself in a double bind. Seeking to confront the state by its culturally democratic imperative to give voice to communities who had little power in the face of the political, social and economic apparatus. And yet now being asked to do this on terms other than their own, a position that Owen Kelly had warned of in which community artists were increasingly positioned as a kind of semi creative social worker, a situation that lets ‘one branch of the state send in a group of people to clear up the mess left by another branch of the state’ and worst still wilfully refusing to accept that this was the case.[6]

But could the work that the state was sending its way be assimilated and developed and re-imagined by the community arts movement or would it actually find itself being neutered by this new partnership? Perhaps the fact that even its name began to change might help to offer a clue into who was coming out on top.

‘The phrase ‘community art’ fell out of favour at the beginning of the 1990s, to be replaced by the seemingly-innocuous alternative, ‘participatory arts’ writes Francois Matarasso in his essay ‘All In This Together’: the Depoliticisation of Community Art in Britain 1970-2011’.[7] Matarasso is an interesting voice in this debate, a much quoted voice for the merits of cultural democracy and also for the benefits of participation. In Use or ornament: The social impact of participation in the arts, he asserts that

Art produces social change that can be seen, evaluated and broadly planned;  contributes to social cohesion, benefits environmental renewal and health and injects creativity into organisational planning.[8]

And yet by the time of ‘All In This Together’ he finds himself bemoaning ‘a transition from the politicised and collectivist action of the seventies towards the depoliticised, individual-focused arts programmes supported by public funds today’.[9]

Matarasso, in searching for the move to ‘participation’ suggests that the term ‘community’, being co-opted by the State ‘to rebrand policies such as the ‘community charge’, ‘community policing’, and ‘care in the community’, became ‘treated with suspicion by academics and radicals alike’.[10]  And that with a recent history of political retreat from the ideals of the left the emergence of the new term ‘participatory arts’ was a much needed shot in the arm. But what was this participation that had crept into the lexicon so that community arts companies found themselves using this term as either an alternative or even a defining term over and above that of ‘community’? How – or did – it differ from what had gone on before?

nightbainbridge_192Bolsover Bingo – Excavate – for the First Art programme funded by Creative People and Place and Places

At this current moment a large injection of funding has been made available by ACE through the Creative People and Places scheme to ‘cold spots’, areas of the country where ‘involvement in the arts is significantly below the national average’; a scheme driven by the belief that ‘everyone has the right to experience and be inspired by art and culture, so we want to transform the opportunities open to people in those places’.[11] Many of the organisations that are running the programmes funded by this scheme are community arts organisations, and they have spent huge amounts of time setting up mechanisms to ensure that the local voice drives the work that is made, as can be seen as the first evaluation reports begin to come out of the first phase of this work.[12]

The fact that community arts work is largely produced by organisations that are not necessarily art form specific (although different organisations tend to specialise in certain media) has also impacted on the level of conversation and debate around these issues of participation. Only two of the fourteen organisations that make up the forum of the East Midlands Performing Arts Federation (EMPAF) are companies that would describe themselves through their art form – Excavate and Salamanda Tandem [13]– all of the others comprise staff teams who create projects but do not necessarily deliver them, employing outside and associate artists for this purpose. Therefore the questions that they grapple with are not so much those that may concern the individual artist tasked with developing an artistic intervention in, with and/or alongside a community but rather how they can ensure that what is defined as a community project, and which represents that community, is truly shaped and voiced by that community, rather than being used or hijacked by an outside force (as Sheila Yeger suggested that she wanted to do in the writing of her community play as mentioned here). All of which leads, understandably, to the participants increasing involvement in all aspects of the production process. The community play model of Ann Jellicoe can be seen as a move towards this position, a development from the first stage of community theatre where the interaction appeared to be simply one of companies coming out and performing their work to, and in, communities. And surely, if you are searching for an increasingly democratic culture, then a trajectory of increased participation appears to be in line with the original thinking of the community arts movement. But is this participation a social one, or something else?  Did the increasing move into work with defined social impact agendas alter the very notion and relationship between the participants and the art that they were meant to be making together?

