MEDITATION 83

This morning I began thinking about this meditation while sitting in my garden and enjoying the welcome winter sunshine. The sunshine seems a little incongruous as today is Black Friday. That name sounds ominous, redolent of dark clouds and threatening storms. In fact it is just another excuse for shops and certain websites to pedal their wares in front of us. And not only shops: some theatre ticket sites and even the Festival Hall are offering juicy discounts today. 

The phrase ‘Black Friday’ is a misnomer in another way: in some shops and on some sites Black Friday is actually extended to several days or even a week. This is sometimes referred to as Cyber Monday or Cyber Week. It reminds me of those sinister ‘Doctor Who’ monsters called the Cybermen and conjures up an image of them parading up and down High Streets and shopping malls forcing people to buy things they don’t want or really need. Just like the shops and trading outlets themselves.

The Black Friday sales began in the U.S.A. and take place on the day after Thanksgiving there. The custom (or rather marketing ploy) only began in this country about 8 years ago in the shops though it started a few years earlier online. I am not sure if Black Friday has super-ceded our traditional Boxing Day Sales in revenue yet or the January Sales that follow or the Summer ones. Along with special discounts in shops and on websites through the year I wonder if anyone pays full price for anything these days, unless they want to be among the first to buy a new edition of a computer game or console.

When I was a boy (and yes I was once) on one of our annual family trips to London we visited the famous Petticoat Lane Market, near Spitalfields in the East End. It is still there I believe. My grandmother loved street markets so we had to visit. One of the attractions was a man who had a cheap crockery stall. He had been running it since the 1930s and was a market celebrity. He wore a Lord Mayor’s hat and sometimes a Mayoral cloak to gain attention. His way of attracting a crowd was to slowly ascend a wooden stepladder with a very large tray filled with crockery precariously balanced in one hand. Then he would shout ‘Gather round, gather round  – this tray of fine bone china for 2 quid!’ or whatever. Sometimes, as a crowd would gather, he would pretend to slip on the ladder or drop the tray. He never did of course. I was fascinated by his performance. It was much more cheerful that ‘Eastenders’ as I remember it. He would have been an interesting character in the series, had it been running on the TV then. 

Just like this market trader of old in his cocked hat, the media are shouting at us, to get our attention. They are shouting at us digitally to “Buy, Buy, Buy – on Black Friday.’ They are offering us huge reductions and hopefully something for next to nothing.

It is in our nature of course to look for a bargain, which is what the sales appeal to. Prices are all relative anyway and fluid. Some stores are quite canny in increasing their prices before the sale so that what appears to be a bargain, is hardly one at all. Part of our desire to buy things may come from comfort or boredom or, at its worst, addiction. There is also the sense of novelty or curiosity. I have bought some my DVDs and classical CDs as much to see or hear what they are like as to really want to play them over and over again. Buying something new can cheer us up for a while too and it can be a talking point with friends.  

There are those of us who will wait for the sales to purchase a large item, like a fridge or a washing machine or furniture. Some might use Black Friday as a way of making their finances go further in buying Christmas gifts, especially this year when many may be in straitened circumstances because of the current bleak economic climate.

Nevertheless the Sales, especially Black Friday,  give rise to rampant consumerism and aggressive purchasing – sometimes literally with fights in the shopping aisles! It is as if people are grabbing at happiness. And they may even literally push others aside to obtain it! Have we ever asked asked ourselves if we really need that purchase? Or, more philosophically, what do we really need. Perhaps exploring those questions might stop us in our tracks before dashing to the stores, or make our finger hover over the keyboard before clicking ‘buy now’ on a website.

A friend of mine, Andrew, is chaplain at my old Oxford college, Pembroke. For a while he would take a friend of his in his car for his regular cancer checkups. This was an Orthodox bishop, Kallistos Ware, who was also a Fellow of the college for many years. He sadly passed away earlier this year. On one of these visits, Andrew was being enthusiastic about his new car, which they were driving in. He said something like ‘I love my new car.’ Kallistos replied to him, ‘You can’t really love a car. You can’t really love things. You can only really love people.’

We must also remember that for many, many people, for example the hungry, the homeless, those living in poverty and destitution and those living in war zones, every day is a black Friday.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 82

As I sit here beside my candle in my lounge and begin writing my new meditation, I am thinking back to a few weeks ago when I was seated in plusher surroundings. Actually my armchair is quite plush but my lounge is not as opulent as the auditorium of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. Or as large for that matter!

I attended a performance of the new production of Verdi’s ‘Aida’ there with two friends. It is Verdi’s grand opera set in Ancient Egypt. It was originally performed in 1871 at the Cairo Opera House and has been very popular ever since because of some wonderful arias, duets and choruses and one of Verdi’s most lyrical and delicate scores. The epic scale of the opera has also contributed to its popularity and reviving the opera obviously provides great opportunities to recreate Ancient Egypt on stage. 

I must admit, therefore, that I thought twice about booking seats as this new production has a modern staging. In a way this is a great shame as this year (indeed this month) is the centenary of the opening of the grave of Tutankhamun, the boy pharaoh, by the archaeologist, Howard Carter.  

I am always rather wary about updating operas and indeed Shakespeare, though I have often done so myself in my own productions. Changing the setting of a play or opera to another era and milieu has been a common practice now for decades. Equally a frequent comment is ‘How are they going to stage it?’ 

The setting must serve the play or opera and bring out the themes and characters into greater relief in my opinion. We directors, designers and performers are there to serve the play or opera. Also the interpretation must encompass the whole piece and not just be an opportunity for a director’s creative ego trip. I hope I have never been guilty of that myself!  However, I have seen some productions where that has blatantly been the case!

Robert Carsen’s production at the Royal Opera House was in the main a valid interpretation and effectively reflected contemporary events. It was set in an indeterminate Middle Eastern country instead of Ancient Egypt. In his version, the kingdom of Egypt is a modern, militaristic and male dominated regime in a neutral grey setting with looming drab walls as if we are in a huge prison rather than a state.  There were lots of uniforms, flag waving, guns and military hardware, especially in the famous Triumphal Scene, stripped of its usual spectacle of chariots and colourful Egyptian costumes and accoutrements. Rows of soldiers and politicians sat still on banked seats and the King and his daughter Amneris on a high podium watching the parades go by. We could be in Red Square or a Nuremberg Nazi Rally or North Korea or Iran. In this highly relevant updating, Egypt’s invasion of Ethiopia, which is central to the plot, brought to mind Russia’s invasion of the Ukraine.   

By removing the Ancient Egyptian trappings, Carsen focuses the production on the political core of the opera and the doomed love triangle between Amneris, Radames the young general and Aida herself, the captured Ethiopian princess. It also emphasises the father/daughter relationship (a favourite theme in Verdi’s operas) and its political overtones (Aida and her captured but disguised father, Amonasro, King of Ethiopia) and another favourite Verdi trope: the clash between love and duty to one’s country. 

Overall the production was wonderfully sung and acted and conductor Antonio Pappano produced ravishingly sounds from the orchestra.

Even though I don’t read music, I know the score of ‘Aida’ very well. This is because, when I was a young man, I would play my LP’s of the opera over and over again. I would sit with the large floppy libretto of the opera (which accompanied the LP’s) on my lap and follow the words on one side of the page and translation on the other. There are several other operas I know in this way: in particular ‘Tosca’ by Puccini, which was the first opera I bought on LP. I now have cd’s of them of course.

