The SIL Extraordinary Current Awareness Services

So. I recently paid for my final few months as a research student at the Shakespeare Institute (which, great news, turned out to be less than I thought it was going to be).  I’m nearly done. I just need to get through this final stretch, and I’ll get my officially sanctioned floppy hat.

I am absolutely certain I would not have made it this far without the Current Awareness scheme. As a research student, there are a million demands on your time, and it’s easy to slide out of touch with the latest research when you’re trying to bend the last fifty year’s theory to your will. It often seems to me that there are simply not enough hours in the day to keep abreast of everything going on in Shakespeare studies. And I just have to worry about text; our revolutions are slow tidal waves to the perpetual motion of performance, the never-ending permutations of stage craft, or the kaleidoscope root-scape of theory. If a helpful librarian wasn’t browsing through the new books and journals looking for my key words, I would have had to give up on sleep to get through it all myself.

shakespeares-words-via-flickrBut I am getting ahead of myself; I haven’t even explained what this marvellous scheme is yet. Current Awareness is part of the library service offered by the Shakespeare Institute Library to PhD students. For free. The doctor-to-be sends a list of keywords to the library (silib@bham.ac.uk), and the library staff then read through every new book and periodical that crosses the SIL magnetized threshold, and alerts the researcher when their keywords pop up. To call it time-saving is an understatement in the extreme.

My only regret is that I didn’t know about it until I started working on it as an LSA. I am not aware of any other university libraries offering this service to their students; in Copenhagen, where I did my first degree, the librarians were busy protecting the older, frailer tomes, and pushing carts brimming with books from one part of campus to another, and while I did of course ask the occasional question, it never occurred to me that they could help me with my research.

It may be argued that my enthusiasm for Current Awareness is simply proof that I am not a very good academic: that I need to get better at managing my time – that a researcher who put in the hours could easily transverse the ever-broadening expanse of new material. Fortunately, however, I am not alone in valuing the benefits of this unique service. Here is their praise, in short, twitterific bursts: “That looks great – thanks!”, “Thank you for the recommendations”, “Most helpful, as always”, “Thank you – it sounds ideal”, “Thanks.  This sounds very useful”, “Thanks, that’s very cool!” “Thank you so much for making me aware of this :)”, “Thanks v. much – v helpful”.

And, speaking from the other side of the desk, from the comfort of the LSA chair, such positive feedback makes all the scouring worthwhile.

Truth be told, I enjoy hunting through all the new journals, looking for incredibly specific topics other than my own. It has made me aware in a very direct way of the richness of research being carried out across the world of Shakespeare studies, of the countless new publications that help reinvigorate our field each year, of how my little thread adds to the texture of a tapestry that is as much in our minds as out of them.

Words, words, words.

Sara Marie Westh, Library Support Assistant (and expectant PhD)

SI Old Stager on New Blood & a New Academic Year

Then nightly sings the staring owl.

A time of change is upon us here at the Shakespeare Institute Library.

I know it’s part of the academic year, as sure as the seasons roll on, and a great deal more punctual for that matter. Yet I’m always surprised by it. My inbox is flooded with good advice to new students – the system doesn’t seem capable of differentiating between the new and the continuing learner – who to write, what to write, how to find a housemate, where to file supplications for council tax exemption.

I knew it was coming, and it caught me completely unawares. It always does.

waitingLast Sunday saw the new MA students gather for the welcome tea, and from behind my desk at the Library entrance I hardly noticed. The old academic year has come to an end, and the new one is about to kick off. I haven’t met any of them yet. I haven’t met enough of the old MA’s yet, and they’re leaving this little, little stage, bowing out with Rosalind and Prospero.

It’s strange; the old MA students don’t seem so very old to me, and I find it hard to believe they’ve been here a year. I find it equally hard to believe that even younger students are about to embark on the same journey through Shakespeare scholarship I undertook not that long ago. The whirligig of time brings in more students.

I know they’re here in all their ripeness. I’ve seen a few of them in the library already. At least, I think I’ve seen them. They have the slightly overwhelmed, preoccupied look of people finding their feet on new ground. They pull at doors that should be pushed, and fumble with the card readers. Each of them reminds me a bit of Ferdinand and Viola, looking at the Institute island and trying to decide where they fit into it all.

Perfectly timed to coincide with the hurly-burly of seasonal scholarly change, we have implemented a new loans system across the University of Birmingham Libraries, which should, hopefully, make things run a little smoother all around. Loans will now automatically renew, to be recalled only when someone else requests the book. This will give our patrons the liberty to use our material with the greatest amount of freedom possible, restrained only by the needs of their fellow scholars. To the new students, this will not be a change. To them, this will be the system that always was.

Change is a natural part of the business of learning – when early career scholars are told to publish or perish, this is as much born of the necessity to contribute something preferably measurable to an academic field that often deals with things boundless as the sea, as it expresses the need for movement and for change. The day we stop moving is the day we become a museum. I feel a deep nostalgia for the past year, but I wouldn’t want to relive it.

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I will miss the old ones. I look forward to meeting the new ones.

I was new once, too.

Tu-whit, tu-whoo! – a merry note.

Sara Marie Westh, LSA and PhD student at the Shakespeare Institute

Shakespeare at Abington Park

As a follow-up to my blog in April about a wartime production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream  (https://silibrary1.wordpress.com/2016/04/04/wartime-amateur-theatricals-in-northampton/) last weekend I visited Abington Park in Northampton where it was staged. The church where Shakespeare’s granddaughter, Elizabeth Bernard, was buried was open on Sunday as part of the Heritage Open Days scheme as mentioned in Sylvia Morris’s blog http://theshakespeareblog.com/2016/09/heritage-open-days-2016/.