The work of Excavate has nearly always been based in communities defined by geography, where contested issues of how that community is defined are a part of the process. It was a strange experience to find ourselves being asked by Nottinghamshire County Council sometime around 2005 to work with a community of teenage girls to create a piece of work that would help reduce levels of teenage pregnancy (we politely refused the offer, although sadly not with the insight shown by Mark Murphy[14] who suggested in a workshop I attended that if he makes a piece of community based theatre work he wants people to be so caught up and excited by the process that he would rather there were more teenage pregnancies). But Excavate were not alone in having such a conversation. From the late nineties community artists found themselves confronting an ever more defined series of communities to which they were asked to ‘provide’ a service, communities that were nearly always defined by deficit, communities not of difference, but of similarity, at least within the definitions of the community that the artist was (and still is) invited to work with.

Whether this is regarded as art or as social work what is clear is that the relationship between the artist and the participant in such a relationship became one in which the process was meant to lead to some form of personal development which may be monitored for funding purposes. The community artist was offering a service, not only to the commissioning body that is working with them in an effort to alleviate some form of social issue, but also with the participants who were aware that they were involved in this work because of this social issue, and that as a result there could, perhaps should, be some individual benefit to this participation.

Training for the community artist became more about issues of care than about the art form. Government regulations insisted upon levels of disclosure and insurance creating subtle shifts of perception of the role of the artist. The funding requirements that allowed this work to happen, and which kept many community arts companies in the black, needed attendance figures and evaluation sheets which tended to ask participants what they had learnt from the process, if they had met new people, what they had most enjoyed by taking part. All of them questions about their individual relationship to the work at hand and rarely prompting debate of the potential for collective action as something that may evolve from this artistic engagement.

As Shannon Jackson has identified

systemic support for the arts paradoxically can use the arts as a vehicle for training citizens to seek ‘individual solutions to systemic problems’ to recall Ulrich Beck. Such artistic palliatives offer therapeutic rehabilitation, temporary pride, or imaginative escape in once-a-week artist visits that are not reciprocally empowered to re-imagine the political economic landscape of participants.[15]

Process and product, social engagement and artistic output, event and play, context and artwork, were all, in the original aims of the community arts movement, to be tied up in a chaotic but ultimately transformative experiment that the community artist was to traverse hand in hand with the community they worked in and alongside. But now, with what Claire Bishop describes as this ‘ethical turn’; judgement was increasingly confined to ‘the degree to which artists supply a good or bad model of collaboration – and to criticise them for any hint of potential exploitation that fails to ‘fully’ represent their subjects (as if such a thing were possible).’[16] Just as Matarasso was concerned that the trend ‘has been from radicalism to remedialism’[17] so Bishop can see this move leaving art entering ‘a realm of useful, ameliorative and ultimately modest gestures’.[18]

So what happened to the art? There is no doubt that community arts and community theatre, through their ongoing instrumentalisation, had found that the social impact of the work began to drive the methodology. And this work takes time: ‘What people often see is the tip of the iceberg. For every youth performance that people watch, what they don’t see is the hours of meetings that have gone on before this to make small but important changes to youth service provision to see that happening’.[19] The engagement with the specifically social, as a part of the work of community arts organisations had become increasingly time consuming, moving attention further and further away from the art that was being made. Discussions and debate about the actual work seemed to vanish. Which seemed to brush a rather problematic issue under the table. Because aesthetic quality, as any community artist is aware, ‘forms the most fraught core’ of many debates around the work. [20]

There are many reasons why questions of what is and what is not high quality have been troubling for the community arts movement. From whose standpoint are these judgements being made? If arts organisations begin to strive for artistic ‘quality’ then will they merely begin to mimic dominant forms of culture? And if it is the process of making the work that is seen as being what truly defines the ethos then does it really matter if the finished product is aesthetically efficacious? As the move from ‘community’ to ‘participation’ progressed; the social work that the arts was being asked to do escalated; the evaluation required of this work to prove impact expanded;  the individual’s experience as a ‘recipient’ of an artistic intervention became more important; so the actual debate about what was being made as art began to recede out of view.