Back then, LP’s were a luxury so I didn’t possess many of them and would play the ones I had, over and over again.  I would borrow them from the local library too. This is so different from streaming music now. I was discussing this with my dear old friend Alan only last week. As he said we would listen to our music on LP’s over and over (his passion was rock music), and would take our time to get to know a piece, persevering if it was a little difficult at first. Now, with streaming, we half-listen and if the music doesn’t grab us at once, we dismiss it and move on. Sad.

So for a few moments, while I was listening to ‘Aida’ in the Opera House, I found myself transported back to listening to the LP’s in my little bedsit in Balham over 40 years ago. It was a reissued recording starring the great dramatic soprano Maria Callas as Aida. It is a wonderful version which I now have on cd. Vocally Callas brought her roles to life on her recordings. You didn’t need to see her. She was so completely immersed in the role and the music that to hear her was enough. In fact it is thanks to several of her recordings that I first got the opera bug. This was reinforced later by going to English National Opera at the London Coliseum in the cheap seats.

Callas had a way of infusing great emotion into a single phrase. In her first big aria in the opera, Aida sings of the conflict between her love for Radames, the Egyptian general, and her love for her own country, Ethiopia. There is a phrase in the aria which particularly spoke to me then: ‘Confusa e tremante’, ‘confused and fearful’. The way Callas sang the phrase seemed to express how I felt deep down, sitting in my little bedsit and listening to her. I can hear it now in my head and remember how I felt then at times: lost and unsure  of my future. She spoke to me through the music.  

Of course the young man who was listening to those LP’s of Callas in ‘Aida’ in his modest bedsit is somewhat different from the older retired version listening to ‘Aida’ in the Opera House recently. Eventually I became a teacher and had a fulfilling career, more than I could have dreamt of then. 

Marcel Proust, in the final volume of his great novel ‘In Search of Lost Time’ suggests that each person is a series of different ‘I’s’ down the years: in other words a succession of different selfs as Time takes its course. Hence the phrase ‘I was a different person then.’ That is why memories can be deceptive at times: we do not remember ourselves as we were, at least not accurately so. This is perhaps why photos of our former selves can be occasionally starting! 

Hearing that phrase from the opera house stage the other evening did take me back for a moment to my confused and fearful young self. On reflection, I think it was good that it did as it reminded me of how far I have travelled since then.

I tend to agree with dear Marcel but I think a residue of our former I’s remains in us. My fretful, anxious ‘Confusa e tremante’ young self, though not my default position, has resurfaced occasionally at later times in my life. In a milder form it would reappear whenever I began rehearsals for a new production. I would be nervous and anxious. I felt it deeply when I began my retirement. At one point I realised that I had almost reverted back to my young ‘I’ and was lost and unsure of the future again. It seemed as if I had gone full circle. I also felt ‘Confusa e tremante’  in the lockdown of course, as I am sure we all did at times.

Perhaps it is good for us to be confronted with one of our former I’s sometimes. Though not haunted by it. That would be potentially destructive. Perhaps at this stage in my life it is time for me to look back, to explore the succession of I’s in my life (embarrassing though some may be!).  I think they would be not so much a succession as a colourful procession! Well, hopefully.

You may be thinking from this meditation that in my twenties I was rather alone and solitary. Far from it. I had the support of lots of friends, some of whom, like Alan, are still friends now. 

If these meditations are about anything, they are about friendship. 

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 81

The days are getting shorter again and autumn has arrived with its blustery winds and changeable weather – ‘sunshine and rain at once’ as Shakespeare comments in his play ‘King Lear’.  Fallen leaves are strewn across my front lawn. A sign that summer is over. I am reminded of the transience of all things as I sit here by my candle. Perhaps this is appropriate as I have a birthday approaching at the weekend. Another year in my life is fast ending.

 I have reached the autumn of my life. As Shakespeare says in Sonnet 73:

                ‘That time of year thou mayst in me behold,

                 When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang

                 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

                 Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

 As I approach my 69th year, I realise that I am leaving the autumn of my years and nearing the threshold of winter!  But I should not be thinking of my future. As my dear friend Marcus writes in his own ‘Meditations’: ‘Confine yourself to the present.’ In other words: live in the moment. He also encourages me when he writes, ‘There is nothing to fear in the termination, the pause and the changes of your whole life.’

Change can sadden us however. I was reminded of this recently on a visit to Stratford-Upon- Avon.

Whenever I go to Stratford, one of my rituals is to frequent Anne Hathaway’s Tea Room in the High Street. It is a historic building dating from the 17th Century, with wooden beamed ceilings, oak floors, a baker’s shop at the front and a large garden at the back. It is named after Shakespeare’s wife of course.  The tea room originally opened in 1931 and has been a fixture of town life ever since.  I have often brought friends there on my visits for breakfast or tea and cake, generally in the beautiful garden.

However, on my most recent visit, in conversation with Sarah, the new owner, I learnt that the establishment may have to close. The previous owner fell foul of the lockdown and had to give up the business and sadly, despite Sarah being an expert baker (especially in Tudor recipes), business hasn’t picked up again so well since she took over. The proliferation of coffee shops in Stratford obviously hasn’t helped either. Coffee shops have become highly fashionable now. If you happen to be in Stratford soon do go and visit. It appears to still be open at present!

As I sat in the garden that morning after I chatted to her, the idea that the Tea Room may not be there on my next visit quite upset me. I will probably not return to Stratford  until next year and by then it may have gone.

You see, the Tea Room has been a constant in my infrequent visits over the years. I first went there in 1964, when I was 11 years old. 1964 was the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth.  I was on a day trip by coach with my mum and my grandmother from London (where we were having a week’s holiday). I was very excited as I had lapped up everything about Shakespeare so far that year. There were a lot of programmes on the TV because of the 400th and some of his plays too. I remember there were several Shakespeare posters in my primary school as well, including a huge poster of the imagined interior of the Globe Theatre, where many of his plays were performed. Strangely, many years later, I found a copy of this poster at the school where I taught and in pristine condition too.  Nowadays of course you can see a reconstructed version of the theatre at Shakespeare’s Globe, at Bankside, near to where the real Globe was sited, by the river Thames, on London’s South Bank.

I  also remember borrowing a copy of ‘Tales from Shakespeare’ from the public library. The book was illustrated with photos from productions at the theatre in Stratford.

Sadly we didn’t have time to see a play on our visit, but I remember we did see the theatre by the river and I picked up a brochure about the performances, which I greatly treasured later. We also went to Shakespeare’s birthplace and Anne Hathaway’s cottage. Then we had high tea in the Tea Room.

The Tea Room made a real impression on me as a child. We sat upstairs overlooking the street.  I remember the dark but warm interior with its beamed ceiling and the large fireplace and the brass plates and horse brasses adorning the wide mantelpiece. I don’t think there was a fire burning in the grate but then it was summer. The stairs and oak floors creaked as we walked on them, despite the old carpets. The tables and chairs looked old too, like being in a farmhouse. It was all very atmospheric, like stepping back in time. I imagined Shakespeare himself might walk up the wooden stairs at any moment.

High tea seems to have disappeared from menus now. Perhaps because we are in the age of ‘all day menus’.  It was different from afternoon tea with sandwiches and cakes and scones, which is now very much in vogue. High tea could be sandwiches but could also be a light meal such as Welsh rarebit, scrambled or poached egg  on toast, or beans on toast, or a pasty or pie or even fish or fish fingers and chips or cheese flan, our British version of quiche. I can’t remember what I ate but everything in the Tea Room was cosy – the cosiness of childhood.

