Dialogue at BAC
One of the things the BAC producers asked Dialogue to do in advance of our residency was think about ways of integrating people who use the building as a community centre – for yoga classes, say, or life-drawing sessions, or to take their children to the Bee's Knees playspace – with the theatre-makers and -goers who otherwise fill it. One idea we had was to create a treasure hunt for the children and their carers, which would start at Bee's Knees and lead them around the building, to enticing places they may not have noticed on previous visits such as The Door To Nowhere In Particular, and introduce them to its residents along the way. We quickly learned that artists already preoccupied by the attempt to make new work, preparing for Scratch showings, or performing each night, will struggle to find the time to create anything additional for a somewhat scatterbrained project. The project floundered. However, three people were kind enough to offer a contribution, for which we extend heartfelt thanks. Sayraphim Lothian crocheted the front of the BAC building as a set of granny squares, Andy Field wrote a poem, and Peter McMaster wrote the following, to be pinned outside a room tucked behind BAC’s Council Chamber:


Let me tell you something about snow.
I remember it dashing the landscape white.
Passing between Glasgow and London, the winter of 2008.
Piling up behind trees and buildings making drifts,
Falling upon heavy coats of people on the streets
Onto window ledges
Behind doors.
I think of my parents house covered in snow.
Gosh I haven’t been there for a while.
Anyway, let me tell you something about snow,
The snow that has decorated this landscape for us,
Preparing the ground upon which I will walk
When I get off the bus, Saturday morning, victoria station.
It is winter.
You are working in London, and I am imagining you working in London,
I call you, ‘where is clapham junction?’.
Take the train from victoria station to clapham junction,
Through the snow and then you are there.
Simple. Come out, turn left, up lavender hill,
You will see red boxes sticking outside of a building.
I walk, sleepily through the snow.
Crisp morning light hurting my eyes at 7:30, the streets are quiet.
But let me tell you about snow. And that snow it is quiet.
Falling gracefully, and delicate, in my memory land sky and sound become one.
Fragile in the air and melting in our hands, I touch its cold as I knock on the door.
You answer it at the back of the building,
Sleepy in your pyjamas, little face squidgy and cute,
Breath becoming clouds.
You take my hand, red and cold and yours soft and warm from bed.
Silently leading me to the room,
This room at the top of the building ,
Shut out of knowing it is there,
Just you and I, in this silent building covered in snow.
This is the beginning of our time together.
You pull back the heavy quilt which is still warm,
In this small white room with a window,
And sleepy too, we fall asleep together.
We wake and warm the room up,
In the way that our new ways know how,
And as we do seeing each other as clearly as ever,
The snow on the windowsill begins to melt.

- Peter McMaster

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