Jarkko Lehmus Diary

"Don't Tap It... Whack It!"

Too many things to talk about and too little time. What follows is a condensed summary of of a month in a life of a dancing beast. You can feel free to ignore the next five paragraphs and start reading after the second picture if you can't be bothered with the random rant.

Need I say more? ©

I regularly refer to the company as the zoo, long for going out to play, hate talking shop and do it anyway, try to better myself while self-destructing, cry during lonely nights while driving away any possibility of companionship, prepare wise words for others to adhere to and generally just mess things up myself.

Today was a Tuesday. It was a mellow day at work with a minor shocker and some assorted tantrums of the management kind due to finding out that the projector situated behind the set for Ashley's Pennies From Heaven will eat up two meters of our stage space at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. It'll be bloody tight, but we'll sort ourselves out because we have to. That's also something we do on a regular basis anyway... The autumn tour kicked off in Glasgow a couple of weeks back, morphed into something else on the vastly bigger Edinburgh stage and will be something totally else again in London, Inverness and Aberdeen. All the stages are very different and every entry schedule is equally tight. It all reminds me of my commercial days in a larger scale: you've got a show to put on and we just get on with it and give the audience the best we can while trying to work out the spacing and dodging each other or adapting the choreography on the go. What ever the company's efficiency drives or shortfalls in organisation are always fall on the dancers, because we are ultimately what the audience pays for to see and we do our best to deliver them, you, the best we can. All help is appreciated and all hindrance is bitched about, but ultimately ignored for the sake of the end product. You pay your money and we'll bleed for it even if the shows we perform only properly work in one of the venues we end up performing in.

Let's see what happens when the company gets it's new building, a new financial leaf is turned, more commissions roll in facilitating more networking and possibly finally the longed-for foreign touring. For us touring south of the border is included under the umbrella of "foreign touring." A pile of political rubbish, if you ask me. There's been more than a fair bit of talk about the big boys torpedoing our prospective touring efforts on various fronts, but, since I don't have much of concrete proof, I can't say more than: "What a load of utter shite."

I'm a mess of a Creationist-Darwinist, so a possibly blasphemous on all fronts, to boot and believe in healthy competition and critical thought even among well-established institutions that have a tendency of curtailing such practices for the sake of maintaining the status quo. Clearly my viewpoint is propelled by the relationship of the company I have dedicated the past five years of my life, but I also do my best to test and challenge the establishment in my immediate environment as best as I see fit. Open confrontation is seldom the best way forward in any situation. For me to realise that has taken a fair amount of bashing against shut doors. Instead of looking into the internal workings of locks, I'm currently educating myself on the construction of hinges in the hope of working my way through those doors in a more lasting manner and possibly showing the inhabitants of those closed rooms that fresh air isn't such a bad thing after all. In practice that includes me actually training properly, drinking less and, hopefully, communicating in a more productive manner.

What a bucket load of metaphorical gobshite... On another note: if anyone's got any decent guidelines about English grammar especially regarding when and how to combine words and when not to, please do not hesitate to email me. If you lot don't set me right, I'll just keep applying my bastard child of Finnish grammar and English weirdness.

A funky Pennies rehearsal shot sans the obligatory cowboy outfits and coconuts. © Michael Scott

So after the pretty picture we can conclude that yesterday was a fine Tuesday wrapped up with a rather entertaining Douglas Laing tasting courtesy of the Whisky Club and put to bed with a few choice drams an a cigar. It is now 1am and I'm still yet to tell you what's actually going on in plain words, so here goes: After the holiday we've pulled the autumn program together, got the second cast on for the most part, had the season's first meetings to pull together a workable updated house contract and terms and conditions of employment, got lovely physio Louise from the National Sports Injury Clinic observing and assessing us, done a couple of weeks of shows, nailed down the Christmas, New Year and the winter holiday dates and times and even got a few confirmed Saturdays off over the course of the autumn and some pencilled-in Mondays off during the Christmas season of Sleeping Beauty. We've also had a minor drama about the transportation of the company on the wider UK tours resulting in possibly better communication and forward planning in the future. At this moment I'd like to add a little dig about the unworkable nature of the state of the rail network, unsustainability of short haul flights and the detrimental effect that prolonged coach journeys have on the performance capability of a highly strung dance company. In any case the positive things that have emerged are all issues that I've been going on about for a long time now. They might finally be bearing fruit, but only after several of the dancers have come back from the summer holiday still carrying the same injuries that we went on the holiday with. Is it too late and will it all explode on our collective thighs still remains to be seen.

