I like sitting up top, looking down on things. Today, preparing myself for a quick round of flyering in Durham, I’m up in the mezzanine of the Market Hall. Drinking Earl Grey, seeing how many stalls had huge cuddly toys perched on the edges of their striped awnings like plush gargoyles. Somewhere, someone is playing 80’s tapes – The Waterboys, ‘You Saw The Whole Of The Moon’ – and I’m half-gone back to the Kirklevington Country Club on goth night, underage drunk, cheap hairspray, gin and bitter lemon. Black tights under denim hotpants? I was there the first time, sweetie.
Music brings things back. Riding on the top of the bus on the way to Hampi, dangerous and uncomfortable but exhilarating, the radio blaring out Bolloywood tunes. All you need to do is play me Rangeela Re and I can see chillis drying on rooftops, laid out in careful rectangles, the fresh ones scarlet, fading block by block to rust.
I liked the patterns made by everyday objects and everyday actions in India, I liked the repetition of forms. Even patties of cow dung slapped onto house walls to dry into fuel for burning.
I still do it – in the Market Hall I get distracted by repeating spools of thread and button boxes on the embroidery stall. I don’t know why, it just pleases me. It pleases me that with the help of my director, I’ve found lots of repeating images, movements and threads within the show. It’s just how I look at the world I suppose, patterns and associations coming around and around. Very soon the tour will be over, that will be the whole of The Moon, and I’ll have to start gleaning life for a new set of images.