But does this matter? If the work that is being made is for and with a very specific community, do we need to be so caught up in the debate about the quality of the artistic work? Maybe struggling with issues of participative democracy rather than artistic quality were the questions that needed to be untangled to allow community art and community theatre to thrive? But what of quality? Does it have to be the case that increased participation and a more democratic form of making work means that the work is less artistically potent?

It is certainly the case, as Bishop argues, that most community arts has ‘no secondary audience: it has no discursive framing nor an elaborated culture of reception to facilitate comparison and analysis with similar projects, because community art is not produced with such a critical audience in mind’.[21]  Except of course the audience with and for whom the work is made. Su Braden makes the point that this audience is one that may be ‘the last in line to respond to artistic innovations’ and that this therefore has the potential to lead to an artistic conservatism.[22]  Playing on Adorno’s question of ‘what do the people want?’ (as Bishop will go on to do) Braden realises the inherent irony of a question which whilst appearing democratic is offering nothing new. For it is only through the production process of making work that new means of expression can arrive. But for this to happen I would suggest that there needs to be a genuine exchange between artists and community in which, as in any exchange, both sets of voices are given equal weight.

[1] John Hughson and David Inglis, ‘”Creative Industries” and the Arts in Britain: Towards a “Third Way” in Cultural Policy?’, Cultural Policy 7/3 (2001) pp. 457 – 478 (p. 464).

[2] Hughson and Inglis, p. 462.

[3] DCMS, Lottery Grants Information [n.d] http://www.lottery.culture.gov.uk/Information.aspx  [accessed 26th March 2016].

[4] Louise Owen, ‘The Witness and the Replay’ in Performance and Community: Commentary and Case Studies ed. by Caoimhe McAvinchey (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2014) pp 155-187 (p. 169).

[5] Kelly, Owen, Community, Art and The State (London, Comedia, 1984 2001), p. 14.

[6] Kelly, p. 188.

[7] Francois Matarasso, ‘”All In This Together”: The Depoliticisation of Community Art in Britain, 1970 – 2011 , in Community Arts Power: Essays from ICAF 2011 ed. by Eugene van Erven (Rotterdam, Rotterdams Wijktheater, 2013) pp.214 – 239 (p. 215).

[8] Francois Matarasso, Use or Ornament? The Social Impact of Participation in the Arts (Stroud: Commedia, 1997).

[9] Matarasso, ‘”All In This Together”’ p. 216.

[10] Matarasso, ‘”All In This Together”’ p. 225.

[11] http://www.artscouncil.org.uk/funding/creative-people-and-places-fund

[12] Such as the Final Evaluation report for Right Up Our Street, written by Dr Leila Jancovich, Leeds Beckett University (as yet unpublished).

[13] http://www.salamanda-tandem.org/

[14] http://www.markmurphy.info/

[15] Shannon Jackson, Social Works: Performing Art, Supporting Publics, (Oxon: Routledge, 2007) p. 27.

[16] Bishop, Claire, Artificial Hells Participatory Art and the Politics of Spectatorshop (London, Verso, 2012), p. 23.

[17] Matarasso, ‘”All In This Together”’ p. 216.

[18] Bishop, p. 23.

[19] Interview with Kevin Ryan, Chief Executive Officer of Charnwood Arts, 22 March 2016.

[20] Bishop, p. 190.

[21] Bishop, p. 190.

[22] Braden, Su, Artists and People (London, Routledge, 1978), p. 72.

An interview with Stephen Lowe (part one)

stephen-lowe

Stephen Lowe is currently working with Claque and Jon Oram on a community play for the City of London in celebration of the opening of the new Aldgate Square. I will be tracking Stephen’s journey through the process and met him at his home in December 2016 to find out about his involvement with the project, and his experience and thoughts on writing for community theatre.

Can I start by asking how you would describe yourself?

The way that they laughingly describe me is as a distinguished English playwright. I don’t know if I’m distinguished but I do know that after doing it for forty odd years that I’m a playwright.

When did you realise?