She might certainly hope for some action. ©

To keep me off the streets the company has graciously allowed me to do a guest project with David Hughes Dance to dance a part of in the Red Room based on Edgar Allan Poe's Masque of the Red Death. In my view it's good for the company to let it's dancers to roam a little to gather some wider influences to bring back home on their return. (Clearly this would be my view due to the fact that I was originally brought in to bring a different approach to movement, rather than just being a crap ballet dancer.) Maybe this collaboration will open more doors in the future. Personally I'd like to be in the position of having my base here with the company while being allowed to go out to explore and further myself through outside collaborations, so I could feed the sides of me that the company doesn't particularly provide for as a performer and as a person. I have created all the anchoring male parts in the narrative repertoire of the company with pretty much free hand and would like to be able to develop the characters and any future creations with an expanded toolkit.

As I've told you before my philosophy in life is to try and find the balance by exploring the extremities. As any of you chess or poker players out there would appreciate, studying the mistakes and the strategies of the generations past will give you a vast artillery over the uneducated opponent, I have also decided to finally stick the gator clips on my neglected brain and embark on converting the practice based Diploma in Performance that I acquired from Millennium Dance 2000 into a more intellectually challenging BA in Theatre. After that is in the bag I'd like to translate my professional experience into another BA through the course in Modern Ballet that the company is about to launch in collaboration with the RSAMD. I'd also like to make sure that the latter possibility is made available for who ever likes to take it up within the company to ease their passage into the world beyond the insular existence of a professional dancer. During all that artistic laying of foundation I'll also try to stretch my intellectual wings in the directions of social psychology and management and possibly even get myself registered and insured as an alternative therapist due to the increasing demand of treating my fellow dancers.

It's safe to say that the focus of my life is shifting from pissing the days away to looking into the future as a place that I have to live in for the rest of my life. Working with guys like Paul Liburd and David Hughes gives me some indication of what to expect of myself as a performer in a decade's time, if I take care of myself. If...

Condensed my arse...

There are topics I've thought about while writing my entries over the years that I haven't even had the courage to touch upon, but the time comes for everything. You know that I like to travel. My mother told me that I'd reeled off a list of countries I'd like to go to while sitting on the potty and reading the day's paper upside down... The imminent global warming is taking it's toll and air travel for pleasure is reaching it's critical mass. When ever I've travelled to another country and immersed myself to the local culture, and people, I've come back feeling that I'd like to have contributed more. There was one night in particular that I was writing a whole travel story while Al Gore's Live Earth was going on and my silly antics around Europe seemed truly pointless in the context of the greater picture. It's taken a long time to sink into my thick head, but I've finally decided to sell my second motorbike, buy myself a pushbike for the town and do my best to find alternatives for excessive air travel.

This all raises the question of my ultimate interest to you, my reader. Am I just a knuckle-headed curiosity or do my writings actually make you think? I don't get much feedback, but I know that someone occasionally, possibly accidentally, wades through the marshes of the literary swamp I regurgitate. I've written this blog for nearly five years now and it would certainly be alarming if there wouldn't be any progress with me as a person. Sod knows...

All I know is that an increasing amount of my friends are turning forty, Limor has left the company to move back to Israel due to frustration and toe pain (La-La-La-Boom) and that one can be told off for smoking a cigar in a Hellfire Club, be utterly lost or profoundly stylish during a soaked music festival, that bowling can be a hoot at least the first time around and that hungry broken bodies need quality treatment and guidance on fishing.

