In these early stages there appears to be a world against you. And wandering from bar to bar attempting to find a venue, is a strong plate of evidence for this case. After one or two unsuccessful attempts to be taken seriously by staff/owners. Daniel and I decide to sit and slowly lament over a few neat drinks. Although not making us seem more effective, professional or credible for the rest of the afternoon, does mean that staff take our now violent advances brandishing posters and accusations, will a little more immediacy. We are crude, but successful.
After becoming lost in the bleached white walls of the Old Know’s Building, and interrupting a dance/prayer meeting, we come across a place willing to offer us a free audition space. I, have to pause before continuing, ok, deep breath. The Nottingham “fame factory”, a space used to offer thirteen year old girls the chance to dance and lip-sync along to their favourite songs is our salvation. In a city recognisably known for its music, theatre, artistic and creative scene, this is the only place that will take us. I do not know what these means about us, our reputation or the factory itself, but I am aware of what it reveals about the appearance of the Nottingham scene, and the grim and terrible reality. There is of course the possibility that I am wrong, and hold a mouthful of unintentional bias. I may just have my preconceptions altered about the fame factory. Maybe this is what I am scared of the most. If to its namesake of the Warhol studios offers Nottingham’s boundary to artistic freedom, then I might be truly fucked.
But it is done and we must continue. Advertisements are made online, and posters are printed. Sexy, black and sleek, somebody must want this glowing from their C.V. goddam somebody!
A few days later, Daniel and begin to distribute the posters, with limited success. As we stand in a bar whose name I will leave for they were kind enough to allow us to advertise, Daniel shakes his head in dismay, for I pin the poster against the door to the toilet at crotch level.
“So this is where theatre has been left” he says, staring at the already stained door.
“I think rather, it is where we have been” I say, and we leave.
Regardless of who is right, one thing is dangerously clear today. As we stare at a show, with no rehearsal space or venue, and the next daunting practice of convincing actors to work for free (oh mother of god,) we are defiantly, about to be pissed on by the public. So smile with that pretty mouth, and open wide…
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