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St Peter and St Paul Church is a beautiful little church dating back to the twelfth century, built in typical Northamptonshire ironstone.

Elizabeth’s second husband, John Bernard, has a grave stone in the church and, when Elizabeth’s coffin was found in a vault beneath the Lady Chapel, a plaque was placed on the wall nearby.

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The house where John and Elizabeth lived is now the museum next to the church and in the grounds is the mulberry tree planted by David Garrick in 1778 as a cutting allegedly from Shakespeare’s mulberry tree at New Place in Stratford. There is a plaque marking the event and an explanatory sign.

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Kate Welch, Senior Information Assistant

Shakespearean Popcorn: Snacking in the Playhouses of London

popcorn_jf10_310After a recent performance of Doctor Faustus, theatre producer Richard Jordan was an unhappy man. Writing in The Stage, he declared the West End audience to be:

‘Possibly the worst…I have ever encountered…Many of them… (were) talking, eating…often vocally commenting…There was also…an interval for bar and ice-cream sales – here was a Friday night commercial audience out for entertainment.’

With rising outrage, he continues:

‘A couple saw nothing wrong in producing…a box of … Chicken Nuggets and a large side of fries…Munching certainly seemed to be the order of the day. The couple to my left ate their way through a large tub of popcorn…while the couple on my right chomped through a packet of crisps. It was like listening to eating in Dolby stereo.’

References to ‘fast’ food and technology aside, Mr Jordan might almost have been in a 16th century playhouse.

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We know from contemporary records that Elizabethan audiences could be unruly and raucous. In our century, recent excavations of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and, more comprehensively, the Rose, have uncovered a wealth of historical and archaeological information about the structure and organisation of the playhouses. The discovery of huge quantities of food detritus reveals what was eaten there and, to some extent, by whom.

By the 1590s, the commercial theatre as we know it, was firmly established in London. It was an innovation in mass entertainment as radical as television in the 1960s and, for the first time, dramatic productions took place in purpose-built, permanent and secure venues. London’s commercial life was thriving and an increased population meant large audiences and large takings, which sustained both actors and the fabric of the buildings .The new genre was assisted by the flowering of the talent of Shakespeare and his contemporaries.

theatrePublic playhouses were usually circular or many-sided in shape, and open to the air. A roofed stage jutted out from the lowest of three galleries, with standing room in front of it. This cost a modest penny and accommodated the ‘groundlings’: Hamlet’s word, and uncomplimentary, since it referred to the small fry who feed on sludge at the bottom of streams and rivers. Superior positions in the galleries cost more while the ‘Lords’ Rooms’ were closer to the stage and catered for more prestigious playgoers.

This provision for all classes of society underlines the fundamentally commercial nature of the new theatres, some of which could accommodate up to three thousand people at a time. If theatre shows us to ourselves, then the new professional playwrights drew audiences by peopling their dramas not just with Kings and nobles, but with ‘ordinary’ folk: servants, door-keepers, porters, constables and young blades on the street. So do soap operas in our own century.

The playwright, Thomas Heywood, recorded:

‘Playing is an ornament to the Citty, which strangers of all Nations repairing hither, report of in their Countries, beholding them here with some admiration;  for what variety of entertainment can there be in any Citty of Christendome, more than in London?’

The church and the authorities did not agree: a part of Southwark and its highway, Bankside, which ran beside the river, was already the site of inns, gambling dens, animal baiting rings and brothels. It was, however, outside the city limits and its laws. Not surprisingly, the building of the new theatres was only permitted in that area. They were generally regarded as dens of vice: actors had traditionally been seen as dubious individuals, but now cut-purses and prostitutes were attracted to mass audiences who were already held responsible for spreading the Plague. Heywood, having praised the theatre, also admitted, ‘Pay thy tuppence to a player (and) in (the) gallery mayest thou sit by a harlot.’

Julian Bowsher of the Museum of London Archaeology, the moving force for the playhouse excavations, describes the procedure for going to the play:

‘You entered through a main door and paid a one penny entrance fee to the ‘gatherer,’ who would have a little money box rather like a piggy bank with a bright green glaze on it and a slot through which to put a penny…they were smashed open when they were taken back stage.’

Thousands of fragments of these money boxes were found on site. But having entered the playhouse, the buying and consuming of food became a major part of the experience.

The importance of readily available snacks was made clear by one Thomas Platter (no pun intended) who wrote that ‘during the performance food and drink are carried round the audience, so that for what one cares to pay one may also have refreshment.’ Many theatres had tap rooms attached to them and, at the Rose Theatre, surviving accounts reveal that a grocer by the name of John Chomley purchased what we might now call a ‘catering franchise.’  Chomley’s house, at the south-west corner was ‘to keepe victualinge in’ to sell to theatre goers.

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Many samples collected on site indicate the consumption of native species: walnuts, hazels, almonds, elderberry, blackberry, raspberry, plum, pear, peach and cherry. That huge amounts of shellfish were eaten is evidenced by the remains of cockles, mussels, periwinkles, whelks and cuttlefish. It was the popcorn of the day. The standard dagger, carried by every man, was as much a tool as a weapon, and was used to winkle out the cheap shellfish. Oysters were a popular cheap treat and were associated with the groundlings.  Cheap food equalled cheap standing room and was identified with those at the bottom of the social scale.