You decide... ©

My long-time wife and nemesis at her best. © Andrew Ross

To round off a night of running circles in the woods of my mind I'll spark up another one, suck down the dregs in the glass and leave you with another testament of the state of Glasgow.

A notice on the door of an up market city centre development. ©

"Usch, I say to you, Busse..."

Dearest pupumunu. I have been away for so long again. You already know where I've been, so I won't go through the whole trip. Instead I will give you dirty slices of twisted dreams, memories of extraordinarily beautiful smears on my retinas, stupid longing, the curious feelings of an outsider, the happiness of belonging, caged introspection, open-faced curiosity and cultural shocks-a-galore.

It is Thursday. I have been ill for a few days. I tried to go to work today, but being bored of sitting at home doesn't mean I am well enough to go to work. I caught a common cold at some point last week and tried to shake it off with various substances over the weekend. I even tried to fool it by taking it to on a convoluted party hop in Edinburgh just to see if I could exhaust it and leave it sleeping on someone else's couch, but the bastard just kept soldiering on. Boring and annoying little demon biting my ankle just when I was enjoying being back at work. I'll put a pillow on it's face when it's snoring it's rendition of the Moondance into my ear tonight...

Summer: cars, planes and trains... I step out on the Söderhamn station platform into the open arms of my mother and two of my cousins' wives (two separate cousins, two separate wives), get ushered into a banged-up rag-top Escort and whisked off to another cousin's place. She got married the day before. I was entertaining the masses in Dumfries on the big day, so I arrive late, drop my bags and the champagne presents and get sucked into a whirlwind of lost relatives, catching up, new beginnings, happy faces, big hugs, woolly socks and left over food. Four hours and it's all gone. It's near midnight. I'm lying in a hammock and the birds singing their lullabies are turning the day into a night, but the sun only hears about it a few hours later. It's far too busy painting the pines golden. The sauna is calling me to spark it up and the river wants to give me a big, wet kiss. Three days I spend wondering how good it can feel to be a part of a family. To feel the pull of the blood.

Many a midnight swim. ©

In Stockholm I go straight to prison without passing go. I turn up, the warden smiles at me, takes my money and gives me the key. I share a room with a cheeky Iron Maiden fan, a lonely german and a lost chinaman. I escape in the world of jazz, swedish sensibilities and stupidly pretty scandinavian women.

Start them young ... in a sensible manner. ©

The day after I hang a moment with Ambra from Bounce, and her daughter Aaliyah jabbering on in swedish, finnish, english and italian. Talk of the West End, new adventures to Broadway and all good thing to those who have worked hard. I'm glad to see them again. Glad the crew is going places after being starts reflecting off the surface of a small pond. We say our goodbyes and I head for to rekindle memories of cabin fever, sick-smelling mornings dodging screaming children in a bunny suit and quiet drinks watching the sun play hide and seek below the horizon. The wonderful world of cruise ferries between Stockholm and Helsinki. Poor brazilian acrobats. I've lived your life and I don't miss it one alcoholic iota.

I hit Helsinki fully loaded with cheap booze, beer and cigars. The customs ignore me, the happy famillies tut and by the end of the night the load is much lighter already. Nothing beats beer, bullshit, dead templars and Bush Yoga with a good friend. The weekend is dedicated to geriatrics pushing combined 80, naked guerillas, bad band action, even worse karaoke and ear-destroying chipmunks all running on a heavy load of ethanol and gold flakes.

One part of 80. ©

The flipside of the coin. ©

We never made it to the whisky distillery and the route to the Savonlinna castle and the opera festival were blocked by a picket line of bars peddling evil polish poison. Some things never go as sweetly as planned. They turn out far rougher and much more beautiful. Friends, sweet, messed-up friends...

