Hannah Silva – Forms of Protest

This is going to keep me cheerful for days. Thanks for the review Dave Coates.

Dave Poems.

Full disclosure: Have seen Silva perform live once. She was pretty great!

Review: Silva’s poems are unlike anything I’ve read. As the video above (and this podcast, absolutely required listening) demonstrate, Silva’s physical voice is central to her aesthetic, removing it a huge risk; the formal aspect of the work is an integral part of the complicated and angry messages that the poems present. Her background in music, theatre and sound poetry inform Forms of Protest from the foundations up, and that the poems’ technical intricacy and often dispassionate removes are transferable to the page at all is a remarkable achievement. That so many successfully convey their political anger and emotional precision is a large part of what makes Forms of Protest a valuable book.

3 KS

The poems themselves are remarkable for the relative absence of the poetic ego. Only one poem, a startlingly frank snapshot of adolescent life at…

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The Prolific Myth: Interview with SJ Fowler

SJ Fowler and the bears

SJ Fowler and the bears

Last year I had the pleasure of working with the poet SJ Fowler on two projects: Electronic Voice Phenomena (a touring experimental literature and new media show produced by Penned in the Margins and Mercy)  and Enemies (the result of collaborations with over thirty artists, photographers and writers). Both projects have been shortlisted in the Saboteur Awards.
During Electronic Voice Phenomena Steve dressed up as a bear and read a Russian novel (or Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein – when we were in the Shelley Theatre). He delighted in getting a confused or angry response from his audience, although I suspected that he enjoyed the laughter too. When he’s not attempting to contact the dead, throwing up on stage or wearing a bear outfit, Steve organises large scale collaborative poetry events, like this one at the Southbank Centre, and writes vast amounts of poetry. I did an extended interview with him for the British Library sound archive, here is an extract in which we discuss his approach to publishing – grinding it out and moving on.
SJ Fowler in Electronic Voice Phenomena, St George's Hall. [peter guy's blog]

SJ Fowler in Electronic Voice Phenomena, St George’s Hall. [peter guy’s blog]

SJ Fowler:

I think that the huge factor in the volume that I’ve published has been to do with a distinct, decided engagement with a writing lifestyle. I write a lot and I write in a very specific way, which I think, because of the more traditional modes of writing poetry for the page especially, is often seen as strange. I’m interested in finding a subject that I’m very passionate about, and then somehow without too much forethought or analysis, mulching that subject into a text, whether that’s through very obvious approaches like found text, or through boiling myself in the bath, or working when I’m tired, or just some organic, natural methodology for engaging with something that I really care about. Each one has very naturally produced different kinds of writing. That’s been a real pleasure for me, engaging with people who have read one of my books, who then automatically think that all of my writing is like that. Each one of my books couldn’t be more different. So because I’ve had quite a reasonably easy, menial job for the past six years, where I’ve been able to just sit down all day and write, I’ve produced these huge volumes of works, and about half of what I’ve produced is published. So there’s a huge amount that I’m glad I didn’t publish, or that is waiting to be published in the future.

That approach does a lot of things against you as well as for you. I think there is a really specific notion around what a first collection must be, and it goes forward for these awards, etc…But I published three books at the same time – three books in three months, and I realised that nobody really read any of them, and I didn’t really care about that. I found that out, I found that it wasn’t about readership or engagement with other people. It’s nice that they exist now, as time goes by they’ve come to mean something different to me. I become quite obsessive about a certain idea, I use other poet’s work, anything I can to get to where I need to get to. I know essentially if it’s authentic or not authentic. I put it together, I deliberately create relationships with publishers or people who are engaged in that environment, because I think that it’s the only thing I would never do in poetry. The one thing I would never do is publishing, because I think it’s absolutely thankless and brutal and if it hurts me that a few of my books only sell a few hundred copies, that lasts for two minutes, I’m writing the next book. But the publisher lives with that and the financial reality of it for a long time. I don’t envy them that at all. I move on, I don’t think about that work at all, and when I come to do a reading and someone has read one of my books from years ago and makes a nice comment about it, I honestly don’t even really recognise it, I don’t really know what they mean or are talking about, because I don’t really remember what’s in some of them.