A visitor to London, Paul Hentzner, recorded seeing apples, pears and nuts on sale according to season. The cores might be hurled at the stage by unruly audience members unimpressed by the play, and there are references to ‘pippins’ and nuts being used as missiles. With the opening of new trade routes, much fruit was imported into London and raisins, dates, currants, figs and prunes were popular. Oranges from southern Europe arrived in large quantities but were expensive and regarded as exotic. Numerous pips were found at the Rose excavations. While the privileged in London might afford to buy them, they had also reached other areas. I am indebted to my colleague Dr Jill Francis for informing me of accounts which show that oranges were given as gifts in the provinces, reiterating their status as luxury items. The seeds of marrow, pumpkin, squash and gourd represent relatively early evidence of contact with the New World.

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Apart from ‘water-bearers’ in the playhouse yard, the only other beverage seems to have been ‘bottled ale.’ This made a loud fizzing noise when opened and, along with the continual cracking of nuts, formed what may have been a disturbing accompaniment to the play. ‘When (a playwright) hears his play hissed, hee would rather thinke bottle-Ale is opening’ wrote a sardonic commentator. Ale did, however, fulfil a practical purpose when, on the occasion of the burning down of the Globe Theatre, it was used to extinguish the burning breeches of an unwary man.

forkThe privileged, meanwhile, brought their own more glamorous food along with their own wine, glasses and cutlery. An iron fork found at the Rose excavations bore its owners initials inlaid in brass, and would have sported an elegant wooden handle. This was upmarket cutlery identified as a ‘sucket’ fork, used to spear sweetmeats such as marchpane (marzipan), sugar-bread and gingerbread – the equivalent of a box of quality chocolates today. Its owner must have been someone of sophisticated tastes and some social status for such an item would not have been associated with the groundlings.

The variety of foodstuffs available in the playhouses was remarkably wide. It was also organic, and packed with the antioxidants, vitamins and enzymes which we are encouraged to consume today. The mass-produced, ‘fast ’food of our own century, laden with artificial colouring and chemically-derived flavourings may, in nutritional terms, be far worse for our health.

Bring on the whelks!

Bettina Harris (Library Support Assistant)

Howl, howl, howl, howl! Lear is mad again…

2016 sees a glut of King Lear productions, which our current exhibition in the SIL explores. LSA and PhD student at the Shakespeare Institute, Sara Westh explores Lear’s enduring fascination.

The by now quite venerable Arden Shakespeare Lear characterises its subject as “a colossus at the centre of Shakespeare’s achievement as the grandest effort of his imagination.”

Whether a fan of the play or not one cannot deny the influence of Lear as an iconic moment of narrative and drama in our age, something that Kott’s praise of it as “above all others the Shakespearean play of our time” seems to bear out. Of course, the date of publication of Shakespeare Our Contemporary suggests that rather than being the sigil of one age in particular, Lear has, as the rest of the Shakespeare gang, shown an aptitude for eternity. Maybe Lear speaks to us because the divide between age and youth is always instantly recognisable as well as being infinitely adaptable; the issues that prompted Kott to claim a singularly powerful status for the mad king in the mad world, cut off from human kindness, suffering in a hell as much of his own making as created by the people closest to him, are issues of humanity, and they are no less poignant today.

As we once again embrace the heath for its familiar barrenness, the inevitability of Lear seems closer than ever before. Our world is growing old, the tempests that rage just outside the castle walls are all too real, and the twitterings of our Fool companion are a constant buzz in the back of our minds. When everything appears to spiral out of our control in spite of well-laid plans and best intentions, we all howl with Lear. Unlike the king, however, we know how the story ends.

Turning to the play itself, to the king that staggers across the stage rather than through our minds, its enduring influence can be traced in part to its history, and in part to the fascination it engenders among the audience. There is, apparently, something at once deeply satisfying and unsettling about the gradual destruction of the elderly, followed by the revival (and un-blinding) of everyone involved through the magic of applause. Freud and Lacan can probably offer very incisive analyses of the play, in particular its use of sharp objects, and Barthes and Derrida can beyond doubt oblige us with new worlds of verbal slippage and dead gods from within the lines. And while all of this forms part of the reason why Lear is mad again this year, there is almost certainly more to it than penetration, castration, repetition, and perpetuation in our communal cultural memory.

The reviews of this year’s offerings help us suck the marrow from the bone:

“Through Warrington, Lear’s madness is made at one with the storm […]. He emerges from it transformed: fragile, human, as authentic as Cordelia, whose love – and whose death – he movingly shares.”

“Pennington’s performance charts Lear’s course from overconfident folly to humbled self-knowledge via the storms of madness with moving craft, culminating in scenes of extraordinary loving tenderness, first with blinded Gloucester (Pip Donaghy) and then, heart-wrenchingly, with the hanged Cordelia (Beth Cooke).”

Michael Pennington is portraying Lear at Royal & Derngate, Northampton, while Don Warrington takes the king upon him at the Royal Exchange in Manchester. Judging from the publicity photos, both productions visually evoke an era past, with costumes suggesting the 1930’s-40’s, and both show their protagonists descending into white shirts as they descend into madness.

Clare Brennan reviewed the two productions side by side for the Guardian and according to her description the two lead actors are comparably magnificent; both combine the air of death that clings to Lear’s shoulders like tar with tender moments of excruciating pain. Both portrayals she describes as “moving”.

Apart from the immediate meaning of emotions that transport us beyond the hum-drum every-day, and maybe even deposit us in that rare embrace of catharsis where our own problems fade into insignificance for a few, brief moments, until the lights go up again, and we once more set out across the heaths we spend our lives cultivating, there is a deeper sense of movement at play. Maybe the “moving” centre of Lear is what makes its particular calamity of so long life; the savage joy of witnessing inescapable suffering, sorrow of a magnitude that goes far beyond what any one of us can reasonably pretend to fathom, and yet witnessed from such a privileged point of view that every moment of the old man’s downfall is available to us in the full technicolour of our own senses.

