The Tiny Travelling Theatre


Inspiration for our own travelling theatre vessel…


Irondale Ensemble workshop education, Brooklyn

I am learning about improvisation.

There are an infinite number of ways to say ‘no’. Art, theatre and mainly improvisational theatre must exist entirely without ‘no’. Take suggestions, take leads of others at all times, at all costs. We are taught to think about the consequences and to worry, fear and dread change. We set out our plans and we don’t want others to get in the way.

So yes, perhaps the route wont be what you expected, but isn’t what you forge out of each unpredicted moment even more intriguing?

I am learning new workshop skills out here in Brooklyn, New York with and the Ringmaster will be most grateful for the doors that are opening to her.

a centaur in an apron

the tasks grew harder.

with each turn the odious toad devised new challenges, new ways to make me break my silence.

but i stood firm.

nodding and smiling.

pleasing and thanking.

the very picture of obeisance as she asked me to plunge my hand into the stinking mire of eldua to fetch her the golden sceptre, as she bad me deny the ochre queen of the hinterlands her nightly shot of noctilucent in order to steal her shining wreath, as she commanded me to empty the infinitish well of childrens’ tears, drop by aching drop, os that she might fill it with her liquid platonium coin.

never once, through word or deed, did i display my displeasure.

and each night, after ascending the creaking stairway to my miserable cot which seemed so radiant in the light of its respiteful lonesomeness, i silently screamed


Dreams are real: scenario exploration

I feel willowy and weak. I want my stride to be strong and confident and decisive like I know it can be.

But oh, he’s stopping me, dragging me, making my legs bow. Making my heartbeat stutter and quake.

I know the way.

Willow is flexible, but willow is strong.

Dusty stone underfoot, the canvas shades billowing overhead; I peek between the flapping sheets out to the sparkling cool of the night sky above.

Oh he’s dragging me still.

Doubting me.


Breathing his hot breath over my ear and through my hair.

Tell me I’m a fool, and I start to be that fool. My truth and my own faith are fragile.


We are lost.

It is a beautiful, chaotic labyrinth of corners and corridors and dead ends and we are somewhere deep in it’s heart.

Me and this lion upon my back.

His claws are lazy but sharp and they are sinking into me. Into my skin.

He is growling through me,

He is roaring laughter at me.

This is my own unique burden and I have taken him from the wild and I have chosen to carry him.

Through this despairing maze, round and round and round and round and round and round we spiral.

And then I find it. The route, the exit.

I find the solution.

I find our den.

I succeed.

And he laughs his ferocious laugh.

As we lie together I feel my monster burbling in careless sleep, and I can feel the weight of my ribcage softly pressing on my heart. My stomach is tumbling with sickness and I am shaking with the hopelessness of my ridiculous captivity.

I hate him.

And yet all I want to do is watch him in his majestic sleep.

 Sleeping lions