Perhaps fittingly, our week began with a game of ‘Keeper of the Keys’ – one I remembered from the primary school playground. The rules were simple: sneak a pair of keys from the front of the room to the back without the ”guard” at the front spotting them. The space seemed to lean into the game, its history as a school somehow re-animated. Reminders of the spaces previous, educational function were ever-present; in its layout and architecture, classroom names, the retained reception desk and sign in sheet, or display boards. That first game set the tone for the week – not just playful, but probing. We were there to ask questions, to investigate, to test assumptions. To learn.
What followed was a mix of dramaturgical exercises, staged scenes, improvisation, and debates over actioning. The piece was disassembled, then rebuilt. Four actors, one director, a writer, and a draft of a full script – a collision of voices, experiences, and perspectives. Most queer, some not. Most from Birmingham, some not. They wrestled with the text, advocating for lines to be cut, changed, or expanded. Objectives were debated; intentions picked apart. It forced me to interrogate my own choices – not just intellectually, but viscerally. Some decisions couldn’t be justified through research or technique alone. They just felt right. Felt interesting. Felt alive.
Of course, words on a page land differently when spoken aloud. The script, animated by new voices, became unfamiliar territory. Some phrases now rang glib or clichéd; others cut deeper than intended. Some tripped the tongue; too dense, too slippery, too complex.
And then there were the gaps. The silence between lines. Perhaps the biggest question in the room, and the one that still lingers, is how much an audience needs to see. How much are they owed? Is it enough to let them fill in the blanks? When does a gap become a chasm? I don’t want to spoon feed answers, but I also don’t want to leave them stranded. Where’s the line between intrigue and frustration? These questions remain.
Breeders has always been iterative. What began as an oral histories project morphed into scenes written to Bronski Beat, sharings at the Nightingale, interviews conducted before the final pages existed. Now, drafts are rewritten in Our Facility – a franken-script stitched together from each iteration’s lessons. But when does the process end? When does the next draft become the last draft? I don’t have an answer. Only the certainty that the questions themselves are what propel me forward.
In a way, Our Facility was the perfect place for this R&D. That April, I went back to school. It was a reminder that creation is, at its core, an act of curiosity. I’m still learning.
My thanks to the team – Elodie, Lizzie, Daniel, Dominic, and Natalie – for their generosity and rigour. And to Stan’s Café, for hosting us in a space that refused to let us forget the joy of asking why.
