Eliza lives!

So “Figments of Eliza” is now a 40 minute performance… a one person show but interweaving live and recorded voice, sound design and a rich visual presentation.  Mary Eggleston has brought the role to life with dignity and empathy and Leah Barclay’s sound design leaves you aching at the end (in a beautiful way) and stays with you long after.

We’ve had three rehearsals out under the stars and it has looked stunning with the bunya sculpture (which we all call the ‘sails’) as the backdrop for the projection. 

Mary Eggleston as Eliza Fraser – Rehearsal 2 November

I have had a chance to take only one photo as I’ve been juggling video display and lighting… and it’s rather blurry, but gives you an idea of what it was like.

But the rain is coming down on the roof and so it looks like it will be an indoor performance afterall.  Disappointing, but nothing to be done!  It will still work!

I have also created a chapbook as a program/resource to accompany the performance.  I’ve printed off some copies but it is also available on ISSUU so you can download it here.

So looking forward to the premier of “Figments of Eliza”.  Writing the blog first, definately helped me focus and explore the character and the ideas over time – even if there were hardly any readers.  The fact there were one or two key people reading it was enough, and provided the impetus to keep going.  I think we now have something that is quite special and will have a future, and I’m looking forward to seeing where the next phase of the journey may take us!

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Why does she turn away?

There are a number of images that can be found of Eliza Fraser, but only one was actually made of her… while she was alive… after the shipwreck.  It is this one.I didn’t like this picture though and I was frustrated by the way she was looking away.  I didn’t like the cap or the way the shawl was pulled so primly around her shoulders.  It was like the artist was trying to redeem her reputation through depicting her as a prim and proper lady.  But they were also colluding with her to hide something, what was she wanting to hide? Or was it that she was sick of the intensity of the public gaze upon her, turning away to keep some truths to herself.

In my conversations with Judy, I mentioned how I wanted to create another image of Eliza, but be able to look in to her eyes.  I wanted something other than this terrible image… but then Judy said.. is it such a bad image, or is it that she isn’t depicted how you want her to be.

She was right of course, Judy is a wise woman!  But she humoured me and created this drawing for me (see the video clip below.  Thank you Judy!

I’ve since reflected on how I felt about this picture, and I also went looking to find different versions of it.  It was then that I found a more accurate copy of the original in the online copy of the original book “Shipwreck of the Stirling Castle” by John Curtis (1838).  The image has more sublety and detail… and it was then that things were revealed that caused me to think again!  So I made this placestory about it!

We also experimented with photographing our Eliza in the same position… and looking directly at us… do I know anything more about Eliza?  Maybe I do.

Mary Eggleston as Eliza - replicating the original

 

Mary as Eliza - look into her eyes!

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Metamorphosis

I’m moving out of role now and leaving Eliza’s story at this point.  There is of course a whole other story to be told about what happened after she was rescued. There is also another whole story to be told about the story of the land and its people in the aftermath of the Frasers misadventures.  Perhaps I will follup on on these at a future date.

What I have been working on for the past month is shaping the reserach and writing about the story to date into a performance script.  Much of the content from the blog has been used as the basis for this.  However, a performance script is a very differnet creature from a blog. Both are excellent vehicles for exploring and reflecting on the human condition. A performance though requires action and a more deliberate consideration of rhythm and tension.  The length and shape of sentences and combinations of words also demand more wordsmithing as words written on the page may not translate so well in the spoken form.  Sound is not confined to the voice alone and there are whole other worlds that can be created through the manipulation of sound and music.  You also have to make some decisions about visual elements, the body in space, costumes, imagery, lighting and the combination of these to create mood and environment.  In deciding to mount this little production in a relatively short timeframe I’ve decided to make it be a one-hander, running for between 30-40 mins.  Now a ‘monologue’ of this length can be deathly, so to break it up and make it more dialogic I’ve split the script so that part of the text is presented live and part is pre-recorded and interacts with the live action.

I have had some collaborators in this process with local actor Mary Eggleston taking on the role of Eliza and sound artist Leah Barclay working on sound design.  Mary’s interest in the story and the blog encouraged me to continue with this project and I am also excited by the prospect of her drama workshops students working with the same material over the next two months.  I love seeing the different interpretations and takes that differnet people might have with similar content and the energy and irreverence that young people contribute. Mary has performed in Europe and Australia and this year performed in ‘Le Ronde’ on the Sunshine Coast, a reversioned version of this ‘Erotique’ at the Sydney Fringe and ‘The Secret Love Life of Ophelia‘ with Fractal in Brisbane.

