Thoughts in Progress

If we do not work on our exterior, our internal characterisation as well as its conception will not reach the audience. Thus spoke Tortsov, theatre and school director whose collaboration with the great theatre practitioner Konstantin Stanislavski formed the basis of the latter’s book An Actor Prepares. His words were on my mind recently as I watched a group of smokers carefully.

Observing them at a distance I came to the following conclusion: they all looked as if they wanted to hold something, anything, all the time. The cigarette in their hands was a mere prop. It could have been any other object, a glass, a dumbbell or a pencil, but I guess the effect would have been less dramatic. This was the second outcome of my observation: their cigarette-holding exercise was a performance.

As a race, we humans are prop-friendly or prop-obsessed (depending on how close we feel towards them). The current mobile phone craze has given us yet another excuse to handle an object. Never mind that the constant swiping and screen-glancing make mobile phone users walking hazards, all they are focused on is the public, unintentional, off-the-cuff (unasked-for) performance they are regaling to an uninterested audience.

This is not a new phenomenon. Go back a few decades and you will notice that cigarettes and alcohol were the go-to props of the day. I have just gone on You Tube to watch a collage of fag-filled clips of the unforgettable Bette Davis. At less than a minute long, the amount of smoke in the video is enough to make you cough. You even forget for a moment that you are watching the late American star … on your computer.

You might disagree with me on the following statement but I do believe that nobody held a ciggie like Ms Davis. Hand on hip, or looking intently in the other person’s eyes, or slowly walking down a set of stairs, or putting the stogy butt out, there was always class in her acting. Precisely what Tortsov insisted that his students have. In another chapter he talks about an actor’s presence on stage, how some have an aura that precedes them even before they utter a word. They could read the telephone book to the whole theatre and still no one would get up to leave. Props very often have a certain influence on this total control of actor over public.

Now, that's the way to hold it

When I was still doing theatre back in my 20s one of my main concerns was what to do about my hands. Not being a smoker or a heavy drinker myself, I did not have the habit of permanently holding an object. To this day I remember my lessons in each of the groups to which I belonged. Once we had a masterclass with a renowned professional Cuban actor. At the end of the session he approached me and said sternly: “I liked your performance. You have a good voice, perfect spatial sense and clear articulation. But your hands let you down. They are all over the gaffe. Rein them in. You are in command. Rein them in.”

I did not mind his comment, it was true. The issue was that I seriously did not know what to do with my hands. The most common mistake for two actors rehearsing a scene is to put their hands in their pockets (if they have them), cross their arms or adopt the teapot pose (hands on hips).

Perhaps this is what Shakespeare had in mind when he stated that “All the world’s a stage”. Now, I wonder what he ever did with his hands. Or perhaps, he was a smoker.



© 2017

Next Post: “Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music… Ad Infinitum”, to be published on Wednesday 1^st March at 6pm (GMT)

London, my London

“And it’s six in the morning and, gave me no warning, I’m riding with Lady Luck, freeway cars and trucks/Stars beginning to fade, and I lead the parade/Just a-wishing I‘d stayed a little longer/Oh, Lord, let me tell you that the feeling’s getting stronger.”

But it was not six in the morning for me, Tom, rather, it was mid-afternoon and I was riding my bike. The rest, I dig. My feeling was getting stronger, too. I was on Grove End Road after leaving that famous crossing behind. My next destination? Camden Market.

At the point where Grove End Road meets St John’s Wood Road, NW8 opens up. This avenue-wide yawn provides much-welcomed extra space for cyclists. With Tom Waits’ piano-driven “Ol’ 55” riffing in my ears, I found myself getting closer to another “Lord”, but of the cricket variety. Not the ground where England had regained the Ashes a few days before playing against Australia (that honour went to Trent Bridge, Nottingham) but still, a site where history had been made before. The Lord’s Cricket Ground is the home of the sport that forms the UK’s Holy Trinity along with rugby and, of course, football. Even for people like me, who cannot play cricket, nor can understand the rules of the sport, the symbolism of this venue is too huge to miss.

It is ironic to think that the Ashes were born out of defeat. When the Australians crushed the English team in 1882 at the Oval, the Sporting Times carried a mock obituary proclaiming that “the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia”.