You may be asking yourself why I am waxing lyrical about a tea room. After all I can’t imagine anyone waxing lyrical about a Starbucks or a Costa coffee shop. Although a friend of mine did develop an affection for a Costa coffee shop at a service station near her during the lockdowns. She would go there in the car and buy a coffee and a newspaper and sit in her car with them. It was her daily excursion, her little ritual, to break up the monotony of the day.

Along with watching productions at the theatre, strolling along the river Avon, seeing the historical sights, a few drinks in the Dirty Duck (the actors’ pub) and sharing all these with friends, the tea room has always been part of the Stratford experience for me, part of my Stratford. My visits have been very infrequent over the years, though more recently, they have been an annual event, but as I mentioned earlier, the tea room has always been there. I also have happy memories of taking friends there over the years.. Most important it was there when I was a child,  at the source of the Shakespeare stream which has flowed through my life.

As you may have gathered, Stratford is a special place for me. I am always excited when I go there. I have even sometimes considered moving there. I said this to one of my students on a trip to the theatre there a long time ago. He made the sensible comment that Stratford wouldn’t be the same if I lived there. It is good that there are places that we always enjoy visiting, that we like to return to, that give us ‘a shot in the arm’, as he put it. 

I would add that it is good to visit places that always speak to us, that not only refresh us, but also speak to our soul. The poet W.H.Auden called such places ‘numinous’, meaning ‘a place that is spiritual’ , that takes us to another plane, that speaks to our spirit.

A place that speaks to us, even over a cup of tea and a slice of cake.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 80

   As I sit here again beside my candle and begin my new meditation, once again piano music is playing in my mind. This time it is not a piece of Chopin’s music but a theme from one of Beethoven’s last three piano sonatas.

   I heard them in a concert last Sunday morning at the Royal Albert Hall in London. They were played by the great Hungarian pianist, Andras Schiff, in one of the BBC Proms concerts. He played them from memory straight through, with only very short breaks between them. The sonatas are joyful, playful and uplifting music and were performed with great humanity by Schiff, who received warm and rapturous applause at the end. They were not the last compositions Beethoven made, as afterwards he went on to write his great 9th symphony, the ‘Choral’, among other pieces.

   Listening to Proms concerts on the radio, watching some on TV and attending a few this year, I have been reminded that the BBC Proms is a truly remarkable annual music festival. For eight weeks in the summer there are concerts at the Albert Hall every night and there also late night ones and weekend morning ones, like the one I attended. Some are at other venues too. Not only the main UK orchestras but also orchestras and ensembles from other countries appear, as well as international soloists, singers and choruses.Though classical music has prominence, there are also jazz, music from other cultures and popular music as well in the Proms.  Perhaps I have realised how wonderful this festival is, as this is the first full festival since lockdown, and I have not attended a Prom since 2019.

   Only the evening before the morning piano concert, I had the privilege of hearing the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (one of the worlds’ top orchestras) playing Mahler’s enigmatic and elusive 7th Symphony. It was outstanding.

   But then, the morning after, by way of complete contrast, instead of a large orchestra on the Albert Hall stage, there was only a lone piano player. Nothing could be more different. Yet, Andras Schiff, this great artist, had the audience of upwards of 5,000 people, enthralled, hanging on every note he played, in wrapt silence, under his spell. It was a truly remarkable experience.

   I remember writing in one of my earlier blogs about how somehow an invisible circle is completed between performers and audience in a successful performance. Maybe that is why theatres in Shakespeare’s time were circular, with the stage and performers on it completing the circle. The same is true of the Albert Hall, which was built nearly 300 years later. The shape of the buildings are trying to help audience and performers to complete this invisible, magical circle. From his first note on the piano to his last, Andras Schiff completed the circle and definitely in a magical way.

   Yesterday evening, I returned to the Royal Albert Hall for another Prom, this time with the Philadelphia Orchestra from the U.S.A. It was their first visit to the Proms in 40 years apparently. But their performance was not to be, as at 6.30 p.m., the sad news of the death of Queen Elizabeth was officially announced. The performance was cancelled as a mark of respect, as are the last two Proms concerts this week, including the famous Last Night.

    I was in one of the Albert Hall’s restaurants in the middle of a pre-concert supper when the sad news and, shortly after, the cancelation were announced. Then another announcement was made to say that the orchestra would at least play the National Anthem at 7.30 p.m, the scheduled time for the concert, as a tribute to the late Queen.

   So my friend and I with many others slowly assembled in the hall and awaited the orchestra’s entrance onto the stage in the somber atmosphere. A short announcement was made from the stage and as the orchestra filed in at the appointed time, there was spontaneous and lengthy applause, a fixing welcome for them. This was followed by the National Anthem which was not only played respectfully by this American orchestra but from the heart too. The two minute silence which followed, as we stood all around the auditorium with bowed heads, for a moment turned the vast, great Hall into a cathedral. Then we were seated again to hear the orchestra play ‘Nimrod’, a section from the British composer  Edward Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’ (1899).  The orchestra played this elegiac and deeply passionate music with great warmth and restraint, which made it all the more moving.

   The programme was to have included Beethoven’s Third Symphony, the ‘Eroica’. The symphony’s second movement is a funeral march, so they could have played that instead. Initially I thought they might do so. But somehow the short elegiac piece ‘Nimrod’ seemed more fitting as it is British after all. We then stood and applauded again and slowly and respectfully made our way out.

  It seemed rather strange that an American orchestra should be playing our National Anthem. But then the occasion, short as it was, seemed to represent in a small way, our deceased sovereign. The conductor was Canadian and so, in a way, representing the Commonwealth (of which Queen Elizabeth was the Head), and the orchestra the USA of course and, by proxy, so many other nations who held her in high regard. Also the audience itself no doubt were not entirely from the UK, so also international. We were all united in an international act of respect, gratitude and affection, tinged with heartfelt sadness. I think the late Queen Elizabeth would have appreciated our gesture, as she did so much to try to bring peoples together. Once again, this time in a highly tangible and emotional way, the magic circle between performers and audience was complete.      

Edward Elgar indicated in the score for the ‘Nimrod’ section of his ‘Enigma Variations’ that it should be played ‘nobilmente’ meaning ‘nobly’ or ‘with nobility.’ It was certainly played with nobility last night by the Philadelphia Orchestra.

‘Nobilmente’. That word might describe our late sovereign, Queen Elizabeth. She lived her long life nobly: with grace, courteousness, respect and dignity, born of an innate sense of duty and service. Perhaps we can learn from her in this and try ourselves to live our lives ‘nobilmente’.

We shall not see her like again.  

May she rest in peace.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius                                  

MEDITATION 79

I am seated here again beside my candle engaged in my occasional nocturnal pursuit of composing a meditation. Unlike Marcus Aurelius, whose own Meditations are the inspiration for mine, I do not present to the reader lists of philosophical maxims or observations. My own philosophical observations  (if any) arise from descriptions of places I have visited, people I have met or have admired and from revisiting my memories.

The Romantic poet William Wordsworth (1770- 1850) explained that poetry is inspired by ’emotions recollected in tranquillity.’ He might be describing these modest meditations.  For it is only in tranquillity, in stillness, that I can be detached enough to glean some small seed of philosophy from moments in my life. If we cannot learn from our memories, from what we have lived and felt, what can we learn from?

Books, you might say, or the internet. I would consider using the internet as ‘casual learning’ as it is not so easy to assimilate information and deeply reflect upon it, at least, that is how I find it.  Learning from books I find easier, perhaps because that was my method of learning since my childhood. That must be be true for most of us who are not young enough to have been exposed to the digital revolution in education. I feel I can bring my whole self to a book rather than a screen, which includes my life experiences and memories of course and hence there can be an interplay between the book and myself. The book may even bring memories to the fore in my consciousness.  Although, it must be admitted that memory can be deceptive and even chaotic and confused at times. Hence the need for the cool air of detachment. 