I’m glad about that but I think that it would horrify some people, that this thing exists in the world that represents you, that’s got your name on it, and people can read it and you can be ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’. That happened to me recently. Someone published an extract of one of my poems, and I was like, where did you get the title from? He said –it’s one of your poems, I said I’m pretty sure it’s not, but alright…I just don’t care about that. There’s poets who have done this, and might not be in the public’s consciousness, who I really admire. People like Pierre Joris and Tom Raworth who just pump out book after book, I’ve always believed in that. When I was interested in film, it was people like Bergman, who’d create radically brilliant, often different works, year after year. I admire that approach because they are I suppose professionals. That’s how they saw it/see it. It was a life engagement, not about dropping their rarefied thoughts on the world, but about grinding it out and if it pops out and it’s genius you can just see them smiling ‘oh alright that was genius, onto the next’ – that’s how I feel, if people say something I’ve done is rubbish, or brilliant, I don’t care. I care about writing, I love writing, it’s helped me be a better human being, it’s helped me mediate the world around me, it’s helped me sublimate really fundamentally aggressive energies in the world and I feel better for that. I’m not going to slow down or strategically launch the books so that people can take the time to actually read the work I’ve done in order to somehow mitigate the form…I think there’s a myth about being prolific, that it harms you, but I don’t think anyone will read me anyway and if they do I’ll be dead. Why not just do fifty books, and then they’ve got lots to read?

I’ve had some great conversations with people about their first collections, and I’m really interested in it, like Jack Underwood was in the faber young poets pamphlet and I don’t know what happened, something with faber, and now his next book is out, he announced on twitter it’ll be out in 2016, he announced this last year, and that to me is amazing because what that says to me is that …he’s going to get a huge reception and I hope he wins prizes, he’s a sweet man and he’s well known, he’ll do so well and he’ll be known by so many more middle class people than me!…But, the reality is that to me that says he’s going to spend the next year and a half not writing, because if he writes hundreds of poems in the next year and a half they’re just going to be in a dusty drawer…maybe not, but that’s just how it feels, that’s my instinct.

I’ve spoken to a poet who was told off by his PhD supervisor for publishing an extended chapbook because the guy was like: your first collection is the most important collection, you must go to these people and make these connections and slowly breed these relationships over five years and then launch your book when you get to around thirty. That to me just seems like an absolutely crazy backward view of what your work is.

It comes down to this fundamental thing – if I see musicians, like Radiohead, their work has changed, that’s the way it should be, but when I see someone doing the same music, like Korn for instance – I grew up listening to new metal – and they’re still doing the whiny music twenty years later – they’re moribund…I don’t want my work to ever be the same. I’m glad to be ashamed of stuff I’ve put out because I’m a different person now.

My publishing happened because I invested in getting to know the people who were foolish enough to do ground-up avant-garde presses. They were interested in how I was doing things. And half of my books have come about through me relentlessly badgering people, and the other half have been people asking me, which makes me feel really gratified. My first book, Red Museum, was the fourth book I wrote, but it just happened that a publisher asked me for a book, so I just sent him it and he said he’d take it, and that I didn’t need to change it. That’s my first book! And then my prison book I did in two months because the publisher said ‘I’ll do one of your books’ and I didn’t happen to have one that was ready. I wrote it, didn’t look at it, just sent it to him. And it’s my favourite book by a mile – it’s really good because it feels like someone else has written it.

The whole publishing process for me has been a complete mélange. I take real, genuine pleasure in holding new objects in my hands, and moving on.


[whilst I was transcribing this interview, Steve has published another poetry collection, it’s called ‘The Rottweiler’s Guide to the Dog Owner’ and he’s launching it on the 21st May. ]

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¿Quién es ese señor?

A couple are dancing together at the front of an Omara Portuondo concert in Mexico City. Their feet seem sown together, they shift back and forth, the husband occasionally interrupts their rhythm with a strange hesitant step that his wife always follows. All they are doing is looking into each other’s eyes. A man next to them watches. Before he leaves he tells them he admires how they are dancing and how happy they are. The husband asks his wife ‘And who was that man?’ She tells him ‘That was Gabriel García Márquez, Nobel Prize winner’.

The couple are my parents-in-law. They’re still dancing.


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Whoever comes are the right people

What are we REALLY going to do about Race and Diversity in UK Theatre?