Glenda Jackson will be portraying Lear at the Old Vic later this year, as will Antony Sher at the RSC. The Lears of 2016, then, are so far looking like an at least approximately representative model of the population. The only unifying feature is age: this year’s Lear must, apparently, be old. Perhaps the traditions that surround this theatrical sacrifice demand a certain stiffness in the joints and toughness in the sinews; an old actor’s offering, much as Hamlet belongs to the young, provided that Uncle Monty’s view of the world in Withnail and I is to be credited.

If the 2016 Lear productions are anything to go by, this is the age of the mad king, of the player who only too late realises that he is the star of his own tragedy. And as such it is, of course, the story of everyone alive. It is, unfortunately, a story we love to watch – in others as in ourselves. And we never start clapping until the lights go down.

Sara Marie Westh, LSA Shakespeare Institute Library

WORKS CITED

Brennan, Clare. “King Lear Review – Two Lears Acting up a Storm”. The Guardian. 10.04.2016. web 01.08.2016. <https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2016/apr/10/king-lear-royal-derngate-northampton-royal-exchange-manchester-review&gt;.

Foakes, R.A. “Introduction” King Lear by William Shakespeare. Arden Shakespeare 3rd series. gen. eds. R. Proudfoot, A. Thompson, D.S. Kastan. Walton-on-Thames: Thomas Nelson and Sons Ltd, 1997.

Kott, Jan. Shakespeare Our Contemporary. Trans. Boleslaw Taborski. London: Routledge, 1988.

 

WORKS CONSULTED

Aebischer, Pascale, Edward J. Esche, and Nigel Wheale (eds). Remaking Shakespeare: Performance Across Media, Genres, and cultures.  New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2003.

Burt, Richard (ed). Shakespeare after Mass Media. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2002.

Henderson, Diana E. Collaborations with the Past : Reshaping Shakespeare across Time and Media. Ithaca; London: Cornell UP, 2006

Holland, Peter (ed). Shakespeare Survey 62: Close Encounters with Shakespeare’s Text. Cambridge: CUP, 2009.

Joughin, John J. Philosophical Shakespeares. London and New York: Routledge, 2000.

Kelley, Philippa. The King and I. London and New York: Continuum International Publishing Group, 2011.

Lusardi, James and June Schlueter. Reading Shakespeare in Performance: King Lear. London, New Jersey, Ontario: U of Delaware P: Associated UP’s, 1991.

Mack, Maynard. King Lear in Our Time. London: Methuen & Co Ltd, 1966

Massai, Sonia. World-wide Shakespeares – Local Appropriations in Film and Performance. Oxon: Routledge, 2005.

Muir, Kenneth (ed). King Lear – Critical Essays. London and New York: Routledge, 2015.

— and Stanley Wells (eds). Aspects of King Lear. London, New York, New Rochelle, Melbourne, Sydney: CUP, 1982.

Ogden, James and Arthur H. Scouten (eds). Lear from Study to Stage – Essays in Criticism. Madison; Teaneck: Fairleigh Dickinson UP; London: Associated UP’s, 1997.

Proudfoot, Richard (ed). Shakespeare : Text, Stage and Canon. London : Arden Shakespeare, 2001.

Sun, Emily. Succeeding King Lear. New York: Fordham UP, 2010.

Wagner, Matthew D. Shakespeare, Theatre, and Time. London and New York: Routledge, 2012.

“I’m a wild one…”: the wild men of Shakespeare

‘What is man,

If his chief good and market of his time

Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more’

On inquiring what it means to be human, Hamlet finds himself questioning the difference between man and animal, and if indeed they are all that different. In his plays Shakespeare presents us with a number of characters with a folkloric origin which Lear calls ‘unaccomodated man’ – the wild man – illustrated here from 2 contemporary ballads.

SantaWildman (1) Wild man elizabethanThe wild man can be traced back to both classical mythology and European folklore. Romulus who was reared by a she-wolf, Hercules dressed in a lion skin and carrying a club, satyrs, fauns, and other such characters lived happily with nature. Another example is the Roman god Sylvanus – a tutelary deity of woods and fields. As protector of forests (sylvestris deus), he especially presided over plantations and delighted in trees growing wild. He is also described as a god watching over the fields and husbandmen, protecting in particular the boundaries between wild and cultivated land.

2Alternatively, the wild man was a symbol that primitive existence was truly bestial and that society, through collective effort and human reason was the only way of improving the quality of life. In Europe during the middle ages there were many rumours of forest dwelling wild folk living in a state of nature. These savages were feared as the enemy of man and were associated with demons of the earth and ghosts of the underworld. Another association was with elves and fairies of country lore, impish, not always kindly and connected with vegetation and fertility.

In Book 1 of Spenser’s the Faerie Queene we meet a ‘salvage nation’ who live at ease with nature. They recognize the holiness of Una and protect her even if they cant understand her notion of true faith. In Book 3 conversely, there is a goat-herding tribe who are remarkable for their unrestrained sexuality. With bagpipes, dances and garlands they celebrate the acquisition of the strumpet Hellenore as their Maylady – which is what they call her. We are reminded here of a passage from Stubbes Anatomie of Abuses (1583) raging against the May Day Celebrations:

‘then they have their Hobby-horses, dragons, and other Antiques, together with their baudie pipers and thundering drummers to strike up the devil’s dance withal, then marche these heathen company towards the Church or churchyard, their pipers piping, their drummers thundering, their stumpts dancing, their bells jingling, their hankerchiefs swinging about their heads like madmen.’