It’s an incredibly difficult thing to do, write a play; every time you start you wonder if you can manage it again. I started writing plays when I was 22, 23 and the woman who got me started professionally was Ann Jellicoe. She read a play of mine that the Royal Court considered to be very controversial and had said that the Court wouldn’t do the play, but she employed me as a story reader; 50p a play. You used to go in on Friday afternoons and get what you could. She sent my play to a young director who had just taken over the Nottingham Playhouse called Richard Eyre, and I went to see Richard and he said he wouldn’t dare do it, it was a very problematic play, but he would commission me for a stage play which seemed an amazing offer and I didn’t believe him. So I stayed at Scarborough (where I was working as an actor and assistant stage manager for Alan Ayckbourn), and Richard came to see me and said ‘time is running out would you do a play?’ And I did, and it was called ‘Touched’. I began to think I was a playwright by that point. But I had written twenty seven plays by then.

So Ann was working at the Court at that time?

She was working at the Court and she really took me under her wing, and I used to go down to her house, her photographer husband’s on Sundays. When she moved to Lyme she asked me to do a community play, the first one. And then for about the next ten odd years she’d ask me if I would do a play. And I was just too busy to get round to it.

So can you tell me about the community theatre project that you’re working on? What it is, how it came about and where you are with it at the moment?

Jon Oram, who took over from Ann Jellicoe, asked me over the next ten years to do a play and I think that he finally gave up, until about nine months ago when he phoned me and said this was his last attempt to see if I’d write a play. And I said ‘yes’. He’d been commissioned by the housing department of the City of London, Aldgate, and they were clearing an area next to St. Botolph’s Church to create a major piazza on what was the old route in Aldgate itself to the City of London. And they wanted a community play to open that event, to celebrate it.

I was struck by it; it’s not the normal place to do a community show, particularly because while there’s 8000 people that actually sleep in that area the real weight is the 42000 that arrive every day at 9 o’clock and leave at 6, apart from the weekends; and these 8000 don’t speak to each other. There’s lots of council flats; a large Bangladeshi community; working class Italian, English or whatever; the Barbican people, who certainly don’t speak to the people outside the Barbican, and so on. So from the beginning it was different from a normal community play. When my company Meeting Ground had done one many years ago you knew ninety percent of who you were working with. What their background was and why they were there, and you worked to find their voice and your voice in a public arena.

This (the London play) really was an attempt to create a community. Most of the narratives of this kind of process that come out of the Ann Jellicoe / Colway model, the stories are often very similar. There’s a community, a community of fishermen or steelworkers that then becomes endangered; the fishes all dry up, they close the mines. And so in the first act there’s community, in the second act it’s being smashed apart and in the third act, hopefully, there’s some kind of positive new identity, or survival beyond, or adaptation. That’s the kind of matrix I think.  When the people who are involved in this play have never spoken to each other and can’t afford to go in the same restaurants and don’t necessarily speak the same language it’s an interesting situation; tricky to find the kind of narrative you’re going to operate with.

It’s advantage in this case is that the City of London is universally known and has its mythology around it, a man and a cat and all that kind of stuff; and you think there’s bound to be stories there that are meaningful. The problem is that if you do a play about the plague in Derbyshire there’s one specific time that you’ll pick, which is when the plague came; it’s not too difficult to make these decisions. But there are more stories drawn into the world of the city of London then probably anywhere else on the planet. You can work your way through the Romans and the lions and the tigers that they brought over and which they’re still finding bones from; you’ve got the great plague, you’ve got the great fire of London, you’ve got the Blitz. If you want to set it around certain individuals you’ve got everybody: Pepys, fictional characters like the Wife of Bath; Blake, they all lived there at one point. Chaucer lived at Aldgate, the gate above the gate. So in one sense you’re completely swamped  for choice. And against that there is the ambiguity of not really having a community. I kept saying to Jon ‘well I’ll do the best I can to get stories that will draw people together’. The advantage of writing for an organisation like that (Claque) is that whereas everybody else is now asking you to do a play with two people this is the offer where somebody says you’ve got 130 in the cast.