Lemn Sissay [British Library]

Lemn Sissay [British Library]

I went to the recent Devoted & Disgruntled event at the Southbank Centre last week. The invitation was written by Tyrone Huggins, actor-manager & playwright. The poet Lemn Sissay opened the open space, reading from flashcards provided by Phelim McDermott/Improbable Theatre. It’s a script I know well, having attended four D&Ds in the last few years. Lemn stuck to it, but added a little decoration as he got distracted by the general usefulness of the statements he was reading, statements such as: ‘the brilliant thing about the people who are not here is that they are not here’ and ‘whatever happens is the only thing that could have’ and ‘when it’s over it’s over.’ He did a bit of walking backwards then reverted to walking forwards again with the observation that it’s pretty much the same.

This D&D was about race and diversity. It’s the first themed D&D I’ve attended. My previous D&Ds were in Devon, where I used to live. The Plymouth event was almost entirely white, as expected; the Exeter event was almost entirely white, as expected. Then I moved to Birmingham a little while ago so attended one here (almost entirely white, unexpected).  I’ve also managed to get to one of the London ones, not the latest, but the year before (almost entirely white, unexpected).

Birmingham and London are the two largest cities in the country, both with non-white populations of around 40% – so why don’t the people around the D&D circle reflect that? Are the artists out there but not coming because they don’t know about them? Do they know about them but choose not to come? Never mind. ‘Whoever comes are the right people.’

Last week’s event was pretty ‘diverse’, when it comes to theatre. I heard people reflecting happily about the number of East Asians there, but one of the sessions was titled ‘why aren’t more black people here today?’ And the man who called it said he’d looked around the room in disappointment, full of white faces, again. Oh well. ‘Whoever comes are the right people.’

It’s a weird thing, to be so focused on skin colour. It’s weird because people are people, we’re all the same and we’re all different. It’s strange to be a ‘white’ woman talking about ‘black’ and ‘of colour’ and cautiously using such labels because I can’t use them comfortably, without feeling that I might be ‘othering’ others from my white position, but not to use those labels is to pretend ours is a colourblind culture, which it isn’t.  I don’t want to be a definer, I don’t want to ‘do’ race, but just as, at the recent Black and Asian Writers Conference in Manchester, Fred D’Aguiar talked about the skin of the black body allowing access to a larger history:

The black figure isn’t confined to time and space … you are able to get into a larger history and a larger hurt … something about skin and the nervous system allows you to know and feel things beyond the limitations of your body …

…likewise the skin of a white body makes us part of ‘a larger history and a larger hurt’ from the side of those who did the hurting. I may not have had anything to do with colonialism but I can’t assume that I have nothing at all to do with the traces of history and hurt that are still so present, as Steve Martinot puts it in his brilliant book, ‘The Machinery of Whiteness’:

Because whites are the definers, “race” as a concept is inseparable from white supremacy. That is, “race” as a concept is inseparable from the white hierarchical domination that constructs it. (19)

I have some gaping gaps that require filling in when it comes to the history of this country. My schooling didn’t mention colonialism, and from the sounds of it, Michael Gove’s proposals are not going to provide a solution. Perhaps if the middle classes were better educated, British period drama wouldn’t be quite so limited to Austen and Downton.

One of the sessions focused on the impact of education on careers in theatre: ‘what’s school got to do with it? How did you get where you are today?’ At drama school the British actor Mitesh Soni was constantly asked to put on an Indian accent and ‘do a funny head shake’  – all good preparation for professional auditions for which he is told to bring his own turban (he’s not Sikh) … Questions were raised such as, should drama school be explicitly teaching its British students of colour to do an array of accents to give them the tools they will need in an industry in which they will be typecast? Or should they continue to pretend the problem doesn’t exist on the surface whilst asking a young woman who has had what she describes as a ‘white middle class upbringing’ and who speaks with the most refined RP I’ve ever heard offstage, to do an accent that’s like her mother’s, and when that doesn’t result in what they are looking for they say: ‘a bit more fresh off the boat’. Perhaps the answer is to set up new schools.

The problem is that men watching TV shows full of men don’t notice there are no women in them. White people watching a play with only white actors don’t notice there are no people of colour. We don’t see what we are not when it is not there. This not seeing, is one way in which we white people ‘do’ race:

White people “do” race in the sense of “committing” certain practices, actions, and attitudes … What white people do to others through these practices, however, tends to remain unseen by their white perpetrators once the practices become elements of a cultural structure in which they simply “go without saying.” (Martinot, 23)

So, it ‘goes without saying’ that we just have to put on period dramas with all white casts. It ‘goes without saying’ that 12 Angry Men ‘aint broke so don’t fix it’. It ‘goes without saying’ that a drama school has to limit the number of black actors they accept. It goes without saying that English = white. It goes without saying that actor = white. It goes without saying that a cast list that doesn’t specify skin colour will be cast as white. It goes without saying that political dramas will be full of posh white men.


