Welcoming the Monkey: Finding Lightness in Heavy Work

Me and Theo Clinkard in 2008, I Feel Funny Today by Yasmeen Godder- From our evening of work entitled Magpie. Photo: Alex Grove

Corpsing on Stage…

It’s only happened to me a handful of times in live performance. It catches you off guard and suddenly you feel 95% out of control, grasping at the 5% control you have left to get you back on track. Like a monkey has leapt into the scene and you have to coax it gently towards you. Once it appears you can’t just shoo it away, you have to somehow absorb it. Fully letting go of the laughter becomes overwhelmingly desirable as the tension builds. You can’t allow that to happen, unless the work was designed to absorb a spontaneous outburst of hysteria. It creates a whole new pressure- the fear of exposure. Can I regain control and composure? Can I pull myself back? Can I tame the monkey?

I remember it happening majorly twice in my five years with Rambert Dance Company. The first time, I was new, 18 or 19 years old, an apprentice surrounded by mature dancers with years of experience, performing in large-scale theatres. I was the baby of the company, with an ever-present fear of messing up and frequently feeling out of my depth. It’s no surprise that when caught off guard by another performer actively trying to make me and others laugh I felt the explosion of laughter bubble up and begin to explode. The scene was quiet and still and we were all wearing masks and theatrical costumes; it was brilliant and magical and surreal but definitely not a moment to corpse on stage. Controlling myself was painful, like shaking a bottle of fizzy drink and opening it just a little to let out some gas.

A meeting was called the following week. The lead performers in this work had quite rightly been distracted by other company members laughing. Older members laughed this reprimand off, I did not. I was new, and mortified, and afraid it would happen again as I knew I had that fizziness in me just under the surface and no tools to deal with it yet.

The second time was thankfully a few years later when I was properly grounded within the company. A moment in a very sombre piece where we had to stand still and observe someone dancing a lamention. On the last night of a tour in Sheffield, one of the Irish musicians had had one too many drinks between shows and lost their way singing a haunting ballad. This meant none of the choreographed movements echoing the story of death and sorrow made any sense, and made the scene feel instantly ridiculous. Again caught us off guard, the magic shattered, the fizziness bubbled up and out and I ended up sobbing my way through the scene. I’m not sure turning laughter into tears was a great idea, but it was laugh or cry at the funeral scene, so I chose tears!

I wanted to reflect on this in relation to how we use laughter and play to relax our bodies, release held tension, to reset, to assist our capacity to process and dive into something deeper, open our hearts and minds, bring us into the present, exit a scene that demands high focus or to tap into a deep dark place. There are so many reasons why laughing, letting the fizziness out, is such a useful tool and feels great.

This week I finished my work with Sophie Olson and Patricia Walsh directing their book ‘The Flying Child- A Cautionary Fairy Tale for Adults’. The book is obviously challenging as it documents Sophie’s journey in processing Child Sexual Abuse, alongside her Therapist Pat. The book is emotionally challenging, there were really tough passages, - dark, honest and beautiful. Sophie simply took a deep breath and got on with her job, reading with confidence and sensitivity. She’s a complete natural. Pat too. But revisiting those places through reading, required digging deep. The space needed to feel well-held, with structures in place and access to supervision for all of us. The sound engineer, Will Looms, and I tried to stay focused on our tasks- listening, observing, capturing the texture of the delivery, with me supporting and facilitating Sophie and Pat to communicate the text to the best of their ability.

Despite the weight of the material I want to highlight the joy that came into the process. Some might be surprised to hear there was frequent laughter present. That capacity to find humour was a gift. In many ways, it was essential. Like a pressure cooker, there had to be a release valve, and laughter became that valve. It would bubble up unexpectedly- over a strange pronunciation, a word that wouldn’t land right, or the ridiculousness of consulting our robot pronunciation guide. We’d break into fits of giggles, Sophie would effectively corpse, then gather herself again to deliver something heart-rendering.

That lightness had to be initiated by Sophie. She opened the door to it, gave us permission to go there and I’m really grateful for that.

There are numerous times when laughter has saved me from the overwhelm of performance pressure and nerves, from unbearably tense and challenging rehearsal rooms, freed me up to dive into difficult places that felt unobtainable. The joy of working in a group of experienced professionals is that most of the time we all intuitively practice allowing silliness into the room together. And sometimes trust is built over time with with community casts and playful exchanges become possible in those situations too.

I’m grateful that in performing work under my own terms I have been able to allow my own fizziness to be present throughout. Laughter, if it comes, often becomes part of my performative construct or performance persona, and I can channel it very organically back into the work.

So in reflection, I am going to ask myself what role laughter and lightness plays in my current professional roles, and in the spaces I hold for others. Yes, working predominantly in socially engaged practice and creative health carries a weight and seriousness to it. However, in the class I assist with women from the Rise Domestic Abuse Charity, the desire from the group is to experience joy, and the classes work best when there is fun, freedom, energy and release.

Laughter might seem like a side effect, a momentary blip within serious work- but for me, it’s not about undermining the gravity of the subject, it's an essential part of the process that I welcome; on stage, in the rehearsal room, in community spaces shaped by trauma and resilience. It’s the chaos, risk-taking and care that I explored in a gender-based framework through my MA, just reframed: How can we welcome the monkey in whilst still holding space with care and intention? I’d love to hear how it works for you.