A ‘Review’ by Joy L.
Martin
The night after I saw Domestic
Labour: A Study in Love by Cambridge theatre company 30 Bird, I dreamed
that I was holding a vacuum cleaner to my ear like a conch shell and listening
for the sea…
The show begins with three women standing on the stage, each
holding an upright vintage hoover in her arms.
They were already standing there as I handed my ticket to the usher and
walked to my seat, like statues witnessing the busy scene of the audience
filling the theatre. Then the house
lights darkened, the stage lights came up, and music began to play as the women
started moving. The music reminded me of
Philip Glass’s opera Einstein on the
Beach: it was pointillist, energetic, repetitive, hypnotic, and at points,
as in Glass’s work, a man’s talking voice speaking fragments of sentences
appeared in the music, barely discernible.
The one phrase I could make out was ‘change
the sheets, 1, 2, 3, 4…’ The women
were busily hoovering, moving props onto the stage, gathering more vacuum
cleaners - a dozen or so - and arranging them in a circular display in one
corner of the stage. Then, after this constant
bustle, the music stopped, and they all fell down.
As you will guess from the title, one of the preoccupations
of the piece was domestic labour – specifically the domestic labour expected of
and performed by women. The flyer for the show said that it was ‘a love story
between a man and a woman, East and West, about the mundane and the monumental,
the personal and the political, the dust behind the bed, and the Iranian baby
boom.’ But, to me, story as a dramatic
element in this piece felt somewhat faint in comparison to the other, more vivid
elements of the piece.
The show had a rich visual language created by the movements
of the three women and their interactions with props – vintage hoovers,
bicycles, radiators, pith helmets, fountains of dust, bombs, a television. A love story did eventually emerge in the
piece, but it was a highly abstract performance that felt almost like
theatrical pointillism, so the love story was faintly superimposed upon the
work in fragments of narrative, which slowly accumulated by the end of the
piece to form a picture of a relationship between an Iranian man and an English
woman.
These poetic fragments were interspersed with thoughtfully
choreographed vignettes depicting the women doing highly significant, abstract
things which explored the themes of the piece – they cleaned, made a
dust-fountain powered by a bicycle lodged in a radiator, cleaned again, acted
out underground revolt culminating in setting off a bomb, and held up a
television set playing the film Johnny
Guitar for long, absorbing moments.
But although the marketing blurb set up an expectation in me for hearing
a story about love which did not feel fulfilled, the lush, provocative
abstraction of the piece created a fertile space for exploring a different
theme, and the way it did so was engaging, fascinating – and fulfilling in a
different way.
The issue of housework and its relationship to women – and
their relationships – felt like the largest theme under contemplation by the
show; this felt like the subject of the show, with love, multi-nationalism in love,
parental love, Iran, and politics all sub-elements filling in the aesthetic
background, and branching off from this main theme. It felt as if the flyer blurb could have said
the show was about ‘the dust behind the bed, and how dust falls upon love, how
it symbolises the mundane and the monumental, the personal and political…’
But here I need to depart from the frame of expectations I
have set up by calling this article a ‘review’ and declare a staggering,
leaning, wounded perspective surrounding my experience as a watcher of the
show, and as the writer of this article. I wonder if the strength of my
response to the show’s depiction of domestic labour was exaggerated – and my
ability to pick up the elements of a ‘love story’ minimised – because I am a woman,
and I have lived through thousands of moments of irritation at the way the
boring, menial, repetitive, time-consuming chores of life are pushed
disproportionately onto women. A rant is
rising, which I am going to choose, thoughtfully, not to suppress:
The way advertisements for cleaning products always feature
women = irritant. The phrase ‘women’s
work’ = irritant. The way my
ex-husband’s mother told him never to help me with the housework because it was
‘my job’ = irritant. The way the other
men I have been with have also not been taught the value, practice and rhythms of
keeping their environment clean by their mothers and fathers = irritant. The
way these men have harboured unconscious expectations for me to do more
housework than them = irritant. The
history of female suppression stretching back hundreds, no, thousands, of years in our society
leading up to this moment of improved but incomplete re-valuation of women, and
which is symbolised by the women in the cleaning advertisements = irritant. IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR!!!!
[Long pause for breathing]
[Still breathing, head down, hands clenching each other]
[More breathing]
…
These moments have accumulated like dust in my psyche…so
perhaps I was watching the show through a dusty lens. Domestic
Labour: A Study in Love was written by a man, Merhdad Seyf, which I didn’t
realise until after the show. I didn’t
know the gender of the name ‘Merhdad’, and I assumed it was written by a
woman. And this made me wonder if
Mehrdad also wrote the marketing blurb, and if through his eyes, the show was
more about love than it was about dust.
To me, this is an interesting question, which is about the power
and purpose of theatre and the way conscious and unconscious elements dance
with each other in the artistic imagination.
The show’s flyer lists a historical consultant, Dr Lucy
Delap, who collaborated with the piece, and her area of research is domestic
labour, so it is clear that the intense statement of the dust theme – through
music, props, movement, title, script – was highly conscious. But I kept wondering about the inability of
the love theme to reach me through all of the dust. I wanted to hear about love; my expectations
were primed for love by the flyer -- I love
hearing about love…but all I could hear, care about, or engage with during and
after the show was the dust.
I wonder, with a fervent wish to honour Merhdad as a male
artist who has made a powerful piece of theatre about the stifling of feminine
power by domestic labour, whether the love theme of the piece was intended to
shine more brightly out of it than it did to me. I wonder if in Merhdad’s psyche and
imagination, the luminance of the love theme has a different relationship with
dust, and whether Merhdad has less dust in his psyche, because he is a
man. I wonder how conscious or
unconscious most men are of the accumulated dust in women’s psyches around this
question. It can be difficult to truly
grasp the extent of psychic damage done to someone else by an experience if you
haven’t experienced it yourself – however, it is extremely encouraging that men
are beginning to ask, to enquire about this, to imagine, empathise, create
around this issue.
It is probably my own psychic woundedness that craves full
empathy, and feels suspicious about Merhdad’s ability to truly feel how I feel… But
then, I am white, and Merhdad is Iranian.
So, we are all on a merry-go-round of experience with different
elements, different potential vulnerabilities to unconsciously embedded
patterns of suppression or hurts in society, like female suppression, or
racism. From this whirling vantage
point, it feels easier to simply thank him for caring, for asking, for
creating, and to see him, rather than as a man or Iranian, as an Artist.
And aside from those (unanswerable) questions, the show
affected me very powerfully. It was Good
Art. It totally absorbed me, and I
enjoyed the absorption. It was
deliciously poetically abstract, which allowed for questions to be thrown into
the air, like the dust fountain from the bicycle, and they were important
questions: How have women been affected by domestic labour? How has love between
men and women been affected by it? How
dusty are we all? What would love between
men and women be like, if we cleaned
our long, sad history of female suppression off of it? This last question is the one I wonder most
deeply about…as I wrote at the beginning, the night after I saw the show, I
dreamed that I was holding a vacuum cleaner up to my ear like a conch shell and
listening for the sea.
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