Goodenough College is a weird arse name.
What are parents supposed to do when they're bragging to their friends about the universities their kids have been accepted into? "No, Oxford didn't work out but she got into Goodenough College? No... no. Stop. Not a Goodenough College. Goodenough College. It's a post-graduate accommodation... yeah, I hadn't heard of it either."
Apparently they've got a dance show on this afternoon though. So here I am. Staring doubtfully at the iron gates sealing off a pretty looking courtyard from the nastiness of the world outside. The world outside being Bloomsbury in this case.
A group of young women are making their way down the pavement. I step back to let them past.
"It's probably easy to be a choreographer there," one says while the others nod enthusiastically. "If you just want to test some ideas, and then show it..."
They disappear through the brick arch, towards the iron gates.
Looks like I am in the right place after all.
"It's Sunday!" says a young woman coming the other way. "When you only have class once a week, it's easy to lose track..."
Yeah. Can't relate to that. I may not be able to remember where I was last night, but I damn sure know what day of the week it is. I have spreadsheets to tell me that.
I go through the arch. The gates are locked. But there is a door. And a doorbell.
The young women sitting at the reception desk inside buzzes me in.
"I'm looking for the large common room," I tell her.
The confirmation email hadn't been very forthcoming on the location of this performance. "Large Common Room, London House, Goodenough College." With no directions on how to get there, or where I might find it.
"Though the door behind you," says the receptionist. "Across the courtyard and on the far left. You'll find it," she says, demonstrating a belief in me that I'm not entirely sure is warranted.
I step out the door she indicated, make my way down the long ramp, and out into the courtyard.
It’s nice here. The type of manicured niceness that requires Keep Off The Grass signs and that same sculpture you see in every single courtyard ever. You know the one. With lots of concentric circles making up a sphere. Yeah. That one. The artist responsible must be making a mint off that design.
I pick my way around the edge, careful not to accidentally flop onto the grass.
Across the courtyard, and on the far left, some steps lead up to a covered walkway. And there I find a desk. With someone wearing a big Bloomsbury Festival STAFF badge pinned to her clothes.
That nice young lady at reception was right. I did find it!
There’s a bit of a queue, so I stand around on the steps, waiting my turn and doing my best to keep my skirts clamped down, despite the best efforts of the wind. Eventually, it’s my turn.
“Smiles?” I say. She makes a surprised face and I realise that I I should have probably explained my purpose before dropping in that surname of mine without explanation. Can’t go wandering around telling poor women to smile. That’s highly inappropriate. “I should have already booked?”
Her face clears. She finds my name on the list. “Yes!” she says, her voice laden with relief that I wasn’t one of those people. “Lovely. We’ll give you a shout in a minute to let you in.” She points over to the walkway, where my fellow audience members are standing around, keeping out of the wind, and taking photos of that immaculate courtyard.
The chat is all dance and dance-adjacent, making me think I have found myself in the midst of dance people.
I try to convince myself that I am also a dance person. I work in dance. That makes me one of them.
Somehow I’m not entirely satisfied with this argument.
I don’t even look like these people.
For one, this body was never meant to dance. But also, and perhaps more importantly, I’m missing the key accessory: red Dr Martens.
I really want a pair.
They look so cool.
Not sure they would look quite that cool on my stubby legs. But still. I want a pair.
A ridiculously pretty young woman in an orange dress that also needs to be filed immediately in the I-could-never-pull-that-off-but-I-wouldn’t-mind-giving-it-a-go pile comes out and greets a few people as she walks around.
With a wave of her arms, she motions towards the door.
“Oh, is the house open?” I ask, quelling the desire to comment on her dress in the most effusive tones possible.
“Yeah! The house is open,” she says.
So off I go, skittering towards the now open door, before my gawping at the dress gets too blatant for everyone’s comfort. Including mine.
There’s a woman on the door. “Hi!” I say.
“Hello! Fill up from the front row, and any bags you’ve got, put under your seat,” she says, before letting me through.