I did not stay long on St John’s Wood Road. The first exit at the roundbout led me towards Prince Albert Road and consequently more shade. The summer sun was out in full swing and the temperature had climbed up to the late 20s. I wanted to get to Camden before evening time. The Regent’s Park was now on my right and so were London Zoo and the Zoological Society of London, founded in 1826 and counting amongst its members one Charles Darwin. Current luminaries include go-to nature documentary presenter, Sir David Attenborough, perhaps one of the most, if not the most easily recognisable face on British television in the last four or five decades.

Whilst this is a post about my experience of cycling around London, I cannot get away from the topic of animals in captivity. That is one of the reasons why I have never set foot in the London Zoo or any other zoo for as long as I can remember. I understand that the nature of keeping animals in enclosures has changed drastically. I also understand that certain species would have disappeared had zoological societies not intervened in time. Furthermore, zoos have also adopted an educational approach which includes reaching out to schools and other institutions.

There was a long queue outside the London Zoo which made me stop for a moment and mentally flip a coin. What if it was the other around? Tigers lining with their cubs, crocodiles with their short-tailed babies and skunks with their magpie-coloured offspring to see us, humans, in cages?

I laughed internally, a long, silent and throaty laugh and carried on towards a real human zoo: Camden Market. In my head Tom Waits’ “Ol’ 55” kept riffing: “And my time went so quickly, I went lickety-splickly out to my Ol’ 55/as I pulled away slowly, feeling so holy, God knows, I was feeling alive”.

© 2016

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 23^rd January at 6pm (GMT)

Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On

A few days ago I heard the Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne, say on the radio that he wanted Britain to be a leader in areas such as business and technology. This was part of the reason for Mr Osborne's cap-in-hand trip to China.

That left me thinking about Icarus. If you remember the tale well, he tried to escape from Crete with wings of wax but flew so high that his wings melted from the heat of the sun and he fell into the sea and died.

Is Mr Osborne thinking of equipping British businesses with wax wings?

When did “good enough” become “bad”?

As a long-time UK-resident I want my economy to work. Whether it stands out in Europe or it does not, I could not give two monkeys. I want it to work for those who live in Britain, whether born here or not. I want the economy to yield profit-making businesses – especially socially-minded – that contribute to the public kitty. I want it to grow, but not out of control, not in a borrow-and-I-will-pay-later-if-I-can way but in pragmatic, objective manner. I want there to be independent bodies for spotting and correcting errors. There will be wobbles in this economy I want (which economy has not got wobbles?) but they will be transitory and not too difficult to overcome. There will also be highlights, but not of the type that will make fellow denizens wish to live in a highlight-chasing society but the ones you enjoy with a cuppa and a biscuit. Then, we all move on and plod along.

Instead, what I keep hearing from headline-grabbing George Osborne is that we, the UK, should lead the world in whatever the government decides next: nuclear energy, arms trade, refugees’ resettlement? Oh, no, sorry, not that last one. Beg your pardon. We definitely do not want to lead in that area.

I want a functional economy in a functional country. I value that more than the “outstanding”, the “extraordinary” and the “excellent”. I am not averse to these traits; I am, however, wary of the effects in chasing them. Market domination might be good for shareholders but it makes no difference to Joe or Joanna Public. They still have to choose between supermarket own brand or top range when doing their shopping. Of decisions like this one is life for the majority of us made.

When people ask me about what sort of society I would like Cuba to become when Fidel finally kicks the bucket and there is no more Raúl and his crooks, my answer is always the same: a working system. A working system does exactly what says on the tin. It works for everybody or for most people. It is difficult to achieve this when those in power are more concerned about capturing the goose that lays the golden eggs. Would it not be better to have just eggs, pure and simple?

When my son was little, my wife and I used to take him to a session with other children and their parents. I remember talking to another parent once and telling this person that my aspiration – at the time – was to be a “good enough” parent. This person got worked up somewhat and told me that their aspiration was to be “the best” parent ever. That comment and the strength with which it was said struck me as funny. My first thought was that this person was setting her/himself up for failure. No one can be the best all the time. Especially parents. My second thought was: what happened to “good enough”?

It is a question that has come back to haunt me recently for reasons I will not discuss in this post. But the premise of my column tonight remains the same: “average” is no longer enough. Some people really want to know why you are not excellent, extraordinary or outstanding. The issue is that this sadly sends out the wrong message as people misunderstand what “average” means and what it represents. I live an average life in the UK. I make no excuses for it. Even when I go back to Cuba I tell people what I do for a living, what we get up to at weekends and what we spend our money on. The irony is that my lifestyle seems extraordinary, even rich, to some of my fellow country-women and men.