Cool air or rather the lack of it, has been on my mind these last few days, because of the high temperatures we are currently enduring. I have also been thinking about cool water lilies. I have been looking at photos I have taken last week of  water lilies at Swanwick in Derbyshire while attending the annual  Writers Summer School there. I spent some time stopping and looking at patches of water lilies on my walks around the lakes in time out from the week’s activities of talks and workshops.

Water lilies are among my favourite flowers. If my back garden was big enough and grand enough I would have a pond of water lilies. One of my favourite places at Kew Gardens is the water lilies hothouse where they have the largest one on record. There the lilies recline resplendent on the dark waters, colourful, exotic and expansive (like myself – well expansive anyway!).   

The water lilies at Swanwick are much smaller but no less colourful: deep pink petals with white tips, enthroned on large dark green leaves. They float on top of the lake, congregating together in shady corners. Just as we delegates have been congregating together and hopefully floating ourselves, born up by new ideas and perceptions, by the deep but gentle waters of creativity.

I have mentioned the  Swanwick water lilies before in one of my meditations. That was in 2019, after my second visit and now I have just completed my fourth (as 2020 was understandably a fallow year for the Summer School). It was on my first visit, in 2018, that I was encouraged to write this blog. New ideas and new directions always emerge from that place.

Swanwick has two lakes adjoining each other, but strangely no swans! It has extensive gardens and terraces and is an Edwardian house with modern extensions, housing the dining and conference rooms and a large residential block too.  As I would return from my lakeside visit to the water lilies, I would see some of my fellow delegates moving around on the terraces to another talk, to their room or to tea, cake and more conversation in the lounge. Conversations with others who share our burning interests or enthusiasms are as important as the talks and presentations on offer at any conference.

As writing is a solitary activity so conversations with other writers are essential to keep going. It is why individuals join writers’ groups, not just to get feedback on their work and to learn from others and to receive hopefully support and encouragement,  but to feel validated as a writer sometimes. To make being a writer seem real. The same is true of the writers’ summer school.

I do not think I have talked so much over the six days I was there. One evening I even developed a sore throat. I was giving talks myself on scriptwriting, four one hour sessions over four days, which led to more conversations from delegates so perhaps that contributed to it. It was good to be teaching again and to adults for a change who were eager to learn, unlike my former students at times! I have never felt so much at home there as this time.

Because we are all together for a intense six days, over that time we become an informal community, forming an invisible bond. This is quite extraordinary when you think that every year this unofficial community fluctuates. Not everyone attends every year and there is always an influx of new people. Yet over the days we are together, amidst all the activities and chatter, that bond silently evolves. It reminds me of rehearsing and performing a play. For a short length of time the cast become a community – as at Swanwick.

I was reminded of this informal community when I arrived at Derby station in 2021. I walked over the enclosed bridge with my luggage and down in the lift as usual to wait for the coach to take delegates to the summer school. Looking over the bridge as I waited for the lift I could see some familiar faces below at the coffee bar who would be getting the coach with me. I felt quite emotional as I hadn’t seen them for two years and we had all gone through the pandemic in the meantime.

In my mind’s eye I am returning to watching those delegates ambling around the property as I wander up from the lakes. Why are they here I ask myself? To learn, to improve their writing in some way, to find out about different genres of writing, about the world of publishing perhaps or how to self-publish. They may want to spend most of the week just writing, using the summer school as precious time away from home to concentrate and create. They might be successfully published themselves, or trying to get published, writing may be their career or a sideline or they may be an enthusiastic amateur.  They might be writing articles, short stories, crime novels, children’s books or poems or plays or just scribbling. They all have a passion for writing, they have to write. To make sense of the world in some way through words (as I am doing now).  They all need a creative outlet otherwise, as the American Dorothea Brande (1893-1948) observes in her excellent 1934 handbook ‘Becoming a Writer’, without a creative outlet life can be ‘unhappy, thwarted and restless.’ I have felt this myself at times.

What have I learnt from my week at Swanwick, you may ask, even though I was a tutor there? Well I have learnt many things from talks and conversations. And from the adult students on my course, just as occasionally I would learn something from my young students when I was engaged in my teaching career. I feel inspired to get on with ‘Driftwood’ my collection of short stories, having had a consultation with another tutor.

Most of all, I have learnt that it’s all about the writing and not the end product. It’s not about winning a poem or short story competition or the Booker Prize for a novel or even to be published in some way, wonderful though these would be. It’s about the writing, the process.

The great Russian theatre director Konstantin Stanislavksi (1863-1938) came to same conclusion about acting: the process, the in depth research and rehearsals were as important than the final performance. In the last stage of his life he formed his own studio of young actors who concentrated on the process and performed rarely.

It is all about the writing, the process. Because I have to write.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 78

When I began my last meditation, a lone Parisian violin was playing in my mind. It was a poignant memory, if you remember, of a recent visit to Paris. As I light the candle beside me and begin this new meditation, another musical instrument is playing an equally poignant melody in my consciousness. It is a solo piano and the music is a nocturne by Chopin. A nocturne is a short night piece and meditative, so highly conducive to writing this reflection. I have the complete Chopin Nocturnes in my cd collection but I am not playing them at this present moment. The nocturne in my head is another memory from my recent visit to Paris.

The gentle tune takes me back to a morning visit to the Pere Lachaise cemetery in the heart of the city. I was standing in front of Chopin’s grave. Though he was Polish, he died in Paris in 1849, at the young age of 39 of tuberculosis, which he had suffered from for most of his adult life. As well as being a composer, he was also a great performer on the piano and of the stature of a rock star across Europe in his time. 

A monument stood above his grave: a seated lady with a broken lyre in her lap looking down in grief. I have just discovered that the figure is of Euterpe, the muse of music. Behind the monument was a wall of trees, vibrantly green in the morning sunshine.

A small group of visitors stood  in front of the grave. Some took a brief look at the monument then moved on. Other like me stood for a while to pay their respects.

People had left tributes to Chopin at the bottom of the monument: small plants, little posies of flowers, single roses and a few small Polish flags. One tribute caught my eye. It was a sheet of music of one of his compositions, though I could not make out the title clearly.  It looked a little rumpled laying on the stone step in front of the monument as there had been rain the day before. A single flower lay across it.  

As I stepped back from the grave, a piano began to play behind me. It was one of the nocturnes: delicate and sad. I turned round. A man standing in the group was playing the nocturne on his phone. Instead of listening to it himself, he had turned on the speaker so that we could all hear it. It was his tribute. We all stood still, looking towards the grave, as the tender notes floated on the spring breeze.

I wanted to cry. I am half – Polish after all. If you can’t cry in a cemetery, where can you cry. Poor Frederic so far from his homeland, I thought. Although his heart is buried in a church in Warsaw, in Poland, where his heart always was. And he lives on of course in his music. The nocturne finished, I gave a nod of thanks to the man with the phone and walked on. Short as it was, it was the most moving concert I have ever attended. 

I have never visited the cemetery before. It is like a small town itself within the city. There are long avenues of trees between the sections of graves. It made for a peaceful walk in the spring sunshine. Despite having a map, the graves were rather difficult to find, however, as the map only indicated the section they are situated in and the sections are quite large.  Also the graves are not in chronological order so recent ones are often laying side by side with ones over a hundred years old or earlier, as the cemetery opened in 1804. Well chronology has no meaning anymore for the dead in eternity.