The British public (or perhaps that’s a particular slice of the British public) has only recently realised how great it is to see women in leading roles in TV drama. They weren’t reported missing until The Killing and The Bridge and Borgen. But in spite of Roifield Brown’s observation that  ‘the ability to talk effortlessly about … increasingly, the right fashionable Scandinavian drama’ can gain you entry ‘into this club’ (referring to the UK media), the producers in the club don’t seem to have clocked why viewers are so enamoured. The BBC Radio spin off version of Borgen thought it was the coalition Danish politics that’s the important thing. The four male characters are listed as:

The ‘unflinchingly determined’  ‘permanent secretary for the Ministry of the Environment’ [Hans, the lead]

‘A  hard drinking journalist’

‘An environmental rights campaigner’

‘The permanent secretary for the Ministry of Finance’

The two female characters are listed as:

‘Han’s daughter’

‘A long standing friend of Hans’

In Danish drama women get to solve crimes and run the country. In the UK we are cast in relation to the leading man.

Francesca Beard [R Denney]

Francesca Beard [R Denney]

Apples and Snakes (with generous Arts Council funding) were instrumental in cultivating a diverse English spoken word scene (also described as ‘performance poetry’/’poetry in performance’ etc). They have always done this consciously, looking to support the ‘disenfranshised voice’. In the eighties that was the black British voice. Now the focus is on voices from the regions. I believe that one of reasons why the spoken word scene (although by no means perfect) is so much more diverse than the theatre world is because it has no gatekeepers at its entrance. Anyone can do an open mic. Everyone is applauded. I started out doing open mic. That’s the way we can experiment. We can get heard. No unpaid internships. No writers’ groups that you don’t find out about until you’re too old for them. No unofficial mentoring via a friend of a friend. No job offer via your mother. No debt-for-life trip to the Edinburgh Fringe. Just the opportunity to try out work and get better at it, and then the open mics turn into paid gigs, opportunities to work with others, and maybe that turns into a touring theatre show. Like these: Francesca Beard; Lemn Sissay; Hannah Jane Walker; Ross Sutherland; Zena Edwards, Inua Ellams, Kate Tempest (not to make assumptions about how these artists got to where they are, but …they have all worked with Apples and Snakes). I think this section of the poetry scene (which increasingly bleeds into the theatre scene) is becoming the new mainstream when it comes to poetry, (either that or it’s not poetry at all, depending on who you ask). Certainly, far more poets working in performance reach an audience and earn a living by writing/performing than those who focus on the page.  But that debate aside, when it comes to race and diversity, can theatre learn from spoken word?

The discussions at D&D focused around the mainstream theatre, the casting of actors of colour, and possible solutions. There’s no getting away from the fact that ‘mainstream’ theatre and TV is where the money and the work is, so it’s not as easy to say, ‘make a new mainstream’ as it is in the poetry world. There are also a large number of white actors, writers and directors who have given up on the impossible task of trying to crack the little London circuit and are making their own work. Both Lemn Sissay and Tyrone Huggins got established by making their own work.

I was inducted into the make it yourself philosophy in Amsterdam and then at Dartington College of Arts. At Dartington there’s no talk of the ‘industry’ or ‘agents’ or ‘casting directors’, there’s no question that anyone’s skin colour will have anything to do with their success, there’s no unofficial quota on how many people of colour can be accepted. But then, there’s no Dartington anymore either. And when there was, it was overwhelmingly white. Hidden away in the Devon countryside, I only knew about it because my mum did.

One of the sessions called at D&D was ‘Is anyone else tired of all this shit?’- something like that. These are conversations that have taken place many times before, issues that have been raised many times before, it’s shocking that the issues are still issues. Kwame Kwei-Armah, discussing his decision to leave the UK to become the artistic director of Baltimore’s Center Stage: ‘I thought we had won those arguments already. I couldn’t face it again.’ He adds: ‘we still cannot get through glass ceilings to save our lives back at home.’