Fried fish and corrective measures. ©

I was supposed to see my family in Finland, but they're all too far and my knees are too weak. Next summer I see you all with some quality time to spend. It's holiday and I refuse to rush. A few hours watching mum with her sisters in Sweden was as good as it gets, my brother on the phone and in his letter keep things deep, my other brother's sauna washes the dirt away and him and his family welcome the prodigal son. I even sent a message to my dad. Old tensions get lost in the quicksand of time and finally I'm learning to enjoy being part of this broken family. One day we'll even get to know each other.

I might still not feel at ease with my blood, but the ties and joys of friendships are there to be cherished. I'm rubbish at keeping in contact, and so is everybody else. We're even. My doors are always open and when the time is right the times are good. The finns. Crazy, rough and true. Can I ask any more?

Just the usual summer Sunday morning in the centre of Helsinki. ©

London. Sitting on the terrace of the Hilton looking at the lights of Canary Wharf after blasting through the town in my friend's Golf. Thai food, dirty jokes and chinese beer. One night goes like a flash, chews us up and spits us on the plane. I wake up in a sold paradise.

Long bajan nights, ganja smoking hustlers, achingly gorgeous women, shy sea turtles, tentative scuba tourists jumping with the sight of twirling snorkelers invading their fifteen meter deep safety, shooting ranges shot empty of ammo, silly submarines and pumping soca busses. Four days, one photo, speeding pot-head americans, alien social games of silent grinding in late night sweat pits and the strange taste of being just another tourist sucker. Since I don't know what to do with my heart I decide to leave a piece of it to the bajan bars. Maybe some fabulous animal will find it and bring it back to me.

Walking down the street without hitting the road furniture was nigh on impossible. ©

My kind of measures in this place. ©

LIAT makes sure we arrive in grenada after dark. No keys, tired and pissed off. The morning wipes it all away with the most amazing view straight from the doorstep. The sun, the beach, the lazy Sunday. Find the old acquaintances and forge them into friends. Be happy and even the little children laugh. Although that's because they find white boys dancing too funny to be true. The old ladies laugh too... The rest of the local crowd just look curiously at the strange cultural excursionists. The Spice Mas is gathering momentum, the rough-arsed peasants from the valley are hitting the town busting their messy pupumunu moves, painted bodies slamming into each other and the black jab jab dragging the unaware away in their chains. Tired people passing out on the sides of the road while the music is still pumping at seven in the Monday morning... Time to go home and contemplate on my northern sensibilities.

A view from the front door. Life could have been worse at that very moment. ©

An underwater writer's block. ©

A salute thee, oh submariner. ©

A spotted eagle ray minding it's own business. ©

One happy white boy. ©

Being a white boy on a small Caribbean island. Nothing works like it does at home and I don't really want it to. Throw yourself into the crowd and grind against anything that moves and maybe one of the movers and shakers finds the right groove, but at the same time I'm painfully aware how much of an outsider I am and I have far too much respect for the locals to just indulge in their ways and grab at any of the passing bodies. It is all a great spectacle with an equally spectacular hang over. I burned out my appetite for pure carnivorous rage in Bangkok and Havana. It's all a bit old hat. Nowadays I ride on the waves of emotional connections and tidal waves physical frustrations. A riptide of lust, jadedness, sensibility, madness and detachedness. A curious vision trip into my own psyche. I'll have to go and throw myself in some deep end soon again to explore the abyss of my murky soul. Being the way I'm used to is far too easy at home.

The kid fed us popcorn. There must have been something funny in it... ©

If the foreign lands spin me, Glasgow bites me. It bites like a rabid dog called Reality. The weather on Tuesday, the alarm clock on Wednesday. Where am I? Why is the alarm on? What day is it? What country? Who am I in here? Why? ... You're a sucker, you're in your big empty bed and it's time for you to drag your sorry arse to work! Shiiit...

I tried to outrun the reality into the madness of the Festival and the Fringe. It didn't work. I got ill and now work hurts even more. Twat, but a twat with funny memories and a smile that will keep me going and the others confused for months on end.

The Caribbean is where it's at. Need I say more? ©