There are many other famous people buried there and one of my reasons for visiting was to find the grave of Marcel Proust (1871-1922) the novelist. It is the centenary of his death this year and I have been reading his great seven volume novel: ‘In Search of Lost Time’, which I have mentioned in these meditations before. He was a great music lover and adored Chopin’s music, which is mentioned in his novel. I have also been reading several books about Proust himself. One included a map of the places where Proust lived in Paris. He spent most of his life there. With my patient friend Phil, I sought out these places the day before, most of which are near the Madeleine church. So, it was important to discover his final resting place, which is a simple grave of black marble with no monument.

This simplicity was unlike Oscar Wilde’s tomb, which I also visited, He had a simple grave at first having died a pauper in 1900 and was then buried outside Paris in Bagneux. However, he was transferred to Pere Lachaise in 1909 and then a grandiose sphinx – like monument (sculpted in 1911 by Sir Jacob Epstein) was placed there.

So many artists, musicians and writers are buried in the shady avenues of Pere Lachaise. We found some of them including: the composers Rossini and Cherubini, the novelists Balzac and Colette, the singer Edith Piaf and rock musician Jim Morrison from Doors, the actor Yves Montand, the composer Michel Le Grand and George Melies, one of the pioneers of the cinema. I would like to go back to find some others and revisit Frederic, Marcel, and Oscar of course. 

Once outside the cemetery we found a good bistro for lunch. Opposite us were the opulent offices of several grand funeral directors. No doubt they provide opulent funerals over the road in the cemetery at a grand price. I began to think that it would be good to be buried in Pere Lachaise, when my time comes, though I doubt that I could afford it. I had this thought not because I would be buried among the cultural elite of the last two hundred years, or because of all the grand monuments, but because of the peaceful avenues of trees.  Well who would visit my grave in Paris anyway? Although it would be as good an excuse as any for a Eurostar jaunt for my friends.  Perhaps if I was buried there, one of my ex students might leave a few pages of one of my scripts on top of my grave with a flower across it. Perhaps not only as a tribute but also as an apology for the lines they never learnt properly!  

The visit to Pere Lachaise was important to me to pay homage, to say thank you to some of those who have enriched my life. It is why I visit Shakespeare’s grave every time I go to Stratford- Upon-Avon.

You may have deduced from my meditations, that I something of a cultural tourist. Does that term exist or have I invented it? Well I am. It is easy for me to be reminded of my cultural tourism as I only have to look around the rooms in my house. Not only are there photos on display from my holidays but also pictures (I have two Rembrandts and a Da Vinci – but only copies of course!); framed posters (two Broadway productions I saw in New York for example) and on the shelves books I bought abroad, and cd’s, souvenirs posing as artefacts and of course my large collection of fridge magnets on display in the kitchen. Not  to mention the thousands of photos on my I phone and laptop from my travels! 

A photo encapsulates a memory, more than that, it evokes a memory if we look at it for long enough. Sadly these days we tend to snap away on our phones too quickly and look at the photos too quickly too, especially when we are scrolling through them to see which ones we want to delete. But do we really look at the ones that are left after our digital cull?

Along with the cultural souvenirs I have just listed, the photos can also be a trigger to our memory, if we stop and reflect, if we take a moment to remember.

Marcel Proust’s great novel ‘In Search of Lost Time’ is about memory. No-one describes how memories fade in and out of our consciousness as well as he does. He believed that as well as wanting to remember a memory, by looking at a photo for example or by trying to remember one, there is involuntary memory. This is when a memory comes to us clearly and concretely, unaided and unasked for, as a surprise, almost a revelation.

Like my lone Parisian violin and my piano nocturne.  

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 77

A wistful melody floats in my mind as I begin my latest meditation. It is the sound of a solo violin. As I fix my gaze on the candle beside me, the lilting tune seems to be curling around the flame itself, like a halo. The melody is a stately but sad, a sarabande from one of Bach’s cello suites and not originally written for the violin at all.    

I am not playing one of the albums from my copious CD collection to soothe me as I write. The music is evoked by a memory of a recent short visit to Paris – a memory of my final night there. It was late, not long before midnight, but the summer’s evening twilight had extended so that the sky was still a deep indigo. A lone violinist, a thin, elegant busker, was playing a rock tune fused into an 18th Century gigue. He was a dancing shadow, gently swaying to and fro and gliding in and out of the light.

Although he was tall, he was dwarfed by his backdrop: the two towers of the facade of Notre Dame Cathedral, looming behind him and lit by floodlights. For he was playing his violin on the Parvis, the large square in front of the Cathedral. The shape of the great Rose window between the towers was still resplendent in the floodlights, even though, as its beautiful stained glass was not shot through by daylight, its face was blank.

Inevitably Victor Hugo’s novel ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ came to my mind as I stood there. The elegant busker might have been one of Esmeralda’s band of gypsies playing his fiddle in and out of the fire light while she danced round the campfire beside  him.  In the floodlights, the saints in their niches above the main door peered down oblivious to the busker’s performance and the gargoyles, high in the towers, were also deaf to his jaunty tune like Quasimodo himself.

I was eager to see Notre Dame on my visit. I wanted to see how the restoration was progressing after the tragic fire in April 2019. I was hoping that I could go inside and see some of the renovations as someone had told me that a part of the building was open. But that was not possible.

I have quite a connection with the Cathedral as, aside from being a Roman Catholic, I have written my own dramatisation of Victor Hugo’s novel. It has always been one of my favourite stories as is the 1939 film version with Charles Laughton as Quasimodo. My friend Phil was with me on my little trip a few weeks ago and he and I had produced my dramatisation at the school in 2006. In fact my last visit to Paris was in the Autumn before  with Phil and his wife Anna, when we explored the cathedral to get inspiration for the script and the production. 

It was also my last production at the school and in Budapest in February 2020. It was the tragic fire a year earlier that had inspired me to revise the script and produce it again. I added a special prologue set in the present and centred on the fire. In the prologue was a chorus of people who had rushed to the scene when they heard the news that Notre Dame was in flames. 

Notre Dame is still a building site after three years and looks like it is barricaded in for a siege. How long it will remain so, I do not know. The modern steel scaffolding looks incongruous against the ancient walls of the cathedral as do the boards in front of the great main door with their ‘No Entry’ signs, the high cranes arched over the roof and the engineers’ temporary offices and builders’ huts in containers in their own little yard on the Parvis. The cathedral is so tall that the boards barely reach to half way up the great doors above the staircase of the main entrance. The whole edifice is surrounded by scaffolding as if it cannot stand up without it, although most of the building is secure despite the fire damage.     

The lone violinist finished his gigue and there was a pattering of applause from his little audience seated on the stone wall near him. Keening with his bow, he began the sad sarabande by Bach, etching an elegy into the still night air. The lingering drift of the music made me raise my eyes to the sky, which  had darkened to black pitch now. Little lights blazed out on the boards like stars and on the steel ribs of scaffolding illumining the ancient arches like votive lamps.  

As the sad tune floated in the night air, time stood still. It was a moment of time and yet not of time. Like Notre Dame itself: of time and yet not of time.

‘Elegy’ – did I write ‘elegy’? No: the violinist’s melody wasn’t an elegy. For Notre Dame is still with us, still standing strong as if eager to push away the scaffolding supporting it. No, not an elegy but a lament, a lament for the tragedy, three years ago. And for our world at war.

Despite the apparatus of reconstruction surrounding it, the Cathedral was still beautiful. 

It gives a lie to the adage ‘You’ve got to stand on your own two feet.’ We all need support, to be shored up, like Notre Dame, at times. For a moment let others take the weight, however strong our frame may be. Let others help us to rebuild, to renew ourselves.     

