May 2008
Rachel Feldberg is currently the Artistic Director of the Ilkley Literature Festival. She is also the person who gave Jo Verrent, and many other disabled would be actors like her, their first job whilst Artistic Director of Red Ladder Theatre Company. Over the next few months Jo and Rachel are blogging about the overlaps between art, disability, leadership and more.
Photograph of Rachel Feldberg
Rachel, I know it sounds corny but you really were such a major influence on me, I feel almost finger tied at the thought of being able to have an open conversation with you! Maybe we should start at the beginning; the beginning for me that is.
At the time when you were at Red Ladder you employed so many disabled performers who are now almost household names (people like Jenny Sealey, for instance, now the Artistic Director of Graeae). What was it that drew you to employing disabled people, often fairly untrained disabled people at that, in a mainstream young people's theatre company?
Jo, thanks for the very flattering intro, my fingers are feeling quite tied here too! I think my reply is a bit long, but the trouble is it took a lot of things to get me to the point when we first met. To answer your question, like so many things, I would have to go back to the beginning. Before I worked at Red Ladder, Ruth Mackenzie and I founded a touring theatre company called Moving Parts in 1980, straight out of university. From the beginning it was very clearly a socialist feminist theatre company - we were all at the start of our working lives, Thatcher was in power and we were on a mission to change the way people saw women and men’s roles. I had been very involved with the women's movement at University, both in England and then in a different way when I had a year out at college in the USA, and the hot issue in Moving Parts, to begin with at least, was men and women - how could they be equal. Could we all do the same tasks with a bit of training and support? Was it just conditioning that stopped us? If I could learn to change a wheel on the company van (I did but getting the wheel nuts off was very tough) could we teach Alex, one of the supportive men in the company, to type or sew (we did, although he was slower at it than most of the women).
Every tour we swapped the tasks round so that admin, tour booking, driving, costumes, writing, directing and so on, were done by different people. Inevitably it became obvious that some people were more talented at some things than others (it’s all beginning to sound a bit like Animal Farm…) and we realised it would probably be easier for all of us if we stuck with what we were good at, if only for some of the time.
Once we had at least, partially, got to grips with gender, it became clear we had to look at race. Jatinder Verma (Artistic Director of Tara) came to see a show we did about the family which was touring to young people in youth clubs all over the country and asked me afterwards why all the actors in the company were white. Although I tried, I couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer and I realised, as we all did, that sexism was just the beginning of a long ball of string.
Moving Parts slowly became a multi racial company. It was both inspiring and incredibly tough for everyone involved - not least the black actors who came into a company of well meaning white socialist feminists who knew very little about black culture, black history or black politics.
It meant finding actors who hadn’t necessarily had the chance to go to drama school - lots of the best black actors in the early 1980s went to youth theatres like The Tricycle in Kilburn and to Anna Scher rather than drama school. It meant that we all had to rethink how the world worked and in the confines of a company van, day after day, find out what an integrated company meant in practice. (For example how did you work out who should play what? We were already casting against type - but how would our audience understand whether or not it mattered what the racial origins of a particular character were.)
As we sat in traffic jams on the M1 we talked about one another’s life stories, about why being an anarchist was a cop-out and what to do to counter the inevitable racism we encountered in small towns and big cities all over the country. There are things that I will never forget - the welcome the white members of the company got in a black club in Bristol’s St Paul’s on the same night the local white run pub wouldn’t let the black company members in. Going to perform in a youth club in Barking which it turned out was run by the BNP (who told me in no uncertain terms that they hated Jews as much as they hated black people) and where the sense of threat from the shaven headed ‘youth workers’ was palpable. The three months residency we did in Moss Side in Manchester, where for once the white members of the company weren’t in the majority and my friend Mal needed to guide me through a world he completely understood and I didn’t.
The other thing that happened, which was as important if not more so, was that artistically I realised that work we were making as an integrated company was much more exciting than anything we had done before - it drew on this whole rich diversity of art forms, it was much more edgy, it referenced contemporary culture and the audiences found it exciting too. Given that, when I ended up at Red Ladder it was unthinkable that the company wouldn’t become multi–racial: it was clear to me by then that you only really have two choices when it comes to oppression - you do something about it, or you do nothing and by doing nothing you collude. It might be important to say here that the non English Methodist side of my family were German Jewish and escaped from Berlin in the middle of the night in 1933 - so collusion has never seemed like an a attractive option to me!