Caliban is described in the first folio list of characters as ‘salvage and deformed’. Edmund Malone described his costuming as ‘a large bear skin, or the skin of some other animal; and he is usually represented with long shaggy hair.’ His fishiness could be attributed to his smell considering he spends time among the rocky shores, rather than to his appearance. Trinculo calls him a moon-calf. This refers to one of many items of lore connected with the moon. The moon-calf was a false conception, a foetus imperfectly formed due to the influence of the moon. Caliban’s deformity, however, derives from a different area of lore. In the days of witchcraft it was supposed that devils called incubi and succubi roamed the earth with the express purpose of tempting people to abandon their purity of life. Most records of these creatures came from monasteries and convents and were a convenient way of covering up the sexual activity of supposedly celibate orders. Badly deformed children were suspected of having such undesirable parentage. In this instance we know that Caliban’s mother was a witch and that he was ‘got by the devil himself’.

Caliban...Cambion_or_MooncalfHowever, Caliban’s intelligence and emotional development is far above the usual literary and mythological breed of savage man. When he is denied the pleasure of Miranda’s bed and forced to serve under Prospero’s will he expresses a very human bitterness:

When thou cam’st first,

Thou strok’st me, and made much of me

And then I lov’d thee,

And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle.

 

Renaissance literature provides us with many examples of the civilised man turned savage, whether due to banishment or exile, or due to betrayal in love or friendship.

Pericles, The Globe, 2015

Pericles, The Globe, 2015

In Pericles the hero displays the characteristics of the wild man. Believing both his wife and daughter to be dead, he swears never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs. And when his ship reaches Mytilene we are told in Act 5 Scene 1 that  ‘for this three month he hath not spoken / To anyone, nor taken sustenance / But to prorogue his grief.’ Having found incest, fraud and jealously among men, having lost those he held most dear, and seeing nature indifferent to justice and misery, he becomes less than human in his suffering. In his reunion with Marina we are reminded of Edgar’s words at his own reconciliation with his despairing father ‘Twixt two extremes of passion , joy and grief’ they meet. Through the extreme depth of suffering that we see physically manifested, a reaction of extreme cathartic joy is reached.

Edgar victorianEdgar embodies many of the characteristics identified as that of the wild man but he is unlike any other. He dramatizes a vision of man brought near to beast – appropriate in a play full of animal imagery and crowded with comparisons of man to animal. As Bedlam beggar, he will mortify his flesh, elf all his hair in knots, grime his face with filth and take the ‘basest and most poorest shape/That ever penury, in contempt of man, /Brought near to beast.’ Through his encounter with Poor Tom, Lear reaches an awareness of the nature of humanity. If man is inherently different from animal, the distinction between the two lies not with physical or material qualities, but with rational and spiritual values – duty, affection, kindness, pity, fortitude and forgiveness. As critic G M Princiss stated:

In enacting the role of Poor Tom, Edgar embodies the lowest pitch of human existence. However, through his various impersonations we watch him re-establish order and hierarchy among humanity. Starting with the bare, forked animal, ‘the thing itself’, Edgar by turns becomes peasant, soldier, knight incognito and perhaps even king. He stands for the great range of human potential in behaviour and class and at the same time reminds us of the narrow distance between noblemen and beggar, accommodated man and bare forked animal. He portrays not only man’s closeness to the beast but his distance from it. And in emphasizing man’s common humanity, Edgar is perhaps the most powerful, poignant and comprehensive presentation of the savage man in literature. In the words of Beckett’s tramps, ‘He’s all humanity’.

Karin Brown, Shakespeare Institute Librarian

Whereof are you made? Shakespeare’s Inspiring First Folio

A few weeks ago the Cadbury Research Library held a lovely event to welcome the arrival of a copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio into the University’s collections. The First Folio itself was on display along with many other Shakespearean related treasures and beautiful editions of the works. The ability of the written word to transmit Shakespeare into different forms and eras, the metaphysical properties of the text itself, were revealed in the pieces presented on the evening; whether through Dr John Jowett’s lecture, the readings of selections of Shakespeare’s works, through the illustrations and various editions of the works. Shakespeare’s presence was evoked through ink and paper, voice and image.

One of the highlights of the evening were the contributions made by the students of the University. This original work written in honour of the occasion by Richard O’Brien wonderfully brought together the themes of the evening and to myself, a librarian, illuminated the physical miracle of the printed word.

Whereof are you made?

Cut rags to ribbons. Bring them to the boil,

then beat them into pulp. Set up a frame.

Remove the frisket. Give the tympan oil.

Lay out the letters of a normal name.

Wait for a wasp to swell an oak with gall,

then crush the growth and stir it in hot piss.

Dampen the paper. Fetch a leather ball,

and roll it in whatever comes of this.

Blacken the type, then lock the page in place.

Push in the press bed. Pull to wind the screw.

Lower the platen. Black marks on white space.

Open the hinges. Lift out something new.

Do this all day, in dim light. Here it stands:

one man’s words, and the work of many hands.

Richard wrote about the idea behind the poem and his discovery of Elizabethan printing techniques.

“When I first spoke with Martin Killeen about writing a poem for the Folio event, I wanted to do something about the proliferation of editions and the fact that all the libraries of Shakespeare texts we have today only exist because of this one little (though not that little…) book. The idea of that contingency was what I wanted to explore: if not for this one volume, we wouldn’t have Twelfth Night, Macbeth, the Droeshout engraving… Martin kindly put together a list of all the historically significant editions the Cadbury could supply for handling, and fetched them up from the stacks. I was scrabbling around for something about mighty oaks and little acorns, but it didn’t quite work and eventually I gave up on the idea entirely, after Martin had gone to the trouble of getting all the books out. (Thanks, though!)

