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Hampstead Authors' Society No. 34 Issue 5. May 2002
What does it feel like to be a writer or artist 'between two cultures' and how does this affect their work? How does exile or expatriation impact on a writer or artist's sense of identity and belonging? Does culture shock result in a form of 'inner exile' or does it result in sharper social criticism? How far are all writers and artists outsiders to some degree? This year the HAS Summer Party, hopefully on a sunny day with Pimms and strawberries on the lawn, is combined with an informal discussion on exile art from three different perspectives: art, music and literature. Very Hampstead ... ________________________________________________________________________________
Zsuzsanna has sent us an e-mail to keep in touch with HAS members. Since September last year, she has been at Harvard not only studying screenwriting, but also writing and directing a short film which was chosen to be presented at the annual Harvard Short Film Festival and a play that was produced at the Harvard Short Play Festival. Both were warmly received. We are delighted at her success in both festivals, and glad to say that she is still planning to come back to London in September to be welcomed back to HAS.
An email from Zsuzsanna on the banks of the River Charles, Cambridge, Massachusetts Dear HASfriends, I'm tapping these words to the relentless rhythm of rain outside my window. For the past two to three days it's been pouring with gusto. In no particular haste but with the purposeful steadiness of the stubborn lover who knows he's found the one he loves. Like in London, I remind myself. Just like in London. Irony is everywhere if we are prepared to embrace its subversive force. Now the heavens open wide. Now they do, big time, with careless frivolity. And yet the past few weeks were spent frantically searching the sky - and the Internet weather forecasts - for some sign of rain. In vain. Have you been seized by madness? I hear you ask. Or have you moved to the midwest and become a farmer or, God forbid, a meteorologist? No, only a filmmaker: a filmmaker with a key scene to be shot in rain. The heavens, alas, wouldn't cooperate though. But now now that the film is finally shot and edited - who needs rain any more? - now it's pouring as if it were hell-bent on making me indulge in nostalgia for the grey skies of London. During the wet and mad past three days, I've been watching films and talking with other filmmakers at the filmfest here at Harvard. Allegro Barbaro, the short film I wrote and directed about a concert pianist whose life and art fall out of balance, was screened on the first and the last day of the film festival and followed by question and answer sessions with film-makers and film-lovers from Harvard and beyond. I feel drained; I'm listening to the rain; I'm waiting for the sense of closure to kick in. In vain. Perhaps it never will. Some experiences are so thrilling, so pervasive that they seep into the rest of our lives. The metamorphosis of Allegro Barbaro from idea to screen has been just such an experience, ending with morning to morning editing, nonstop, eating while editing, staring at clips, listening to music and then some more staring and listening. Now I know what they mean when they say that films are created in the cutting room. A very time-consuming, delicate process, but incredibly creative. So was directing my play, The Hat, which was selected for the Short Play Festival at Harvard. It's about the first meeting between Hannah Arendt, the political theorist, and the philosopher, Martin Heidegger and it explores philosophy, seduction, fear of rejection and the like. Auditioning a steady flow of actors for three days, analysing subtexts in rehearsals day after day, working with lighting designers and other directors - then seeing the audience respond to it all. Who can ask for anything more? Hail, rain, hail I step into my running shoes and dive into the grey skies of Massachusetts, across and along the bank of the River Charles, past the boats, the rowers, buffeted by the relentless rain, but buoyed up by new ideas. ©Zsuzsanna Ardó 2002 _______________________________________________________________________________
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