Jon’s timing was good, because I’d just worked in South Africa with a company from the townships in Capetown and I’d had the joy of 36 people on stage so I thought ‘yeah 130, that will be fun’. But you’re writing unknown for these 130 people; it could be 130 women, that end up wanting to be in it, no men; or 130 who come from one site and none from any other. Normally you would know what the postman was like and who the bank manager was so you could cunningly write the script to draw out the headmasters. So you’ve got one hand tied behind your back with this process; and at the same time it was a curiously interesting opportunity to bring diversity together.

So the key for me was to look at the way in which theatre worked and to see if there was a way of finding a context which could be paralleled by what we did. I went through various periods including tigers and things with the Romans and realised I can’t write anything where people wear togas, it would just make me laugh. And I have a particular fascination with the Victorian period and its ambiguities; it’s oppressiveness but also its kind of revolutionaryness. So I set it in the 1880’s which is the apex of steam and industrialisation and building and drew in Irish workers who were oppressed and being thrown out of their homeland; the Jewish community is coming over from the pogroms and the English working class is believing that its being put out of jobs and onto the street and into the workhouse by the foreigners. It’s a melting pot.

There is a Japanese philosophy which defines very simply the different kinds of societies that you can have. The key one, and I won’t bother you with the others, is what’s called Many in Body, One in Mind. Many in Body where they’re all different colours, races, types, whatever, celebrating that; but they have one aim in mind that works in the creation of a society; it brings them together and the discovery of that one aim informs that society. So the vision and the diversity can kind of go together. Theatre is that. You’ve got actors, lighting people, all very, very different; and if they can come together and see the aim of what they want to build they can become as one and you get ensemble, you get all these words that are used in the theatre; the troupe etc. And that in itself, celebrating that is important for the producers. So you want a tale that in a funny sense mirrors that process. So therefore I am looking for the most diverse kind of situation across class, across creed, across sexuality; and then you begin to get excited because you do need 130 characters and you can look at things with that twist that history gives us.

It was a very, very difficult time (the 1880’s). They were building the great things and Catholic churches all over the place, and tunnelling away and building the underground; the Irish navvies were blowing themselves up in the tunnels; women’s positions were thrown up in the air; and everybody has a sense of a loss of identity and a potential gaining of identity, but it’s fragile. So that’s what I’m looking for; it’s that kind of edge.

I remember talking to Ann way back, at the beginning of it (community theatre); she was going to bring in Royal Court writers, in inverted commas left wing writers, and they might take a storyline that the community itself wasn’t too excited by, it was exposing; and what was built into it was a tension between them (the community) and the individual voice of the playwright, which is in some sense sacrosanct, because otherwise they just become the amanuensis of the community. At the same time you’re trying to find something that they would still want to do. And they may have a range of diversities that are insoluble in finding one solution to it.

So you can come to a meeting as we did last week; there’s twenty people in the room and they’re all saying what they want it to be. And some want it to be about this and some want it to be the other side of that coin; they’re not immediately homogenous so there’s an endless series of dynamics which can be to a certain extent bewildering because … for example take the Jewish question, a group that became the heart of what we call the East End. When they came over from the pogroms they spoke Yiddish, hardly any Hebrew and most of them no English. When I went to talk to the rabbi of the oldest Jewish synagogue in the country and the curator there, they were saying that when these Jews came to the synagogue, they found Jews who had been there for 200 years, who’d established themselves with great care from Spain and Portugal. And these poor people that had just arrived didn’t even speak the same language. So there was considerable tension within their own societies. Now I don’t know anything about that, I can only research that. And you’re going to end up putting words in the mouth of someone, so it’s very tricky. If you alienate your groups, your people, then you will probably end up without a show. But if you lose what it is you are saying and concede it to one group over another then the thing starts falling apart. So there’s a tension which ultimately has to become a creative tension.

And is one of the ways of resolving that to allow the creative tension of the process to somehow become a part of the script?

Yes.

It becomes an implicit storyline?