Instead I decided it’d be more interesting to think about the contingency of the Folio as a physical object. I’d recently been to the American Bookbinders Museum in San Francisco – which I highly recommend – where an extremely cool woman showed me how to use a 16th-century screw press and talked to me about the making of rag paper. A few days later my girlfriend showed me a clip from BBC coverage of, I think, the Chelsea Flower Show, with a woman talking about wasps and galls and I thought – that should not be what we have to rely on to print great literature. And yet obviously it is, and all these strange, messy, organic components are brought together in a very labour-intensive, human process, using some quite elaborate machinery, for us to be able to have this book at all. And the works of Shakespeare are sometimes imagined as this kind of transcendent thing, living in the mind – and their existence is completely reliant on some torn-up rags and some tree bark having a bit of an over-reaction. I thought there was something fascinating about that, and I just wanted to convey the sense of process and the work involved. The title comes from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, which is similarly trying to struggle with how something – someone – came to be the way they are, and that was the final piece of the picture, really.”

Huge thanks to Richard for allowing us to print his great poem on our blog (which may also get framed and hung in the library to remind us of those valued physical items we call books!).

Karin Brown, Shakespeare Institute Librarian

Hand in hand, with fairy grace: midsummer fairy madness

Midsummer is upon us – it’s damp, it’s wet, it’s England. Nevertheless, the RSC, with the collaboration of Slung Low, The School of Night and Rash Dash are seeing in the equinox in style; celebrating, engaging and sharing creativity in their Fairy Portal Camp.

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I, like others from the Shakespeare Institute will no doubt join in the fun this week despite the weather, but from a historical perspective our ancestors would be quivering in their boots at the thought of opening a portal to the fairy world, as much of the folklore around fairies in the British Isles revolves around the dangers and avoidance of interaction with fairies. So when looking through books on fairy lore we do not see much on how to conjure images of fairies but a significant amount on how to avoid them.

Liminality is at the heart of the timing of our engagement with the supernatural and the nature of fairies themselves. They are intermediate beings, somewhere between ourselves, spirits, demons, and ghosts. They are material and yet can make themselves invisible, comprised of the fleshy nature of man and yet able to transform themselves into ‘airy nothings.’ In Elizabethan times fairy encounters were closely linked with witchcraft and it wasn’t advisable to demonstrate too much knowledge of fairy lore. On Midsummer Eve fairy visits were linked with visitations from the dead – if you were to stand in a churchyard and eat something before midnight you would see the spirits of all those who died in the last year lining up at the church door in chronological order. Handy that Holy Trinity is so close! Some believed that fairies were the spirits of the dead.

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Humans are at their most vulnerable to the fairy world at certain liminal times of the year – equinoxes and solstices, when the increase of day or night shifts over to its decrease. The most outstanding of these festivals are Bealltainn, held on 1st of May; Midsummer Day; the feast of the Sun-god Lugh, in August and Samhain, or Hallowmass, on 1st November. Proof that fairies were placated or dreaded at these seasons is evident from the tradition that those who had been enchanted by them in their dances cannot be released until a year after, this indicating “a recurring festival celebrated annually, the observance of which has been transferred in part to the fairies.” Times of the day are also more conducive to fairy encounters. Some days of the week or even hours of the day are connected with beliefs concerning fairies. In the ballad of Tam Lin we are told that: “They begin at sky-setting, ride a’ the evening tide”. Twilight and dawn serves as a liminal time, between day and night – where one is ‘in the twilight zone, in a liminal nether region of the night’, between sleeping and waking, dreams and reality – the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. In Ireland it was suggested that no mention of fairies should be made on Mondays and Thursdays. Lady Wilde (Oscar’s mum) maintained that on Fridays their power was exceptionally strong; therefore children and cattle had to be strictly watched on that day. Wednesday, says a passage in The Denham Tracts, is “the fairies’ Sabbath or holiday.

With regards to humans, our own liminal states make us susceptible to fairy encounters: birth, puberty, death, for example. Birth is a particularly strong attractant to the fairy world and there are many tales of fairy blessings at birth times (see Sleeping Beauty) or of kidnappings when fairies would replace a new born infant with a changeling.6a00d8345161d869e2019aff309e7e970c

In all lore of the supernatural, eating whilst in the presence of fairies or any other spirits is not advisable – to eat in the fairy world is to risk entrapment in that world. However, the eating of eggs or bathing eyelids with egg whites enabled mortals to see the fairies. Eggs, a symbol of birth and therefore of liminality in folklore gave one the power to see across the borders of reality.

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The great Katherine Briggs in her Anatomy of Puck explains how mortals trapped in the fairy world risked more than entrapment as ‘Time spent with them passes at a different rate than when spent with mortals; seven days in fairyland is generally equivalent to seven years in mortal time. They are dangerous to human beings, their food is taboo and people who fall into their power are carried away and often crumble into dust on their long-delayed return.’ (14)

Anyone in a high passion and thus a vulnerable state will also attract fairy attention. There are many tales of fairies encouraging passions in mortals with their dances, songs or beauty, in order to entrap them. Sometimes people would be trapped forever in the fairy world and on other occasions, they would bestow supernatural gifts on particular favourites. In the case of Thomas the Rhymer, the Fairy Queen confers “the tongue that shall never lie”, a boon which earned him the popular sobriquet of “True Thomas”. One young man of Nithsdale, overcome by the wild and delightful music and signing of the fays, took part in their dance and was presented with a cup of wine of which he drank deeply. He was permitted to return to the world of men, but “was ever after endowed with the second sight”.