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 76

As I sit beside my candle to begin this meditation, I am looking in the corner opposite across my lounge. This is where my cd’s are housed on shelves that are virtually full now, almost from ceiling to floor. This is my prized classical music library and there are also several shelves of film music and musicals as well. I must also mention some more cd’s neatly stacked on or below my coffee table. Beside me to my left are more shelves of DVD’s and Blu-ray’s. Behind me are my bookshelves which are also full. I appear to be quite a collector. I hasten to add that there is still space to get to the front door in case of fire! I haven’t completely submerged myself in culture yet.

However I take comfort in the fact that they have been collected over a long period of time. I have been collecting my cd’s, for example, over the last three decades, and before that I collected LP’s since being a teenager. I replaced my favourite LP’s with the cd versions in the early 90’s. Some, as with my books and movies, were gifts or bought at reduced price in a sale. Some of my music was a given to me by my old friend Brian, who passed away ten years ago. Some I purchased on my many trips to Budapest, where cd’s were cheaper than here. When I was running the Drama tours, after a week of organising and directing, I would always visit my favourite classical music stores in a moment of spare time and treat myself to an album – or two. I would do the same when I was there on holiday of course. One of the stores even gave me a discount card.

I also take comfort from a remark by my Hungarian friend, Mariann, when she visited my house quite a while ago. She looked at my bookshelves and said, ‘Books make a home.’

You may be thinking that all these books and music and movies must have been a solace to me during the pandemic or at least helped to get me through it. The answer is yes and no. My retirement finally began as the pandemic started and part of my retirement plan was to absorb myself in my reading and music and movies, now that I would have time to do so. But, as with all of us, the lockdowns left me too unsettled at times to enjoy them. I did purchase more cd’s though, some of which I still haven’t played. Then I discovered that I now had three versions of the complete Beethoven piano sonatas, as a result! I forgot to check I already had two – or did I? I think it was comfort-buying more than anything. A buffer again the storm. I am sure I will play them eventually.

Recently I have been led to reflect on why we collect things. Yes we may have a particular interest or hobby but what drives us on to collect more. Is it the innate need to possess within us or the primitive hunter/gatherer syndrome? Is it curiosity – I must hear that or see that? Is it the novelty of the new – a new artist on the block – I must hear or see him or her? Is it compulsion or obsession? The bottom line is: do we ever ask ourselves: Do I really need that?

Perhaps creating a collection is a relaxation from a stressful professional job, like my purchasing the odd cd or two in Budapest on my Drama tours. My Hungarian friend Adam is a high powered lawyer in Budapest and has a large collection of Star Wars figures and memorabilia going back to his childhood for instance. He also collects figures from TV series from his childhood. Perhaps he is harking back to his childhood when his life was less stressful, when he wasn’t so high profile. I must ask him. He also collects 1990s Honda sports cars – not models but the real thing! He currently has four, I believe, or

it it five? He scours the Internet for spare parts. I remember bringing a pair of head lamps in my luggage for him on a visit a few year ago! He has driven me around Hungary in one of them. Sitting in it, I imagined I was in some 1990’s American cop show. Although the cars are quite low to the ground and I am no longer agile enough (if ever!) to quickly get out and shout ‘Freeze!’

Another example of this is from many years ago when I was a student in Oxford. A high powered professor of Medicine at my college would occasionally invite small groups of his students for dinner and to see his elaborate train set which he kept set up in the loft. Digital collecting is so very easy isn’t it? Just a click then it is on its way. But not as satisfying or relaxing as spending time browsing in a shop. My dear friend Alan tells me he likes to listen to music while doing the family ironing. Currently he has collected 2,500 songs on Spotify and has 76 albums saved digitally too. He must have a lot of ironing to do! I should not jest as I have four complete Wagner Ring cycles and four complete versions of the nine Beethoven symphonies on disc! And all the rest. As I look at my music collection I realise that some discs reflect earlier enthusiasms which I no longer have. So perhaps I need to decide which I really want to keep and give away the rest as my dear late friend Brian did.

But where is the enjoyment – purely in possession? Sometimes I look around my shelves and think when will I have the time to absorb all this, to really enjoy it. I think back to my childhood and youth, when I would use my birthday or pocket money to buy a book and go home and immediately curl up in a chair and begin to read it. Or I would buy a record and take it home and play it over and over again and really absorb and enjoy the music. I had so few books or albums then I suppose. The ones I had were special. The connection between purchase and enjoyment was immediate then. I also used the local library to borrow books and music too, even when I moved to London and my little bedsit in Brixton. Borrowing rather than buying? Dear me! But I lived with more modest means then.

As I look around the lounge again I realise that, when you include my TV and the cable box, this little room is quite an entertainment centre. I am now a man of riches and treasures too: well, treasures to me. It appears I am wealthy man. It is good to look around our rooms with fresh eyes and take in our possessions. To realise just how wealthy we are compared with many others – and some of those others may live not very far from us. So we should be grateful for what we have and share our treasures with others if possible. And perhaps try to pay no attention to that little insidious voice encouraging us to purchase more and take that itching finger away from our phone or laptop where Amazon and other sites pedal their wares.

Some of these books and cd’s and movies are like old friends to me. Some are barely new acquaintances as I have hardly played them or read them, if at all. Some too, like true friends, have helped see me through difficult times.

But they are not really friends. Real friends cannot be bought, let alone possessed. Generally we only acquire real friends by accident, not by intention, where we find ourselves at different times on life’s journey. We shouldn’t pick them up and put them down again either like a cd or a book, let alone leave them to gather dust on the shelf. Friendships have to be kept in good repair. They are our true treasures, our true wealth.

Marcus advises us: ‘Whenever you want to cheer yourself up, think of the qualities of your fellows’, for which we could read ‘friends.’ So, instead of playing or streaming that movie or music or interminable Netflix series, or clicking on Amazon to buy something new, we could cheer ourselves up by reflecting on our friends and be thankful for them. And then give them a call.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

Meditation 75

As I sit here this evening beside my candle, through the window the light slowly begins to fade. However, in my mind’s eye I can see cherry blossom gently blowing in the breeze of a Spring day as if it is blooming outside my window. The blossom is a delicate pink and is not only hanging from the boughs of one tree but from a whole avenue of trees stretching ahead of me, interspersed with elegant street lamps.
The avenue I am picturing in my mind is situated on the promenade that skirts the Castle district (the Var) on the Buda side of Budapest. Looking down from it you can see the Danube and Pest on the other side. The blossom creates a canopy as you leisurely stroll under it in the Spring sunshine. Everyone will stop at some point in their walk to admire the blossom or take a photo or a ‘selfie’ with its profusion in the background. Little children wonder at the blossom too, picking up clumps of fallen pink petals from the ground to play with.
This is not a vibrant memory of several years ago but a recent one. For a few weeks ago I returned to Budapest for a holiday. It was my first visit there (and my first trip abroad) since February 2020, just before the pandemic took hold. Those of you who read my meditations may recall that my reason for being in Budapest then was my final Drama tour with my school after almost thirty years of performances there (and in other places in Hungary too). It was a very busy week then, as those tours always were, and quite emotional for me. I always knew I would be returning at some point to see my friends but I would not be touring with a group again.
So I was glad to be finally revisiting the city after two years to properly take stock of my many times there, to reflect as dear Marcus would have done. I would have done this earlier, probably in the autumn of 2020, if the pandemic hadn’t prevented me. In the throes of the pandemic and in lockdowns at home, I found it difficult to reflect at all. I was trying to make sense of what we were all going through then and I shared some of those thoughts here in this blog.
It was also good to have a friend with me to share my reflections and memories. My friend Simon had quite a few himself as he was a student on some of the earlier tours and was a guest with other ex-students on my final one. He had also visited the city quite a few times in the interim.
There were many memories as I revisited places and met with old friends (some of whom I have known for three decades). As I sat on the number 2 tram and trundled along the Danube embankment, I remembered numerous occasions when I was on the same tram with my students and my perennial cry of ‘Next Stop!’, which some of them would imitate. This led me to memories of our numerous productions and moments from rehearsals and performances and all those journeys round the city, trudging around (often in snow or rain) with costumes and props.
I was sitting with Simon one morning in the Muvesz coffee house on Andrassy Street near the Opera House with coffee and a large wedge of Sacher Torte in front of me. I recalled the numerous occasions I had been there and who had been with me. For my times in Budapest have always involved coffee, cake and culture. And good food and wine and conversation with friends. And goulash of course and hortobagy palacinta: my favourite

