The big buzz in advertising, branding, neuroscience and marketing is emotions. The whole idea is that the target market we are trying to reach is not a bunch of formless spirits. They are people. We are people. By attempting to reach those people we are investing emotion and provoking emotion. As an artist this is even more important to me, since I trade in emotional experiences. If I have any hope of surviving in this economic climate I have to look at the shift in paradigms we are living, from an era of rationalism, post-modernism, post-constructivism, it is almost a relief to come full circle, thanks to the wonders of neuroscience.

Now we can fully justify the argument that we not only are emotional beings but that our brains have been wired to make instictive decisions using the emotional part of our brains.

So now, we come to the personal, not the business or factual side of life. I’ve often found I make assessments of people based on gut feeling and when I don’t follow that gut feeling I end up regretting it. After reading How The Brain Makes Up Its Mind I now understand that the gut feeling I have is a rapidly processed response of my emotional brain which revisits past experiences, including the emotions those experiences begat and all other knowledge stored in my memory.

Today I came across another book which taps into the emotions we are talking about:

Another way in which it has impacted me is in learning how I come to conclusions and having to guard against my preconceptions. It is really dificcult, because I keep harking back to negative experiences in relationships when confronted by a new attitude in the relationship I am in. IIt affects my partner greatly, because these attitudes are in total opposition to his qualities.

So not only must I learn to guard against my emotional responses but I have to learn to exploit those in my target market, by understanding what moves them, touches them, makes them feel alive.

In the light of this New Year and New Decade I am embarking on two journeys: learning how to distribute and market my doco online and skilling up as a performer while writing plays. I hope this all pays off. It heralds for me the start of a new life and new career path.

I do hope everyone who reads this post has new beginnings.

I am incredibly grateful to the inimitable Yusuke for having organised the event. I am also thankful that I was able to make the last part of it tonight.

Asynchronous projections onto the walls of GOMA in its atrium, accompanied by some techno. Fun, yes. A nice rehash of the Tulse Luper Suitcases, yes. Innovative and fresh, no.

Sorry Mr Greenaway. I love you and all that but…having seen A Life in Suitcases and wandered through the initial installation back in 2005, plus having seen all the other versions of it all… I was left wanting something new. Something less laboured. Something that wasn’t another different cut of the same film. Something completely different.

Instead, we got the same image on three screens on one side and on three screens on another side. Not simultaneously, but more or less concurrently. As far as shows go, it was ok. Peter Greenaway? Just ok? You bet. I was disappointed.

I have been a fan since that fatal summer of ‘93 when Gav and I saw Prospero’s Books at The Regent. And it is only now that I have begun linking all the different characters from his previous films to the latest productions. As a feat of scriptwriting and character development it is unique, but it does not really delve into the psyche of each character. We are still eternally observing, not emoting, definitely not empathising.

That I am afraid, is my review of what was for me the most awaited event of The Brisbane Festival.

In fact, I shouldn’t even be shellshocked. But I am. He was a tough old crust. The man had lived through a few exiles in his early childhood, my grandfather’s rages and 14 years of civil war. Sure, there are other people who lived through similar things, but they weren’t him. They were not my Tio Tato. They were not my godfather. I’m not just saying this. He was a remarkable man.

At the age of 16 he and his mates took El Salvador by storm, as Lord Darky. He brought rock ‘n roll to the staid, conservative place he now called home. His first language was really English, not Spanish, having grown up in Montreal, but after 60 years in El Salvador, you couldn’t really tell anymore.

In his early twenties he went on scholarship to Edinburgh to do postgraduate study in architecture. He came back with so many ideas. He started designing toilets for de Sola. He soon put enough money together to start what would become an empire: RJC.

All empires are doomed to fail and his fell, but his vision remains. Torre Democracia is still standing. The homes he built are still there. His bauhaus style was really innovative in a place enamoured of Spanish colonial homes. Modernism was his lodestar.