Thomas the Rhymer

Thomas the Rhymer

Thankfully, the fairies leave us physical landmarks of where they’ve been. Fairies are known for dwelling in mounds, trees, near graves or standing stones, near water – streams, lakes and wells. Beaumont and Fletcher in The Faithful Shepherdess, make references to a well as a fairy haunt. The fays danced round it by moonlight, and dipped their stolen children in its waters:

So to make them free / From dying flesh and dull mortality.

fairy_ring1However, the most famous natural landmark is the Fairy Ring – a dark, circular patch of long grass. The fairies present in fairy rings could not be seen unless you stood in the middle of their circle dance. Alfred Nutt, alluding to the fairy dance by moonlight, describes it as “the classic manifestation of the fairy folk… in wild and desert places.” He thought that it had a realistic basis in the superstition that “night is essentially the time for growth” and that the ritual which sought to evoke growth was “frenzied and orgiastic.” Fairy dancing was associated with the idea that saltation assists the growth of the corps. Violent action has a magical and sympathetic effect upon the powers of nature, and the emanations of action strengthen the supernaturals in their task and are passed on to them; or, by sympathetic magic, they encourage them to similar exertions. Many primitive dances assume the form of imitative motions pantomimic of the growth of the crops, or of vegetation. Participants forming a circle and dancing with their backs to the centre.

“Let turtle-footed peace dance fayrie rings / About her court.”

Ben Jonson, Every Man out of his Humour

To cultivate or dig the fairy ring caused one’s luck to disappear, but to clean it meant an easy death.

At Chathill farm, near Alnwick, in Northumberland, there was a famous fairy ring round which the children of the locality might dance, but not more than nine times. If they exceeded this number of rounds “they would have been carried off by the fairies.” A house built on ground marked by these rings was fortunate for those who inhabited it.

Blake's illustration from A Midsummer Night's Dream

It is unlucky to pass a fairy haunt without leaving an offering there, a piece of cheese, or other morsel. Offerings of milk are given to brownies. In Derbyshire offerings of clay tobacco pipes found in mounds seem to have formerly been made to the fairies. So, as you pass the Fairy Portal Camp it may be worth leaving a gift in order to appease the beautiful but dangerous spirits that may be unleashed! You have been warned.

Karin Brown, Shakespeare Institute Librarian

1616: not just Shakespeare…

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This year, the 400th anniversary of William Shakespeare’s death is being celebrated across the globe.  Although his death took place in April, there are events scheduled throughout the year—ranging from performances to lectures to parades—commemorating this significant playwright and his legacy.  However, 2016 is more than just the 400th anniversary of a single man’s death—the year marks many significant events from 400 years ago.

This year marks the anniversary of the publication of Ben Jonson’s first folio; an edition that was the first of its kind.  It paved the way for the work of other playwrights to be collected in this way, although it initially sparked controversy over the idea of publishing a living dramatist’s plays in a single volume labelled “works”.

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In addition, 2016 marks the death of Philip Henslowe.  Without his diary we would know much less about how the theatre industry worked during the early modern period.  This document provides insight in to the running of theatre companies from the perspective of a business man—although Henslowe also ventured into real estate and spent time acting as Master of the Bears.

Shakespeare was not the only dramatist to pass away in 1616. Francis Beaumont, of the famous Beaumont and Fletcher pairing and author of the hilariously metatheatrical The Knight of the Burning Pestle, also died that year.  Other literary and dramatic communities faced losses as well.  Spanish novelist Miguel de Cervantes—author of Don Quixote, the first modern novel —also died in April of 1616.  Chinese dramatist Tang Xianzu, who was one of the most prominent writers of the Ming period in drama and is most famous for his Four Dreams, died a few months later.

Ultimately, 1616 was a significant year for theatre and literature in many ways, and this month’s library exhibition provides an overlook of many of the astounding events that took place 400 years ago.

Katherine Knowles, Casual Library Support Assistant

Months 1616 02

Shakespeare in Art: Tempests, Tyrants and Tragedy at Compton Verney

compton-verney-robinThe Compton Verney Sketching Trolley, stands in a stairwell stocked with pencils, drawing boards, paper. It would be easy to pass it by but there’s a printed page too: Faces and Feelings in Shakespeare is the heading. Not a kids’ activity but one for all ages. We’re encouraged to identify emotion in depictions of Shakespearean characters: fear, anger, love, sadness and betrayal are suggested.

This then is the perspective which informs the exhibition I have come to see. It’s designed as a theatrical experience which celebrates subjective responses to the poetry, drama and – above all – the emotional intensity of Shakespeare’s texts. I take this on board.Which is a bad, but wholly appropriate pun, because I go in through a very ordinary door and am immediately on board ship. It’s dim, the deck heaves under my feet, booming and cracking noises suggest the vessel is breaking up. I grasp that there’s a howling storm out there. And I’m face to face with Prospero’s ‘drown my book’ speech, half-lit on the wall.

I know the passage well. Or do I? When did I last close-read it? For the text springs into new life: this is a magic storm called up by a wizard who the power to ‘ope graves’ and raise the dead. And he’s angry. I’ve seen many Tempests over decades of theatre-going, but always from a safe, dry seat. Each time, in a mildly academic way, one wonders how they’re going to do the storm. But this is different: I’m part of it and it’s scary.

The guide says that the floor was designed with an irregular rake so that it seems to move and pitch. The ship’s planking is under-lit in some places, suggesting an unstable deck over a cavernous space below. The angle of the rake and the exact width of the spaces between planks was apparently a matter of some discussion when the exhibition was planned. Art must always be constrained by something and, in this case, Health and Safety concerns about trippings-up, stalling wheelchairs and skyscraper heels were the determining factors. The use of briny and tarry odours to enhance the sensory impact was also considered. But the potentially damaging effects of wafting chemical vapours on sensitive materials was regarded as too risky.