D&Ds can be very cozy and comfortable. There are rules (principles) that help us feel comfortable. Whoever comes are the right people. In Devon I knew pretty much everyone there. When I went to the general London one, in spite of the fact I’ve never lived in London (and in spite of the fact I’m pretty outside of all this), I knew quite a lot of people. It’s a tiny world.  Is it too tiny? Whoever comes are the right people. I could try to argue with that, and it’d make a nice conclusion to the blog, but these D&D open space principles are pretty solid. So, let’s go with it. We are the right people. But we, the right people, also have a responsibility to try and bring in the people who aren’t here, whether those people are casting plays, running theatres, or working on a weekday. And then, whoever we are, as Tyrone Huggins says: ‘I think we have to bust this thing open. “They” (whoever “they” are) are never going to fix this. It’s down to us. To me and you.’

‘When it’s over it’s over.’

It’s not over. Here are Tyrone Huggins’ questions:

Is it pointless to continue to discuss issues of diversity?

 Why bother to take the complaints of black theatre to an industry that has mastered the art of inertia?

 Given the literary core of the British theatre aesthetic, is it not an exercise in futility to image an equitable sharing of resources for alternative theatre forms and practice?

 Isn’t it true that when we talk about race we’re really talking about skin colour politics?

 Why talk about race anyway, shouldn’t the focus be on excellent work?

If the Creative Case for Cultural Diversity holds any truth, why is it not at the heart of our creative industries?

If Black Asian and Minority Ethnic audiences don’t turn out for theatre in sufficient numbers to support its economics, why spend time or money worrying about them? 

Does the digital world hold any opportunities for diversity or race in the performing arts?



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Hannah Silva’s Forms Of Protest

Tears in the Fence

Sound poet and playwright, Hannah Silva’s long awaited debut collection, Forms Of Protest (Penned in the Margins 2013), admirably illustrates the variety of her poetry. Her range encompasses sonic repetition, sonnet, collage, monologue, list, SMS messaging symbols, and probing text and is never predictable. There is a great sense of musicality and of contemporary language use. Indeed my sixth-form students love her work both on the page and read aloud.  One of our favourites, ‘Gaddafi, Gaddafi, Gaddafi’, echoes childhood playground chants, and works through its long, flowing, circular lines, as if on a loop, as much as the repetition of the word Gaddafi.


I am going to tell you my name Gaddafi but I am

Going to tell you my age Gaddafi my age is ten

Gaddafi and I am going to tell you about a game

Gaddafi a game that I play Gaddafi I play with my


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Our language; Nuestra lengua

When I get asked why I play with language

…. and voice…sound…words and silence

This would be a very good answer. 

 Zacatecas 1997. Opening address at El Congreso International de la Lengua Española.

By Octavio Paz

Octavio Paz

Octavio Paz, 1990 Nobel Prize winner

El amor por nuestra lengua 

Callings are mysterious. Why does one child tirelessly draw in his school sketchbook, whilst another makes boats or planes from the paper? Why does one construct canals and tunnels in the garden, builds cities of sand on the beach, whilst another forms football teams and leads bands of explorers, or locks himself alone in a room solving endless jigsaws? Nobody knows for certain.

What we do know is that over the years, these inclinations and affinities become crafts, professions and destinies. The mystery of the poet’s calling is no less uncertain, yet more enigmatic.

It begins with an unanticipated love of words, their colour, their sound, their brilliance and the array of meanings they display. As we sound words, we hear meanings. This love soon becomes a fascination for the reverse of language, silence. Each word at once speaks and silences. This understanding distinguishes the poet from the philologists and the grammarians, from the orators and from those who practice the subtle art of conversation. Unlike these masters of language, the poet is known for their silences as much as their words.

From the beginning the poet knows, indistinctly, that words are inseparable from the grave and womb of silence. The word buries silence; the earth germinates the word.  We are children of the word, it is our creation and our creator, without it we wouldn’t be. In turn, the word is the daughter of silence: born and taken by her depths.

Octavio Paz, 1997

translated by Hannah Silva

 Read and hear the original. 