You are trying to create something that comes out of a dynamic, out of a tension that most people will not see, they will just see what happens in 1885 or whatever; and gradually I found that tempted me. You see I’m one of those playwrights who does not write autobiographical plays that much; I like writing plays about what I don’t know rather than what I do know. So I’ll plough into the Jewish situation, or the Irish situation, throw books at me and I’ll eat them; but the journey is imagining people that are very different. So in a funny sense the more I see the problem as almost impossible the more I’m tempted to find some narrative that goes there which will still have an edge to it.

It’s about work and the lack of work; it’s about what happens on the street in the 1880’s; it’s about the women and how they’re forced into prostitution; it’s about the Salvation Army trying to save souls and what that means; it’s about the chaos of energies and its theatricality is for me centred around work or idleness, despair and alcoholism. So I wanted to find an image from the politics of the time that looked at work from another perspective and that brings the characters to understand, if only fleetingly, a different way of looking at their life.

In 1888 two remarkable things happened in relationship to the city; the first was that the Match Girls went on strike, the first strike by women ever recorded, and incredibly won. And they were part of the biggest march for the poor and unemployed, which was attacked in Trafalgar Square by the police and the army; women and children beaten to the ground, it was called the first Bloody Sunday. I was trying to find something that would be visually exciting, that would show the actors working, and when their characters discovered a new way of looking at work. And of course it was there because the key figures running the march and talking about radical left wing politics were Annie Besant, William Morris, Edward Carpenter, and the whole of that movement. And I discovered that Morris and Burne-Jones, the pre-Raphaelite artist were doing stained glass windows. And I began to go around the churches in the city looking at them, most of them had been bombed out during the war and had been replaced; in particular the wonderful ones that Burne-Jones did at Marylebone. And I knew that I wanted an image of coming together with bits.

(And my idea was) that the workers on these windows don’t know what the picture’s going to be; they make the glass and Burne-Jones is sketching but they don’t know what it is they’ve actually made. And they take sanctuary after the beating they get on the day of Bloody Sunday in the church where their window is covered up, waiting to be revealed to the rich, and they demand to see it. What has their work done? William Morris and Marx are saying the same thing at this time. That we find identity through true work, and they mean creative work.

And so the image started to form that would become the piece. So you begin to find yourself … you begin to start thinking in a different language. You’ve read the books, you can make the arguments, you can sketch the characters, you can find the music and so on. But then you have to start seeing it. And you have to go back to the characters, to the heart of the characters, you have to get with your people (the participants). And then – and only recently – I began to think it might be possible.

So I did something I’ve not done before; which was the way of presenting the text. There’s a steering committee keeping an eye on us, and I thought if I present it to them written out as dialogue and parts for 130 we will all be lost; it’s just not the way to communicate it, it will take two and a half hours. So I thought I’ll do a ten page treatment to say what happens, a narrative treatment. And I gave it to the director, to Jon, and I said ‘you read it’, it will take 25-30 minutes then we can have the talk. And it was one of the most intelligent things I’ve done in a long time. Because it did mean that for the next forty five minutes or an hour they (the participants and the committee) talked about it, and as something that was so obviously unfinished they genuinely felt they could ask a question about it.

One of the things the Jewish lads did when they came over, because of the prejudice against them on the streets, they took up boxing and they set up boxing youth clubs. And I had a scene, a crucial scene, in the boxing ring.  And one of the guys (at the meeting) said ‘doesn’t it go somewhere; is that it? Isn’t there a tournament scene?’ And I just went ‘yeah’. It turned out to be much more useful than other occasions where … I don’t like readings anyway.

So how long have you been working on it? When did it start and where are you now and when does the play happen?

We started over a year ago, easily over a year ago, with just me and Jon wandering around the place. Then we started having a meeting with the Whitechapel art gallery, with the city organisations and libraries. The day of that treatment was officially the day I would have presented the first draft and I’ve asked that to be the first draft. We should have then had three months to polish that and have all the subsidiary groups coming together to do it, with the next step for me to give the final rehearsal draft in before Easter. And then for them to be doing it in the Summer. It is put back because of building.