He was gruff but generous to us, the children of his kid sister. Sometimes he carried the gruffness too far. But all in all, we owe him our present circumstances. Him and tio Lito. Without them, my family would still be in El Salvador, with only just enough money to send one child to university. Instead, here we are, following our dreams. We are grateful for that. I at least, am grateful for the opportunity he has given me. I didn’t squander it.

My last memory of him, is in our house, all our meagre belongings on the floor, on sale for a pittance. He took one look at it all and looked at my mother. “How are you paying for the airfares?” he asked her. “The Lord will provide”, she answered. He gave us what we needed so we could board our first flight to the lucky country.

When my mother tried to return to El Salvador for my grandmother’s funeral, he said, “stay in your adopted country. This is not your country anymore. There is nothing for you to do here.” It was cruel, but true.

Now we wonder what to do. He would still say the same to us. He would look me in the eye and say “Patricia, este ya no es tu pais. Yo ya no estoy aqui. Yo he pasado a mejor vida. No tienes nada que venir a hacer.”

But I disagree. I need to say goodbye. I need to reach out to the others who are mourning. I need to visit a few graves. I need to make a difference. I need to use what I obtained through his generosity to help others.

Tio Tato, nos vemos en Enero. Descanse en paz hasta entonces.

A sample, for your perusal, peeps:

Elegant truth-seeking musician seeks wise enchantress to gamble with the seeds of life.

Virum lepidum quaero qui Dick, Jock et Snowy meminisse potest, atque cum hilara femina per litteras colloqui vult. Anglice respondere licet. Imago?

Ann, 55, inelegant.
email: inelegantbutinteresting@hotmail.co.uk

Not very friendly woman seeks not very friendly man.
box no. 13.01

The eligible and the curious are invited to associate freely at the Freud Museum’s singles nights.
web: www.freud.org.uk/events

Passionate intellectual F (Ldn) desires really nice geeky M, 45-55, for Edinburgh Festivaling.

Woman wanted by man 38, bit thick, but very large penis.

And then, there’s the really cool real estate advertisements:

Sunny, north London flat, hour British Museum, avail. 1 Oct-early Dec. New décor, broadband, cable telly. One double, one single BR, in small modern building, 10 minutes to Finsbury Park (Victoria/Piccadilly/BR lines). Culturally diverse area.

Hampstead Flat, top floor, straightforward, quiet and bright, two bedrooms. Decent transport, shops, 2 minutes from the Heath. Available from August for the semester or (ideally) the entire academic year.

Summer in London. 2-3 month let from June, 1-bedroom flat NW5, sleeps two, 2 mins tube, close to Heath, 15 mins to centre. 

Artist’s lovely split-level 1-bedroom flat with private roof terrace, NW5, available from May (2-6 month let), sleeps two, 2 mins tube, close to Heath, 15 mins to centre.

London E2, family home, 15 mins Oxford Circus, 5 weeks from 23rd July.

Makes me wonder why the ARB does not have anything like it…

Instead of trying to interpret what is going on through an ignorant prism, I can say that a people who are no longer willing to put up with a regime that oppresses them and is ready to overthrow it via civil disobedience deserves to choose self-determination in whatever form they want it to take.

The funniest thing is that I stumbled on these amazing sources of information that up to a week ago were being ignored by the mainstream media, except for The Economist, which seems to have someone employed full time to keep an eye on Twitter. Go the Economist! Because reportage is now in the hands of the people. The journalist I befriended and followed on twitter became real to me through his blog posts, his articles on SF Gate Chronicle and he introduced me to Tehran Bureau.

I think the only honourable thing to do at this point is to ask readers to look at the Tehran Bureau on the web. It will illuminate the opinionated and explain why an intelligent and informed man such as Barack Obama is being very careful about his comments on the situation.

All that’s left to do is throw yourself into a project until you’re so exhausted and so concentrated on that project that the niggling thing you couldn’t forget is gone. It has sunk to the bottom of the pile, so you no longer worry about it.