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Seventeen Reviews and a Picture

Stephanie Greer, photo by Eileen Long

Stephanie Greer, photo by Eileen Long


We already have a collection of beautiful and personal thoughts about ‘The Disappearance of Sadie Jones’ on my blog, and below are seventeen more recent responses, but first, what one of our audience members – Katherine McDermott-Darley describes as ‘a visual interpretation’ of the work.

by Katherine McDermott-Darley

by Katherine McDermott-Darley

And her comments (from Facebook):

 A unique lyrical, rhythmical script, brittle, unstable, dischopated . . . and Sadie’s dark shadow cast on the side wall of the auditorium – this image inspired by that and her inwardly collapsing world…Something also about the physicality of the play – shamanistic, raw . . . stunning performances by the cast of three.

(If ‘dischopated’ isn’t a word it should be). And she also posted this quote:

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. Nothing. No small talk, no anecdotes. Nothing can be risked on the board of talk. Because the inner voice is so urgent in its own discourse: How shall I live? How shall I manage the future? Why should I go on?

(Kate Millett (b. 1934), U.S. feminist theorist, literary critic, essayist, autobiographer, sculptor. The Loony-Bin Trip, pt. 3, Simon and Schuster (1990).)

This visual response seems very appropriate. One of the first things we did when we began working on the play was read it…then respond to it on a bit of paper…and the actors all drew pictures.


The Tweeters:

@tom_mansfield Really enjoyed Hannah Silva’s Disappearance of Sadie Jones ‪@mac_birmingham this eve. Beautifully written, formally inventive stuff.

@jonathanapemrys Such a great launch night ‪@capitalplays with ‪@finkennedy talking ‘In Battalions’ and ‪@HannahSilvaUK ‘s The Disappearance of Sadie Jones!

Mark Wallace‪@southfields ‘The Disappearance of Sadie Jones’: affecting, innovative theatre. We’re lucky to be seeing this calibre of work in Devon.

sarah chapman ‏‪@MsSnails Wonderful performance tonight. Visually beautiful. Acoustically delightful. Highly recommend ‪#TheDisappearanceofSadieJones

Jayne Stanton‪@stantonjayne‪@NeilMay1 ‪@UpstairsWestern ‪@NineArchesPress ‪@Joanne_Hartley I liked having space to interpret characters/plot myself.

Neil May ‏‪@NeilMay1Enjoyed ‪#TheDisappearanceofSadieJones by ‪@HannahSilvaUK ‪@UpstairsWestern last night, a cohesive fusion of naturalism & physical theatre!

Nine Arches Press ‏‪@NineArchesPress Entrancing & charged performance ‪@UpstairsWestern tonight, thoroughly recommend ‪@HannahSilvaUK‘s The Disappearance of Sadie Jones

Joanne Hartley ‏‪@Joanne_Hartley Really enjoyed workshop and performance of ‘The Disappearance of Sadie Jones’ with & by ‪@HannahSilvaUK . Inspiring, refreshing, exciting.

The Wild Writers ‏‪@WildWriters ‪@Seven_Arts ‪@UpstairsWestern ‪@LTLiv Dead good this. The dialogue was poetic.

Alexa Tewkesbury‪@AlexaTewkesbury Do grab the chance to see ‘The Disappearance of Sadie Jones’ from ‪@HannahSilvaUK . Beautiful & stunningly performed 

More Facebook responses:

‘It was visceral in every sense of the word’

‘wow, a brave and subtle, dynamic piece of theatre. We both enjoyed the play and had lively discussion afterwards. Great actors too – especially the actor playing Sadie.’

‘I went to see Hannah Silva’s play The Disappearance of Sadie Jones in Plymouth last night. It didn’t disappoint. Daring, original, and lyrical it is poetry in motion. The acting is superb and the words stick, get under your skin and demand your attention. Interactive in the best sense of the word.’

‘It was startling and memorable to experience such a direct and compelling dramatisation of mental illness.’

‘Last night – experienced The Disappearance of Sadie Jones, by Hannah Silva at Peninsula Arts. AMAZING piece of theatre. Weird start, crunchy middle, verbal onslaught after verbal onslaught on the mind, and silence at blackout. Then the applause. A must see performance.’

‘Great writing, and lovely performances: a tense word net that holds us in suspense knowing the worst and knowing nothing at the same time …’

‘It was so refreshing to hear from a writer with similar approach to myself and to learn that I’m not alone in my experience of feeling frustrated and deflated by dominant paradigms in playwriting. I’m so pleased you pursued your instincts.’

Me too.

Thank you for your generous responses,

we shall be disappearing in London next week and are looking forward to it.

A5 Flyer-1


Filed under Review, The Disappearance of Sadie Jones, Theatre