But now I’ve landed on the enchanted isle. Fragments from a larger canvas by George Ramsay show Ferdinand leaping ashore; Alonso, bedraggled and bewildered. Philip de Loutherbourg’s Shipwreck gives us a Ferdinand clinging to rocks and barely evading the grasp of a violently foaming wave. Here is Caliban from a 1978 painting, (Thou earth, thou!) a creature of the same tones of sand and mud from which he seems to have emerged. In a canvas by John Pierre Simon he is brutish and ugly with ape-like ears, while David Scott presents him as ponderous, earthbound, staggering under his load of firewood. The depiction of Ariel in all these works is in sharp contrast: the sprite is winged and floating, supple, sinuous and riding the air like an airborne dancer.

Now, Darwin is in my mind. Though On the Origin of Species did not appear until 1859 – he held back publication of his great work, rightly anticipating its establishment-rocking reception – a number of similar theories on the origins of man were circulating in the first half of the century. Frankenstein is surely in the mix too: hideous, homeless, rejected and mistreated by their father-figures, both the Mary Shelley’s Creature and Shakespeare’s Caliban crave acceptance and possess sensitivity and intelligence.

THE_TEMPEST_2110An_1717652iI can’t leave this section without gazing for some minutes at Anthony Sher’s depiction of himself in role as Prospero. Against a background of a custom rail of tribal masks, Sher crouches centre-stage balancing the all-powerful staff on a forefinger. The painting refers to a 2009 production of The Tempest in South Africa. But there are other levels of meaning here. Not all the masks are benevolent: some seem futuristic – eight eyed aliens – others bare their teeth menacingly. What is Sher saying? Something about the versatility of the actor who, in the blink of an eye, can assume any role? Power, certainly. But an ephemeral power, implied perhaps by the humble, disposable -plastic water bottle, placed before the great magician: a symbol of his mortality.

The Exhibition is divided into seven ’Acts’ and I pass on to Hamlet, a drowning woman and shades of Millais’ ‘Ophelia.’

For here is a life-size Ophelia, immersed. She’s slender, fragile, dressed in virgin white and clasping flowers. Her image wavers under the surface as tiny fish flit by. We have Gertrude’s detailed account of the event and again I am driven back to the text. Too often, Ophelia’s death is referred to as ‘suicide’. Not so. We last see her in the ‘mad scene’ where she is described as ‘distract’, ‘divided from herself and her fair judgement’. It’s the ‘poison of deep grief’ for her father that’s sent her over the edge, together with her rejection by Hamlet – another form of bereavement. She doesn’t drown herself but climbs a willow over a stream. An ‘envious sliver’ breaks and her sodden clothes bear her under.

The genius of this 2014 installation by the husband and wife team Davy and Kirsten McGuire, is that suddenly the apparently drowned figure stirs. Streams of bubbles erupt from nostrils and mouth and her limbs move frantically. Has the cold water brought her to her senses? Is she struggling for life? It is both moving and distressing, for the figure succumbs finally and sinks away. The cycle repeats itself while an endless recording of ‘Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day’ becomes more and more vexing and fraying to the nerves.

terryI am glad to turn to the 1888 John Singer Sargent painting of Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth. This is the true face of a Tyrant. The Queen crowns herself in Napoleonic style, drawn up to an imposing height and glittering in the peacock blue and auburn robe, adorned with a thousand iridescent beetle wings, which Terry wore onstage. Her eyes are avid and full of triumph. There is no reference at all in the text to the Macbeth’s coronation: all is inferred by Sargent from the early scenes of the play where the voracious ambition of Lady Macbeth pushes her husband into regicide. It’s a breath-taking piece of imagination and execution, made more striking by the art deco frame commissioned by Sargent. This features the same Gaelic designs as appear in the Queen’s crown and period art deco footlights – with what care and attention to detail has this exhibition been planned! – illuminate the whole.

The lighter relief of A Midsummer Night’s Dream comprises Act 5. A sequence of photographs by David Farrell capture behind-the-scenes shots of Sir Peter Brook’s 1968 film of the play, shot entirely at Compton Verney itself. Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Ian Holm and Ian Richardson are all there. How young they look. Green leaves deck the roof of the gallery and birds twitter while I stare in fascination at Tom Hunter’s remarkable photographic remixes of The Dream, drawing on the venues and people of modern day Hackney.

Samba dancers, a thrash metal band and pole dancers appear in pieces such as And I Serve the Fairy Queen and The Course of True Love. Titania becomes a Samba Queen: sexy, rather sleazy and asleep on the green baize of a snooker table which hints playfully at the greenwood, while urban fairies watch over her. The triple wedding at the end of the play is held in a nightclub/pub setting – all lurex curtains and balloons. The fairies, mingled with the guests, watch on impassively. Another large installation is an urban brick wall which one has to examine closely to find the chink. It’s fresh, challenging and stimulating.

There’s much, much more. Most striking is the digitally rendered and animated Ariel which will appear in the production of The Tempest at the RSC this year. Theatre goes on and on, pushing the technical boundaries. And Shakespeare, as always, accommodates it.

I leave, walking down the long path from the gracious Compton Verney mansion to the lake and the bridge guarded by four  massively-clawed sphinxes. The air seems fresher here, swishing through the great cedar trees, envisaged  but never  actually seen by Capability Brown.

As usual, on leaving an exhibition, I feel as if I’ve only scratched the surface. But, in the current trendy term, I have been immersed.

Bettina Harris, Library Support Assistant

Thanks to Lorna Burslem for advice on sourcing images.