By 1985 when I arrived at Red Ladder, all the ground work had been laid: I was already used, indeed loved, working with a really diverse company when people came from different cultural backgrounds and different levels of opportunity in terms of experience. I had spent hours tracking down actors who had started out in youth theatre and were currently working as pizza delivery messengers or Manchester cabbies and persuading them to come and audition, but I hadn’t at that point worked with disabled actors although my family, like many people’s families, is full of people who were born with a disability or acquired one as they got older.
I was also at college for a year in the States and my close friends who tended to be radicals - well as radical as you could be in America in the late 1970s (that’s well before Clinton and not that long after LBJ and Vietnam) when anything vaguely to the left of Atilla the Hun was considered pretty extreme, were all into learning sign language (they even had a signing table in the college dining hall which was definitely the most fun place to sit). They took me to see the National Theatre of the Deaf in Washington whose work is entirely in ASL (American Sign Language). And they talked to me about the politics of disability, as did lots of the women’s movement people I knew in London. Later when I was at Red Ladder I went to see shows by Sheffield TIE and Theatre Centre, both of whom were working with disabled actors at that time.
So I understood the networks you needed to use to involve actors who would otherwise be disenfranchised - apart from Rose Bruford you needed to skip the drama schools and go to wherever they were managing to get trained, whether it was youth theatres like the Tricycle or Bulmershe College in Reading who ran a Theatre course for deaf people.
You needed to understand the politics so that you could appreciate what it was you were trying to do, you needed to talk to people and learn from them. Without doubt the learning is one of the things I have always enjoyed most. I love learning new things - so when someone explains a whole different angle on something I thought I understood, I inevitably get excited. So, given all that, employing young, talented, disabled actors on national tours to youth clubs seemed pretty obvious really!
You mentioned your family and their approach to disability – was disability ‘normal’ in your upbringing then?
I suppose my family were the final piece of the jigsaw. My father had epilepsy and died when I was three. His epilepsy didn’t stop him doing loads of sport at school including boxing (what were they thinking of?), fencing, running and then, after dropping out of University (which in the 1950s was pretty much unheard of), rebelling and starting his own business making harpsichords.
Growing up half German Jewish in a conventional small town in Kent with a young widowed mother who had three small children and a harpsichord workshop didn’t exactly enable us to blend in! We were clearly the outsiders (in fact when I heard George Steiner talk about Jews being the outsiders wherever they go and saying it gives you a unique perspective and understanding, a kind of birds eye view of the world, that certainly rang true for me.)
Because my mother was on her own in difficult circumstances, we moved to be near my English grandparents who, along with my great aunt and her ‘dear friend’ and a whole circle of determined older people, were our everyday world and the people we spent much of our time with. My mother played duets with a brilliant flautist who happened to be blind and learnt all the music by heart from Braille copies and my grandmother was great friends with a young blind man studying to be a piano tuner. Compared to the temperamental professional musicians I had contact with through the harpsichord workshop, these people were a dream.
As time went on, my English grandmother became progressively deafer and my sisters and I learnt not to talk to her when she had her back to us, to pitch our voices lower so she could hear and sit close to her in noisy places. (I have always assumed I would probably loose my hearing eventually too - although actually it's my sisters who are having more problems with that – for me, its my heart that doesn't work very effectively, but that's another story.)
My English grandfather had had serious stroke two years after I was born and we were very aware that he’d always been a great walker and sailor in his spare time, but now had to take things more easily. My German grandmother was also, by the time I knew her, very disabled by her hearing impairment and had a serious heart condition which meant she could only walk a few hundred yards, and then always on the flat, but she was still busy translating the work of leading English writers into German, so that the two countries could understand one another better.
And then when I was around twelve, my cousin Conrad who has a learning disability was born. Conrad’s birth had a huge effect on all of us and changed the way my entire family viewed disability almost overnight. All the adults were very upset, but to me Conrad just seemed like a cute and very cuddly baby, just the right size to be lugged around from place to place. I could help change him and give him his bottle in the way twelve year old girls seem to love.
My English grandmother was very close to Conrad and he adored her. She loved music and played the cello in an orchestra with young people with cerebral palsy and physical impairments (that was how I heard about disabled people as a child - ‘Trevor is doing that difficult trumpet solo and of course he only has three fingers so the page turn is a bit tricky’), and she then started doing voluntary work with young people with learning disabilities. My aunt Bridget subsequently became a prime mover in an independent living scheme for young adults with learning disabilities in the West Country.