Sky's new slogan is "believe in better". I sometimes do believe in better. Chiefly when it comes to sports; I would like my beloved Yankees to make it to the play-offs, Chelsea to win the English Premier League again this season and my hometown baseball team, Industriales, to add another pennant to their trophy cabinet. But in most areas of my life I believe that "good enough" is, pardon the repetition, good. Why soar when you can fly in a straight line and get to your destination quicker and safer? I am not advocating a risk-free life, but a good-enough attitude. If you need some advice, ask Icarus.

© 2015

Next Post: “London, my London”, to be published on Wednesday 30^th September at 6pm (GMT)

Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music... Ad Infinitum

One of my fondest memories of my recent stay in Cuba was an all-inclusive hotel in Varadero where we spent five nights. Although the hotel was basic (the rating couldn't have been higher than three stars, and this is from an ex-tour-operator), the staff were friendly and the food well cooked. It was a wonderful occasion for me to rekindle my love for offal.

Offal gets a bad reputation frequently. All those bloody intestines making us feel like vultures picking over the remains of a dead animal. Yet, I love viscera. And I agree with Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's  who recently said that "meat-eaters ought to eat all the parts of an animal, not just the pretty bits". Apparently he has an Offal Manifesto. This column is my way of signing up to it.

Paprikash of hearts and livers

2 lamb or pigs' hearts
500g lamb or pigs' liver
2 tbsp olive, rapeseed or sunflower oil (or lard)
1kg onions, peeled and finely chopped
1 tbsp sweet paprika
1 tbsp smoked paprika (or Spanish pimentón)
2 tsp hot paprika
200ml tomato passata
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Cut the hearts in half lengthways and trim out the coarse ventricles. Rinse the hearts in cold water, and pat dry. Trim any coarse sinews off the liver and cut it into four pieces.

Heat a tablespoon of oil in a heavy casserole, add the onions and cook gently, stirring occasionally, until soft and translucent. Add all the paprika, stir in well and cook for a couple of minutes.

Heat the rest of the oil in a separate pan and brown all the offal pieces in it, turning occasionally so they colour all over. Add the offal to the onion pot, together with the passata and a small glass of water. Bring to a very gentle simmer and cover. Cook over the lowest possible heat or in a very low oven (120C/250C/gas mark ½) for at least two hours, until the meat is very tender. Check occasionally, turning and adding a little water if it looks dry.

When the meat is cooked, check the consistency of the sauce: it should be thick, rich and pulpy. If need be, cook it for a few more minutes. Adjust the seasoning as necessary. You could finish the dish by stirring in a spoonful of soured cream or, as I prefer to do, just take soured cream to the table to serve with it. Accompany with mash or rice.

The music to go with this recipe MUST be rich in content. Just like the ubiquitous iron in lamb or pigs' livers. That's why my first musical offer is Cuban artist WIlliam Vivanco with a little number whose genre I could very well call "Afro-trova". Olokun is one of the deities commonly found in the Yoruba pnatheon. He is the owner of the depths of the ocean. Enjoy.



Hear that sizzling sound? It's Babe Ruth's bluesy sound. Ha, bet you'd already forgot about this band! Well, let me tell you something, this is an usual blog that likes to promote itself as the place where music and food go hand in hand together. Now, Gimmie Some Leg, will ya?



And after such a hearty meal of hearts and livers (no pun intended), how about some chocolate? But only if you have it Tom Waits' style. And if you don't fancy any, I'll have your portion, thank you very much. Happy eating!



Next Post: "Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music", to be published on Sunday 12th May at 10am (GMT)

Photo taken from guardian.co.uk

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

... an Ursidae statikós stood in her way.

To bring to an end this series about the creatures (and plants, as you will be able to read below) that populate the London Underground, we'll focus on the actual train today. If you want to read about the specimens that populate the escalators click here, or alternatively you can read about the ones that roam around on the platforms here.

(affects David Attenborough's voice)

The Tube is a fascinating micro-representation of Darwin's landmark scientific work 'The Origin of the Species'. Once the train doors close (and provided there's no Delphinidae vīvāx around to stop them from doing so), the struggle for survival ensues.