Inside the Large Common Room I find… a large common room.
Thick curtains are doing their best to keep out the Sunday afternoon light.
A parquet floor squeaks under foot as I cross the stage area in search of an empty seat.
I decide to plonk myself in the corner, right next to the camera set up. I want to avoid getting myself on film.
Not sure that's quite working though. A photographer is doing the rounds, and is already pointing his camera at the audience.
Freesheets lie waiting on the seats.
Being the professional blogger I am, I hold mine up to take a photo of it.
“I hope you’re switched off,” says an old man to woman he’s with, with only the slightest of side eyes in my direction.
I ignore him, pointedly taking pictures of the room before turning my attention back to the bit of paper we’ve been given.
The music, if I can call it that, perhaps soundscape would be a better term… comes from the NASA recordings of stars. Light waves converted into sound waves. Or something like that. I presume that’s what they mean by ‘sonified’ anyway.
I have to say, I’m not a big fan of sciencey-dance. I’ve seen a lot of it. Too much of it. It’s quite the thing amongst a certain brand of male choreographer. Wayne McGregor. Russell Maliphant. Alex Whitley…
And it's always accompanied by pounding music and brash projections.
It’s not that I don’t like science. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it (I definitely have) but, you know, I have an MSc. Science and me were well into each other before I jumped ship for his sultry cousin, the arts.
I just… I’m not sure science-inspired works do the business for me.
I’m simply not a Joey Tribbiani. When someone mixes together mincemeat and custard in a bowl and calls it trifle, I won’t be the one asking for seconds.
That and I'm not a fan of projection.
I tend to just end up watching them as dance, and trying very hard to forget the dense explanatory articles lurking deep within the programmes. Which is probably not the right way to approach it.
But this piece, Bodies in Space, was created by a woman. And I don’t want to be all sexist, but I am super interested to see if that makes a difference.
Plus: no projections.
It does rather feel like being back in school here though. With that parquet flooring and the clock on the wall and the large photograph of the Queen gazing down on us. I find myself waiting for the headmaster to come in so assembly can start.
Instead, we get the woman in the orange dress.
Turns out she's Helen Cox. The choreographer. She welcomes us all, and gives us the traditional housekeeping pre-show message. Then a reminder: "We're in the round, so please tuck your bags under your chairs. Like in an aircraft!"
I've already tucked my bag and I'm feeling pretty damn smug about that.
And then it's time for the performance.
To sound which claims to be the music of the stars, but reminds me more like a vacuum cleaner in need of a cleaned filter, three dancers slowly twist around one another, their movements perfectly attuned as they poise slim wooden sticks between their fingertips, holding themselves to each other by the most fragile of connections. Sticks drop, clattering to the ground, but with the gentlest twisting, a negotiation is undertaken as the dancers sink down to retrieve it. Fingertips stretch out. The balance is recalibrated. They continue.
Behind them, across the square, the sound designer, Dougie Brown, flows between the sound desk and his laptop, doing whatever it is that sound designers do during live performances, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons.
The soundscape shifts. The sticks are taken away, and we move forward.
There's something special about watching performers this close. Close enough that your own presence distorts to way you view it. Seeing them even in their off-stage moments, as they wait to rejoin the fray. Natasha Arcoleo, Jordan Ajadi, and Andrew Oliver each take up separate corners, leaving us in darkness as the sound swirls around us, combining with their breathing as they prepare to make their returns.
We get to the end and it's time for the questions. Cox and Dougie talk a little about their work, while physics professor Fabio Iocco tackles the science. The audience ask a few questions (what did the sticks mean? And was that bit improvised? Cox answers the first: it means whatever you feel it does. The dancers, from their spot sitting cross-legged on the ground, take the second: yes it was, it's all about responding to each other in the moment), and then it's time to go.
Or at least, it's time for me to go.
As so often happens at these things, most of the audience stick around to chat.
I've got other things to be getting on with. Namely buying an apple pie and eating the entire thing in one sitting while pondering the great questions of the universe.