I’ve been talking to some writers who have had experiences of handing work in to committees where there are certain things they don’t want to be touched; certain nerves they don’t want to be touched. Is there an overseer of this? Is there a panel that will eventually look through it and go ‘you know what we really like it but we can’t mention that’? Is it that kind of process?

I think there probably will be.

And if that was the case and they came back to you and they said those things presumably your choice would be either to go ‘yes OK I’ll do what you say’ or ‘no I’m not going to’. Or to use the creative tension of that. Because it sounded a bit like what you were saying is that the experience of writing the play and the tensions within that inform what the story is, the narrative. The context of writing the play is in the play?

Yes it does, yes.

The notion of the stained glass window is fascinating because it is absolutely connected to the location and the idea of the disparate communities coming together to create .. was it one kind or one mind?

One mind. Itai doshin. It’s the perfect society. It’s dynamic of course because you start with the diversity and the diversity has to find its central core value; its dynamic creation. Once it finds it together – that we all decide that we’ll make a play that will mean something, that we’ll feel something – then we come to what will change the world.

It also feels that the stained glass window idea is partly your struggle to tie together these disparate elements.

Yes that’s exactly what it is. And it’s interesting, because one of the things that was running through my mind before I came to the stained glass window was Banksy, was images on the street. And in a funny sense the church stained glass fuses all that. You can have heaven and hell and whatever but it’s dependent on the light. And the characters defend the window like the Alamo at the end of the treatment. Whilst everybody’s running riot they try to save their own work.

Can I ask about the audience? One of the things when you write a community play is that you know who the audience will be. You know the audience will be from this community; you are presenting the community in which they live back to them. With this it must be trickier because I presume that there is a notion that the audience could be from outside that community.

Mathematically of course it’s ridiculous. If you’ve got eight thousand – that’s children, that’s old people, that’s large numbers who don’t speak English – even if you could extrapolate 130 of them, and all the people you need backstage, there’s practically no audience left. It’s not like in a place where you start with forty or fifty thousand people and they’ve all got aunts and uncles; you haven’t got an audience. And even more you haven’t got an audience who can afford to come anyway. So the notion of community itself, in the sense that are talking about there being a community here, is like drawing the map of Poland. You know if you take the map of Poland during the last three or four hundred years sometimes it’s not there at all, sometimes its half of Europe.

We’re imagining a community structure. I think it’s almost a uniquely difficult route. We have to open up, widen that notion of community. You can either move across, outside the city to the working class area of the East End with all of its gentrification and so on; or, which is what you’re briefed to do, you can look centrally at the city.

Having spoken for over an hour by this point we decided to arrange to meet again in the New Year. I explained to Stephen the intentions of my work, and how little investigation into this field of work there seems to be …   

And so we’re in danger of constantly remaking the proverbial wheel.

Yes.

The responsibility as a writer in these plays is that whatever you do your job is to inspire those who are taking part, and through their work to inspire an audience. And that’s key. You have to keep re-stimulating so they can get hold of the image, so they can get hold of the smoke and the people coming out of the tunnel; and they’re your way to the audience. It’s not that you’re separated off satisfying them; it’s getting them to imagine and be excited that will carry it.

So they have to make a journey of discovery themselves?

Totally.

It’s not giving them something they already know?

No good.

It’s just outside of their reach?

Yes. So Jon is interested in getting them to look at family histories; and he’ll also put real names on characters of ours. The prostitutes for example, that are in the play, are down in the census of 1838 as prostitutes, and they’re down in the 1890s in the workhouse where they both died, still listed as prostitutes. And those things kind of – if they’re (the participants) finding their own individual connection with the project in some way or another – you are giving them little charges of energy and meaning. And we gradually grow to exist together. It doesn’t mean you give up every difference or shade, far from it. You’re making a society. And in a time when societies are literally being blown up on the street and countries are divided amongst themselves and slaughter their own, door by door, we have to see something which is … how do we create society? It’s never been asked before because societies have just evolved or been manipulated in various ways to false images; but how do we do that? Well you do that by becoming increasingly creative and giving respect for each individual in that process. And putting the creative arts first; our creative imaginations. For me the story that you’re telling over and over again in some way is about the struggle to go through change in a healthy way.