Taking centre stage - literally - we have the first specimen: the Gorgo Lavatera Hūmānus. As the name indicates this is a flowering plant. But do not be fooled by its appearance. Passengers that dare to cross a GLH, are turned to stone and will miss their stop. (squats) Watch! (whispers) These are the roots of the human lavatera. They are so strong that when trains are taken to the depot at the end of their journey, extra staff are usually called to deal with these underground organs. What does the Gorgo Lavatera Hūmānus do? It boards the train and regardless of the amount of people in it, it heads for the pole in the middle of the carriage and grabs hold of it. There it grows roots whilst in the opposite direction it spits out a mix of annual, biennial and perennial herbaceous plants and soft-wooded shrubs. The beauty of its flowers hardly compensates for the discomfort it causes, especially during peak-hours. Whenever a passenger tries to get on or off the train, he or she has to negotiate his/her way around the Gorgo Lavatera Hūmānus, who in turn, remains defiant on the face of the discomfort inflicted on its fellow travellers.

The second species today (rising up) is the Gryllidae Urbanus, otherwise known as the 'Tube DJ'. This is a creature whose countenance has mutated over the years. In the 80s they were commonly seen holding a big stereo with large antennae sitting on their shoulders, spreading loud music partout. Nowadays they're the proud owners of mp3, iPods, iPhones and whatever technological gadget they can lay their hands on. These they use to broadcast the music they like to a trainful of people who might be of a different melodic bent. Any attempt to reason with a Tube DJ is futile as they have lost the ability to speak coherently and can only express themselves with chirping sounds. The existence of ears in these animals have proved to be a debatable issue for many scientists. I would like to throw my hat in the ring now and declare that I once saw a Gryllidae Urbanus's ears burst into flames on the Victoria Line when a (very loud) session including Motörhead, Metallica and Slayer became unbearable not only for the DJ, but also for the passengers around him. Unfortunately the human music box could not press 'stop' on time and his head (including his ears) became a mushroom of flames. It shoud be noted that sympathy was in short supply at the scene of the accident as the majority of the commuters gave a sigh of relief when the DJ was being devoured by the fire.

(looking at the camera) This is a magic moment. The camera you see now will disappear before your eyes. And it will all be done by mirrors. This field device is being tested on the Ursidae Statikós. The results look promising. The 'Underground Bear' (another name for this creature) only gets on the train when he or she (usually a 'he') thinks the coast is clear. But what's clear to you, it's crowded to the rest of us. It just takes a small gap in the train to trigger off a bout of optimism in the Ursidae Statikós and he will charge towards that space no matter what. Stocky legs, a long snout, shaggy hair, you might think I'm describing Jeremy Clarkson, but no, that's what this underground species looks like. Coupled with their bulkiness and robustness, it shouldn't come as a surprise that many passengers have felt suffocated when they find themselves between an Underground Bear and the train doors. However, these creatures are harmless. Their danger only comes from not realising their own physical power. For instance, as soon as a train arrives at the platform, the Ursidae Statikós will stand aside to let people off the carriage and allow others to get on. But no sooner has he spotted a space that he thinks will accommodate his large size, than he will make off for it regardless of the consequences. Which, come to think of it, are serious. Overturned buggies (with crying children on arms), creased clothes, trod-upon shoes, It's all there. But the Underground Bear will remain unaware. He'll just give his Yogi smile and will continue his journey blissfully ignorant of the chaos around him.

(in the studio, doing the voice-over) These are but three species of the many members we find in both the flora and fauna in the London Underground. Unfortunately we don't have time to cover them all: for instance, the Mustelidae Pervertere who has the undesirable habit of getting too close to the female anatomy (especially from behind) in full carriages. By contrast the Canis Familiaris Polītus is the epitome of courtesy and decency. Here's a creature who will give up his or her seat for an elderly person or a pregnant woman. Yet more evidence of the fascinating micro-cosmos we find in the London Underground.

© 2010

Image taken from flickr.com



Next Post: 'Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts', to be published on Tuesday 1st June at 11:59pm (GMT)

Song for a Spring Sunday Morning - Tango Til They're Sore by Tom Waits

Well ya play that Tarantella/All the hounds they start to roar/And the boys all go to hell/Then the Cubans hit the floor/And they drive along the pipeline/They tango till they're sore/They take apart their nightmares/And they leave them by the door.

Mr Waits, you should know that Cubans do salsa, not tango! Now, where did I leave that mate:-)? A teetotal drunk on atonal music performed by an artist with a warped sense on humour on a Sunday morning. Yup, that's me. Enjoy.

Next post: 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Review)' to be published on Tuesday 26th May at 11:59pm (GMT)