That is what I’m trying to do now….

Here we go.

What did I think of the new adaptation of He Died With A Felafel in His Hand? What did I think of Simon Bedak’s script? Of Girlclumsy’s direction? Of the acting? Well….*drum roll* I loved it. Unapologetically. Sure, I’m biased. Who isn’t when they’re sitting beside the author and the playwright, and are there to support them. But seriously, now, as a playwright myself, I have to say I liked what Mr Bedak did with the dialogue. He stuck to the spirit of the book as much as possible. He updated socio-political references and pop-culture nods to 2009 and it worked. I waited the entire play for my favourite story, when one of these guys, maybe it was downstairs Ivan, maybe another bloke. In any case, he was doing something I’m not sure your average bloke would do. While watching telly with his flatmates, he wanked the dog. No, I’m not kidding. He did. When the flatmates asked, “what do you think you’re doing?” He replied: “just helping out a mate”. It got the usual bellyfull of laughter from the audience and my whoops of approval. There was one line in there, which I’m sure Simon added, when JB [the character] is getting dumped by his junkie girlfriend, she says “you were lousy in bed”. At that point, a very sozzled Birmo piped up “was I? I don’t think so.” This completely disconcerted the actor playing JB.

Girlclumsy’s casting was masterful. The actor playing JB got the smile, the tone of voice, the glint in his eyes just right. He nailed the character. I almost said something else there, but it would have been inaccurate. You get my drift. Everyone else in the cast, except for the girl from Mackay were outstanding. Maybe she was from Rocky. She was good, but eclipsed by an awesome cast with great comic timing. One actor managed to go from being a dominatrix to a cop to a groupie to a dildo wielding femonazi. It was spellbinding seeing the same actors slip in and out of character. Gay Dirk came out on top though. I’ve seen previous renditions of Gay Dirk and until now I’d always thought they were a nod to the queenie stereotype. This time, instead of having a skinny, whiny, over the top camp boy, we got a gay man with attitude, lip and a chip on his shoulder.

As to the direction, I can’t say enough. You can tell where Girlclumsy’s hand took hold of the gear stick. Having the cops come in via the audience was a great idea. Bringing in a Latvian character who loves herring and uses it as courtship tool was inspired. He’s been Russian before, but Latvian? I liked it, even though having tried the best of Latvia cuisine I would say that beef would be more up their alley. And beer. The sex industry however, would probably also be cheaper, but I digress. We’re talking about the direction here, not the state of Latvian society.

Inserting a bevy of dildo wielding babes into the stageplay is enough to warrant my attention. It was almost like watching synchronised swimming in fishnet stockings, black hotpants as a hapless mysoginist gets creamed. Too funny for words. The scene changes were seamless. Even changes of location were done entirely with light and sound design. Love and Rockets was represented by red light, the darkening of the stage and one lone pole dancer, sans pole of course. The funny thing is, in the book, JB never did get to bed her, but in the play, it just ups the ante to have him ask out a stripper.

Set design as per usual for Felafel, has the brown couch, the bucket bong, but no frying pan. No humble frying pan. Instead we get the fridge, which is used as portal to the backstage. It also makes a difference watching it at the Arts Theatre and not at La Boite or at the Gardens Theatre at QUT. Being on front row made it even more interactive, especially when the playwright and the author take enough liberties to heckle the actors from the front row.

All in all, Felafel hit the nail on the head with each blow of the bong. Snappy dialogue, breaks all the rules, by telling us not showing us, but uses the innate storyteller in all of us to draw us into the deeply personal anecdotes JB collated over four weeks and Simon Bedak adapted in the last year. Bravo.

Worst of the matter was, it wasn’t my first choice for a movie. I was hanging out for Woody Allen’s latest Vicky Cristina Barcelona. I was so knackered from my annual cleaning spree and New Year’s revelry that I went to Southbank Cinemas instead of Balmoral. Dang! Indeed.