meat pancakes in a tomato and cheese sauce. My girth has definitely developed because of regular visits to Budapest!
Many recollections swirled in my mind like the blossom in the breeze on the Promenade. It was a visit redolent of echoes of the past. However, like all familiar places we travel to, it was as if I had never been away. It was as if the hiatus created by the pandemic hadn’t happened. The city looked much the same to me: some shops and cafes I used to frequent had sadly disappeared, but there seemed to be ongoing restoration work on old buildings and new buildings have appeared too. The city and the Castle district in particular looked resplendent in the sunshine.
At night, the streets in the castle district are beautifully lit by lamplight, which I really love. The streets have been used for filming frequently. The light from the lamps makes the white or yellow stucco walls of the old buildings warmly glow. The dark avenue of trees interspersed with the lights shining from below onto the boughs and leaves turn the promenade into a magical glade. It would be an ideal setting for Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.
Despite being a very busy tourist trap in the day, the streets in the Var are fairly quiet at night and have a romantic rather than a sinister atmosphere (unlike the streets of Venice). My dear friends Mariann and Kristóf lived there with their family for many years just off the promenade. They found me accommodation in the district on my first visits to the city on my own. This was when I taught Drama at Mariann’s school several times in my October half terms. The streets in the area were even quieter at night in those days, over a quarter of a century ago. Budapest wasn’t a major tourist destination then as it is now. I loved staying there, stepping out onto the cobbled streets with the historic buildings on either side. I felt as if I was walking in a film set myself or, on a more profound level, that I was in the heart of Central Europe.
It was the castle district which really attracted me to the city at first and my first memories of the city are bound up with it. It was good to rediscover it on this trip (and so beautifully restored) as we were staying in a hotel only a short walk away. Walking around those streets one evening and recalling when I stayed there all those years ago, made me realise that Budapest has been a major part of my life and remains very important to me.
It is good to have special places in our lives that speak to us, where we feel at home, which I do whenever I am there. Also when I am there, sitting in a cafe or strolling along the Danube embankment, I realise that I am at heart a European. That is why, in these meditations, I have been so angry about Brexit and so saddened about the current war in Ukraine.
I always feel at home in the Kolibri Children’s Theatre which I revisited too on my stay in the city. It was where we gave our last performances two years ago, when I was made an honorary member of the theatre.
In chatting with the director, Janos Novak, I discovered that the theatre is not only up running again but with a busy schedule and full audiences. It has had a refurbishment too. It is a children’s theatre with an international reputation and organises international annual festivals. We first appeared there in 1996 and my friend Simon was in that production as Robin Hood.
This year the Kolibri is celebrating its 30th anniversary. I remember we revived ‘Robin Hood’ for its 25th! The theatre is putting together a documentary as part of the

celebrations. While I was there I was asked to give an interview for the documentary, which was quite an honour. It was moving to be back on the stage again after two years for the filming. It has always been a special place for me. I find it remarkable to think my students and myself have been a small part of the theatre’s story. But the new appeared in over twenty productions there over the years.
Shortly after I returned home, I took part in another zoom meeting with ex-members of Teeside Youth Theatre. What an arc my life has taken: from a Youth Theatre in the North East of England to an honorary member of a theatre in Budapest! I suppose it is only when we retire, or when we stop, that we can see the arc our lives have taken. Most of the time we are too busy working and lucky if we can see one foot in front of the other! But it is important to occasionally step back and appreciate what we have achieved and that is not immodesty. It is appreciating who we are. The playwright Noel Coward wrote in one of his plays:
‘Here’s a toast to each of us and all of us together Here’s a toast to happiness ands reasonable pride’.
I agree with Noel that there is such a thing as ‘reasonable pride’ – in a good job done, in what we have achieved. And yes I am proud of my achievements at school and in Hungary. And so grateful for all the friendships and memories and good things on the way.
On our last day, Simon and I took our final stroll among the cherry trees on the promenade. The trees were beginning to shed their blossom in earnest. The wet pavements were covered in their pink petals. We were fortunate to have seen the trees in full bloom when we arrived.
Everything is transient, everything must come to an end. ‘Our revels now are ended’ as Prospero says in Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’.
This holiday has helped me to see the arc and also to finally let go.
And to appreciate my favourite city in a new way.
And to return when the cherry trees are in bloom again – or before!
Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up.
And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.
I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter. Many thanks
Neilus Aurelius

Meditation 74

As I sit here beside my candle I am meditating on the Movies. I suppose I should be watching one instead! I have always had an interest in films and have loved going to the cinema since being a child. I am sure most of us are the same. Although, perhaps we go to the cinema less often now and watch films on TV or stream them. Entertainment has become rather complicated, hasn’t it? Or rather choosing how to watch a film has. Personally, I still think the best way to concentrate on a film and to hopefully become immersed in it, is to see it in a cinema.    

I also have a keen interest in cinema history, which also developed in my childhood. At that time, the BBC seemed to be showing the back catalogue of movies made by the Paramount and RKO studios. Many were from the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s. I relished them all and would eagerly wait for the cast list at the end of each film to see who was playing who. I would remember their names and watch out for them in other movies.  

In those days, closing credits were much shorter than the seemingly endless ones of today. The end credits were limited to a cast list. Only the stars and ‘featured players’ received a credit. Those in minor roles or ‘bit parts’ often did not appear in the list at all. Some studios (like 20th Century Fox) often placed the cast list at the opening of the film along with the technical credits. Not all the technicians who contributed to the film’s production were included either in the film’s opening credits.  Only the major ones did: the director, screenwriters, music composer, director of photography, set designer, costume, hairstyle and makeup for example. The others, though equally important, were invisible studio employees.

I used to collect film actors the way other boys of my age collected football players. (Dear me, that sounds rather indelicate!) Eventually I came to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of film actors from that era and not just the stars but also the character actors too. I am sure I began to learn my acting craft by watching those movies. I never wanted to be a star but would have loved to be a character actor in Hollywood’s golden era. I still would.

When I was a child, my ambition was to be in a Disney movie at their Hollywood studios. At that time Disney produced a string of ‘live-action’ films as well as their animation ones. I remember entering a competition run by the Disney magazine and first prize was a trip to the studios in Hollywood. I was sure I would win and that when I was on the studio tour I would be talent spotted, which would lead to my Disney film career. Such are the dreams of childhood! I did win something: a signed photo of Hayley Mills their top teenage star at the time. But it was no consolation to me!     

