MARIONETTES TUG MY HEARTSTRINGS
On our way back from Scotland we stopped at Unthank (and I love that name) to visit the Upfront Gallery. When we went upstairs preparations were going on for an exhibition, but instead of paintings by a new artist we saw something very different: rows and rows of large puppets – marionettes – were suspended from rails. They dangled from strings and their clothes were splendid but their faces were dead and dull. I wasn’t fooled; I knew the magic that happened when they were manipulated by experts and given voices; I knew that they became real.
In an instant I was taken back to childhood holidays at Fleetwood and the paddling pool that compelled me to get in whatever I was wearing. I liked that very much but not as much as I liked the marionettes. I absolutely loved them!
In a sheltered corner of the park was a tiny outdoor theatre complete with stage and curtains and rows of chairs for watching children. Every morning I paid my penny and sat – literally – on the edge of my seat to watch them, and there I am, in my Clarke’s sandals, and sunsuit, entranced.
I have no idea what that story was but every story was enthralling. I didn’t know I was watching my first theatre, all I knew was that I loved it. It was magical. Wonderful. That was when I was first beguiled by the power of words and performance.
I could see that the marionettes were plainly not real people but what they did was more real, more imperative, more emotional than the life I had experienced until then, better than Andy Pandy, better than the Flowerpot Men. I expect there was a lot of audience participation but I don’t remember what went on around me because I was so absorbed in what was going on, on the stage.
That first taste of story reeled me in, fascinated me, and when I knew that stories were found in books I wanted to read them for myself. I devoured books – I still do. Now I write my own. Full circle.