Leah Barclay does all kinds of magic with soundscapes, music and sound design. She has designed music for films and plays as well as creating ‘sound gardens’ and installations.  She has recorded the voiceover sections and is currently adding other sound elements to the piece.

Visually I’ve been collecting relevant imagery – photos and video material to use to project as a form of backdrop for the performance.  I was also delighted to discover that Sunshine Coast artist Judith Laws created an Eliza Fraser series last year and she has given us permission to use some of these vibrant, beautiful works in our performance.

Fellow NeoGeographer Judy Barrass has also been interested in my journey and fascination with Eliza.  We were thinking at one stage of her doing some live drawing during the performance.  I’m still very excited by this possibility, but perhaps that’s next year… for the moment we’ve got enough elements to organise in a relatively short timeframe.  But Judy has been playing around and I love this piece that she created, using a photo of Mary as Eliza as the starting point.

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How long does it take?

How long do you have to live somewhere for you to belong to it?  It might belong to you, but do you belong to it?  Do you have to feel it, eat from it, build from it, lie in it?

How long do you have to know someone to know their heart?  How do you know if that heart is true?  And if it will remain so?

How do you come to know yourself and what you are capable of?  You might believe certain things of yourself, but action in the end can betray all that you hold dear.

Whilst the worst of circumstances had brought out some steely strengths in me, in times to come, I would find myself capable of certain deception and deceit.  I could ask of you some sympathy,  but many of you have already made up your mind one way or another.  I was a most ordinary wife and mother.  I did not desire riches, fame, or notoriety.  I wished only to live out my life and to see my children grown.  If I thought of my name living on at all, it would only have been to think of  two or three generations recalling the honesty and goodwill of  kindly grandmama.  Instead I have been called a liar, a victim, a thief, a sideshow spectacle.  Sadly, I must admit, that there is truth to be found in all these labels.

Throughout the events that followed, my only wish was to find a way to survive and keep my children from the poorhouse.  I was not thinking beyond that.  I fought to centre my thoughts on each day, on how to live through it and keep my heart and soul together.  How long does it take … to be saved, to betray, to forgive, to forget?

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my ‘ebenezer’

Before i leave this fatal shore, I must give thanks and raise a stone, an Ebenezer.  I must honour my James, my Lord and honour our Lord and Saviour.

When we first landed upon these shores my husband gave thanks, quoting the good book and declaring “Hitherto hath the Lord helped us”.  In this he followed the example of the old testament prophet Samuel, who said these words when he erected a stone and called it “Ebenezer.” He was celebrating the help that God had given Israel to achieve victory over the Philistines.  They were also remembering their failures and how they had turned away from God.  I too had turned from God and faith, but now must restore my faith anew.  Above all else I must believe the glory of God has not departed me and can be restored.  

Before I leave these shores, like Samuel and my husband, I must set up a stone. Whilst Samuel’s Ebenezer was most certainly a stone of substance, mine must be one more humble.  But the meaning is constant.  My monument might not stand throughout the ages, but it will represent the truth, and one that my husband believed. Vale to my Captain who still believed.

” hitherto hath the Lord helped us.”

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swept away

I am not sure that I have ever been swept off my feet quite so literally, or so unexpectedly as the night of my rescue.  One moment I was watching shimmering flames and sinewy limbs, wondering if the ritual enacted before me may take a nefarious turn, and the next I was swept high into the air.  The jolting gait of my possessor signalled to me that this was no heavenly intervention as surely if I were to be rescued by angels they would spirit me away to the clouds with nary a bump.  The skies could be seen through the treetops but they did not rush to greet me as I beseeched them.  The moon laughed at my calamity and the stars twinkled in amusement.

My displacement ended with my delivery into a small boat and a hasty journey across the lake.   The man before me was no gentleman, but he bore the marks of civilisation.  His kindness was evident as he offered garb to cover my nakedness, turning from my pitiful state until I could command some decorum.  John Graham had been a convicted man transported to Moreton Bay, but had espaped and lived with the natives for many years before being captured and returned to the colony.  He had volunteered to come to my rescue and in this act demonstrated the most noble of sentiments.   “I have come to save you Ma’am” he said, and in that moment, I knew that he would.

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The finale?

Sweetness turned to dust and my dreams of heaven were peopled by angry giants with faces grotesquely painted and full of accusation.  Pounding rhythms surrounded me and were inside me.  The throbbing in my foot beat an angry rhythm out of time with the stomping cries of a native corroborree.  My heart galloped its own race as a wave of panic swept over me and wrenched me from sleep.  The pain, the panic and horror did not leave me though, but were coupled with a complete sense of desolation.  Was this to be the end then?

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walkabout to where?

Reaching the other side delivered no immediate salvation or comfort.  To hide our tracks, we waded in shallow waters for miles before making for shore.  Thereafter we walked again.  I did not speak for days, I had no desire to commune with one who was no companion.  We continued walking without  talking… silently walking … across endless sand and water, water and sand, water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink… even though I could now find food and water for myself there was no time to stop and forage.

As my legs felt detached from my body and my mind began to wander, we headed inland. We crossed dunes and swamps, creeks and more water.  Any hopes that we were close to Moreton Bay were shattered as we were surrounded by natives, whether by accident or intent.

Like a carnival doll I was passed from one to another and stationed in one of their huts.  It seemed I was the object of considerable interest and spectacle.  Different groups were brought to look upon me and some version of my capture shared amongst them.

No protest was uttered from my lips, no tears burnt my lids, no fight drove my limbs.  I closed my eyes to the world and prepared to surrender to the inevitable.  I dreamt of floating on gentle waves, of delicate arms holding me and caressing me as I drifted in balmy waters beneath perfumed pink heavens.

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bargains with knights and knaves

There Chairon stands, who rules the dreary coast
A sordid god: down from his hairy chin
A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;
His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;
A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire. (Virgil)

As Virgil described the ferryman so might I.  And like the tortured souls who must pay a price to cross the river Styx, from the world of the living to the world of the dead, I too had a price to pay.  My knight was in fact a knave whose heart was as dark as hades.  The waters shimmering before me had confirmed we were, after all, on an island, and any chance of reaching Moreton Bay depended on my heading south on the mainland.  His leering smile revealed his dark desire, his belief that my compliance was inevitable.  I was not about to bargain away my last shred of dignity so readily, though bargain indeed I must.

So what is the most exacting to endure, striking the bargain, enacting it, or living with the consequences.  I can tell you now that the nightmares that repossess you again and again are indeed more difficult to live with than the act itself.

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an answer to my prayers?

My bonnies lie over the ocean
My bonnies lie over the sea
My bonnies lie over the ocean
Oh bring back my bonnies to me…

Bring back, bring back,
Oh bring back my babies to me, to me
Bring back, bring back
Bring back from over the sea.

I could let myself slip away, but I will fight to the bitter end to prevent my children becoming orphans.  God of miracles and wonders, you who parted the Red Sea, brought plague and pestilence, protected Daniel in the Lion’s den and raised Lazarus from the dead show some mercy for this poor wretched woman now.  The laws of nature are no barrier to you, you control the forces and command the universe, send me a sign, a miracle, a message. I will maintain my constant prayer and entreaty to you.

Gentle Jesus meek and mild
Look upon this little child
Little ones to him belong
I am weak but he is strong.

K’gari administers to me, she understands my sorrow,  she knows of great loss.  I mumble my prayers, my songs and entreaties –  to her it is senseless but not without meaning.  She leaves me food which I can not eat.  I search the heavens and continue.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on.
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head.
One to watch and one to pray,
And two to bear my fears away.

When first his face appeared above me I felt certain I had been visited by an apparition.  The man’s face was weather-beaten to such an extent he almost appeared native, but the contours of his visage suggested otherwise.  He signalled for me to remain silent and to follow him away from the camp.  Was this man my knight, my deliverance, my sign?  Were there others with him and who had sent them?  I dare not believe yet but followed anyway, matching his footsteps, heading down well-trodden pathways.  At first the territory was familiar, paths I had travelled in our never-ending food foraging expeditions, but then the darkness deepened and we were on foreign terrain.

Angel of God, my Guardian dear,
To whom God’s love commits me here;
Ever this day, be at my side
To light and guard
To rule and guide.

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