It must be wonderful to win an Oscar, BAFTA or other major award. I can’t help myself watching those ceremonies on TV and finding out the nominees in advance and hoping that my choices will win, especially if it is a film or performance I have very much appreciated. It must be so exciting and rewarding to have your craft acknowledged in this way or even just to be nominated, which is an acknowledgement in itself. Either way, I understand it makes you more ‘bankable’ for the future. Needless to say, I have my basic acceptance speech ready so that I can adapt it when the times comes. At this time in my life, it won’t be the award for Most Promising Newcomer but for Most Promising Senior!

Coming back to my celluloid youth, ITV showed quite a lot of British films then including those made by Alexander Korda at London Films in the 30’s and early 40’s. He established London Films at Denham in Buckinghamshire. His aim was to rival Hollywood in high standards, quality and opulence and he often succeeded. I very much enjoyed his films especially those starring Charles Laughton, one of my favourite actors. I find it strange that Korda was a Hungarian and that eventually Hungary would figure so prominently in my life. There is now a major film studio named after him (as it should be) outside Budapest where a lot of Netflix movies are made. Two of my ex-students, Archie Renaux and Tommy Rodger, have been filming a Netflix series there: Shadow and Bone.’  It is wonderful to think that their first appearance as actors in Hungary was in one of our school productions on tour there, and now they are back in Hungary filming a Netflix series. Life comes full circle: very quickly for them.      

When I was a teenager, on one of our annual holidays to London, I bought a book called ‘Immortals of the Screen.’ It was a large book with potted biographies of film stars, going back to the silent days. All of the stars had passed way (hence ‘immortal’ in the title) before 1966, when the book was printed. Each little biography was accompanied by a portrait and stills from some of the films they appeared in. I imagine it must have been published in the U.S.A. and reprinted in Europe.  It was one of those big books that Paul Hamlyn used to publish, usually printed in Czechoslovakia. Perhaps you remember them. Of course the book fired up my enthusiasm even further and I would watch out for the films mentioned if they came on TV or on a chance re-run at the cinema. Those were the days before VHS, DVD, Blue Ray and streaming!

Most of the silent stars would not be featured on TV of course. Thanks to Kevin Brownlow’s wonderful TV series, ‘Hollywood’ and his restoration of some of the classic silent films with superb scores by composer Carl Davis, which appeared on Channel 4, I was finally able to see some of those stars who featured in the book I bought years earlier. Eventually I became and still am a member of the British Film Institute on London’s South Bank where I can see these silent classics as they should be seen – on the big screen. I have also been fortunate to see some with a live orchestra next door at the Festival Hall. But perhaps my passion for silent movies should be the subject of another blog. 

Being a fan of the Oscars ceremony, inevitably I watched the morning news on TV a few weeks ago to find out the winners. There on the news I saw the regrettable incident of the actor Will Smith stepping up to the stage and slapping the Master of Ceremonies Chris Rock. This was provoked by a joke made by Mr Rock about Mr Smith’s wife who was sitting beside him. The joke was interpreted by the Smiths as a nasty comment on her hair loss as she is an alopecia sufferer. Initially Mr Smith laughed – did he hear properly? – but it seems that his wife’s discomfort with the remark led him to walk up to the stage and hit Mr. Rock. Mr Smith seemed very emotional at his Best Actor acceptance speech with tears in his eyes.  Perhaps this was part of the problem. His emotions must have been running high while he was waiting in the audience for the Best Actor category to be announced onstage. A few weeks earlier, he had won ‘Best Actor’ at the BAFTA awards in London so would he make it a double at the Oscars? 

I am sure that the emotions of all nominees run high while waiting for the big moment. Moreover they probably do not really have any interest in the stand-up repartee of the MC. They are nervous and not a little uptight, which may have contributed towards Mr Smith quietly blowing a fuse, walking onto the stage and slapping Mr Rock, then returning to his seat and shouting at Mr Rock before he sat down.

In other circumstances, he would have been removed by security guards no doubt. Had he not been sitting on an aisle and fairly close to the stage, perhaps the incident may never have happened. Although he may still have stood up and shouted at Mr Rock from wherever he was seated.

It was ‘unacceptable and harmful behaviour’ on Mr Smith’s part in the words of the Academy’s official review published today and the Academy have banned him from the Oscar gala and other Academy events for 10 years. Mr Smith had earlier already apologised for his behaviour and voluntarily resigned from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (who awarded him his Oscar) and hopefully will regain his personal dignity in time.

In a way Oscars Night has ceased to be a ceremony but over the years has become a circus (certainly a media circus) with its fashion parade on the red carpet, the big production numbers on stage, endless interviews and wild after show parties. The first Academy Awards ceremony took place in 1929 and was at a private dinner at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel: very different from the world wide television event it has become.            

Much attention has understandably been given to Will Smith as the aggressor. But surely we must also take into account his provoker, the compère for the evening, Chris Rock, when considering this regrettable incident. The comedian and actor Ricky Gervais has very recently referred to Mr Rock’s joke as ‘feeble’. It probably was compared to his own roasting of nominees when he has been Master of Ceremonies at awards evenings. Rather than physically attack Mr Gervais, presumably the objects of his comments suffered in silence.

He has also objected to Mr Rock’s joke at Jada Pinckett Smith’s expense being labelled as a joke against a disability. Whether alopecia can be defined as a disability I do not know, so he may have a point here. Nevertheless it is an ongoing medical condition which sufferers may feel understandably sensitive about as it involves their looks, especially if you are an actor and consort of a major movie star attending the Oscars, where your personal appearance is so high profile. She was diagnosed in 2018, it appears, and has only gone public about her condition on Instagram last December. It seems that Mr Rock was unaware of this. Perhaps it may have taken her some courage to attend the ceremony, we do not know.

It also appears that Mr Rock’s joke was unscripted, off the cuff, a sudden brainwave. He had said the wrong thing at the wrong time without thinking and hurt someone’s feelings as a result. We have all been guilty of that at times. I certainly have. But not in a high profile ceremony with a world-wide audience. It is easier to come out with a witty comment than to stop and think about who you are speaking to, especially when you are performing your act to a large audience on the stage of the Oscars. However, it is indicative of a wider trend in stand-up comedy of using humour to deliberately denigrate and demean others at their expense, to the extent that humour becomes vitriolic and tasteless. But then, Social media is riddled with unkind humour and comments and sometimes with tragic results, especially among young people. It is a sad sign of our times. 

Perhaps, along with banning Mr Smith, the Academy ought to also review the role of the MC at the ceremony.

The singer and actress, Lady Gaga’s behaviour at the ceremony contrasts with Mr Smith’s and not in his favour. Later on the evening she was announcing the award for Best Picture with another famous actress and singer, Liza Minnelli, who was making a rare appearance. Miss Minnelli, an Oscar winner herself (for ‘Cabaret in 1973)  appeared on stage in a wheelchair and had been in hospital only a few weeks earlier. She was understandably rather nervous and tongue-tied. Perhaps being back at the Oscars was rather overwhelming for her too and this was the last award of the evening to be announced so she had been waiting in the wings, so to speak, for a long while. Putting aside her own feelings at losing the Best Actress award (the previous one to be announced) Lady Gaga gently and graciously assisted Miss Minnelli with the announcement.  It was a loving gesture and showed respect for the star that Liza Minnelli is.

Sadly this beautiful moment, though widely publicised, has been overshadowed by the earlier dramatic incident.

Incidentally there is a film called ‘He who Gets Slapped’! It is a silent film released in 1924 and was M-G-M’s first ever production, starring Lon Chaney. The film is ironically set in a circus! Perhaps we are ready for a remake, only set at the Oscars.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius