Shakespeare and performance

I can't explain why I'm addicted to studying. It's certainly not because I have an excess of free time. Nor is it because I have any grand plans for my career. In fact, asking the question 'so what are you actually going to do with your qualification?' is guaranteed to make my blood boil. It must just be for the thrill of it, for those wonderful 'lightbulb' moments when the pieces suddenly fall into place. Of course, you don't need to commit to formal study in order to learn, but there's something about those relentless assignment deadlines and formal exams that motivate in a way that nothing else can.

If I thought that I'd satisfied my desire to study when I graduated last year, I was wrong. I've toyed with Italian and photography, but without a trip to Italy to put both into practice, my enthusisasm soon waned. So here I am again, this time in the thick of an Open University course entitled 'Shakespeare and performance'. I'd looked at this course a few years ago, but did I really want to spend a whole year studying nothing but Shakespeare?

So far so good. There's something quite satisfying about immersing yourself in a particular writer. Then there's the historical context, the performance history and the joy of being able to watch DVDs and swan off to the theatre and call it 'study'. When I was much younger and studying Shakespeare, watching film adaptations always seemed to be cheating - a soft option for those who hadn't actually read the play in the first place. This course positively embraces the performance aspects. I'm sure my sixth form teacher told me there was no 'definitive' way to read a play, but it was only when I saw David Suchet play Iago in the RSC's production of Othello that I truly understood what she meant.

If there is a disadvantage to studying, it's that leisure reading gets pushed to the edges of my days. Consequently, Les Miserables hasn't been opened for a month and even Hangover Square is proceeding at a snail's pace. Still, with an essay to write on Polanski's portrayal of evil in Macbeth, I have other things to keep me happy.



3000 pages of bedtime reading!

On being a beginner

If I've been quiet on the blogging front recently, please forgive me. It's less than two weeks until the end of my Open University photography course, and I'm supposed to be putting my portfolio together.

Over the years I've picked up a few skills - I speak French and German, I can write a literature essay and I make a mean chilli. Photography is a different matter altogether. It's quite humbling to be a beginner again and I'm not sure I like it.

When I say I'm a novice photographer I'm not exaggerating. I've taken a few decent snaps in my time, but these have been happy accidents - an interesting subject or good natural light. I used a digital SLR camera for the first time three weeks ago and it's all I can do to remember to remove the lens cap. I've always been interested in the idea of a photography, but what with aperture sizes, focal lengths et al I wasn't expecting a maths lesson.

Perhaps it's being assessed that makes me compare myself to the experienced photographers who wow the on-line with Mumbai street scenes, lions on the African savannah and studio-lit portraits. I keep forgetting to measure my progress against the 'before me' rather than these masters of photography.

Then again, we need to see what we can aspire to and learn from those so much more skilled than we are. In the blogosphere there are two photographers I admire. The first is Denise at Solway Scribbles. She has captured some of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen. Fontilan is completely different, showing the poetry in urban decay. Denise combines her photography with descriptive prose, whereas Fontilan lets the pictures and the accompanying soundtrack say it all. Both inspire me.

In the meantime I grapple with a myriad of buttons and dials. On Tuesday I took a photo excursion to Morecambe. There's plenty of potential in Morecambe, both as a writer and a photographer, with stunning views across the bay to the Lake District and also the wonderful art deco Midland Hotel. I went with the best intentions, but I'd forgotten how cold the seafront can be on a November morning. Camera shake was a definite problem, but I managed to brave the slicing wind until my fingers went numb. Talk about suffering for one's art...

Graduation

The Bridgewater Hall, Manchester. Three hundred and forty one graduands. And Brian Cox.

Having already graduated once, many years ago, I wasn't sure if I needed to go through all the rigmarole once more. I'm very pleased I did.

There's something special about an Open University graduation. With students ranging in age from twenty two to eighty two, everyone had their own story of hard work and dedication, juggling so many more commitments than your average eighteen year old fresh from school. There was the actress, the Olympic medal winner and the partially sighted woman with eleven children. In hindsight the six years it took me to get a First Class Honours Degree in English Literature didn't seem so bad. If I've made sacrifices along the way, I can't remember them any more.

The setting was splendid. Grand and imposing, and with fabulous acoustics. You really had the sense of being part of a tremendous group achievement. The Presiding Officer did a fabulous job of recognising each graduand as an individual, and any suggestion - made by my husband - that he spent more time talking to the young ladies than anyone else, was in my opinion entirely unfounded.

Then there was the added excitement of the presence of Professor Brian Cox, receiving his Honorary Award. My husband, The Mathematician, was delighted to hear him talk. For my part, I was so intent on crossing the dais without falling over, that I didn't give him a second glance.