As he got older Conrad became very good at things I could never do - swimming for example - where he competed at a very high level and won medals. I, on the other hand, can just about manage a width of slow breast stroke and don’t like the deep end unless I’m near the edge. He’s exhibited his work as an artist, danced with his sister, my cousin, on Top of the Pops (another thing way out of my league) and now lives independently with friends in a shared house in Hertfordshire. We share a love of musicals (which coming from a family steeped in early classical music is tantamount to playing in a heavy metal band) and he’s always been a great person to sing all the songs from The Sound of Music or Joseph and Technicolor Dream Coat with. My aunt Jane, Conrad’s mother, explained to me very early on that it wasn’t that Conrad couldn’t do things, it was that he did them differently or more slowly or needed more time, or that he just did and enjoyed different things from the rest of us, and as far as I could see, that was true.
What’s more, having spent a lot of my time as a child with older people I always assumed that I would become disabled by an age related condition eventually, so for me, there wasn't any 'us and them' - more a kind of 'now and later' continuum.
You mentioned your own heart condition – when that emerged, how did it change things for you? You are clearly determined, political and extremely active – did it change how you saw yourself or how others saw you?
There is something about finding out that your heart doesn't work properly which is deeply undermining. I've talked to other people with various heart conditions and many of them say exactly the same thing. We think (and talk) about our hearts as somehow being the essence of who we are - I feel it in my heart; I love you from the bottom of my heart; you broke my heart and so on - and there it is ticking away like a reassuring clock all through your life and them suddenly - it isn’t. Well not in my case. Instead it's like having an unpredictable bomb inside you which could go off at any moment. I directed a show with Taffy Thomas, the Cumbria based story teller, called Take These Chains - which Taffy wrote about his own experience of having a lifelong heart condition and a major stroke in early middle age and he expresses so well exactly how it feels. I had no idea that there was anything wrong until I was well into my thirties, so I didn’t have the childhood experiences so many of my disabled friends and colleagues have described to me of people regarding me as disabled, of special schools or teenage bullying.
The first time I had an episode, years ago, it came completely out of the blue (although apparently a classic scenario for an inhereted condition like mine which often doesn’t show until your mid 30s - I was 37) and was ridiculously dramatic. We were waiting for an Arts Council team to turn up from London and carry out a major appraisal. As they walked in, I collapsed and was hustled out and the rumour ran round the small Yorkshire arts network that I had had a heart attack - completely untrue but a great story!! The minute I was back on my feet I felt I had to show people I was just as capable as before and to kill those 'such a shame, she’s had it' rumours. The arts can be a macho business, particularly if you are in a managerial role. However the reality is that I do have to take things more slowly (although slowly for me, as various people have pointed out, is actually probably pretty normal for other people as I’m generally working on three or four projects at once).
But there’s no doubt I lost a lot of confidence - could I trust my body to do what I wanted? Could I still do all the things I used to? Should I take lots of medication 'in case', Should I change the way I live? The cardiologist suggested meditation as an alternative to beta blockers. Well I tried - a bit. I did give up caffeine overnight and I haven't touched a coffee and walnut cake since although I still dream about it... But you are always wondering when it will happen again and there is no getting away from the fact that it is immensely frustrating - there are just some things I haven’t got the stamina to do. Some people with my condition can carry on regardless, with their heart pumping away at double the normal rate. I tend to be more strongly affected. I am frequently very tired, catch every bug going and keep it for twice as long as everyone else and when I have an episode, which isn’t very often, my blood pressure tends to plummet and I can’t stand up – I just have to lie around watching day time telly (all those fake tanned presenters trying to sell you the perfect apartment on the Costa del Sol) until it all goes back to normal. It has inevitably changed my life - but it many ways it was the trigger which has enabled me to focus on a world outside the theatre. I doubt I would have helped build an arts centre in my home town without it, or be running a literature festival.
When I tell people, it’s often more for their protection that for mine. I feel if I am working with someone, it’s only fair that they know, just in case something happens, but then I have always been a great ‘assess the situation and plan for the worst’ person. I make sure I explain that all it means is that I get tired more quickly than they would and that I try not to get too stressed (a contradiction in terms of course for all of us working in the arts) but other than that, they probably won’t see a difference. I think most people forget about it fairly quickly, because there are no visible signs but there are some people who will insist on asking you in a meaningful way every time you see them ‘How ARE you, no really, are you OK?’ and throwing sympathetic looks in your direction. Which drives me to ‘care rage’! It has made me acutely aware of how it could be to have the kind of impairment where everyone treats you like that all the time - and it’s really strengthened my resolve to say ‘we can offer this, let me know if there’s anything you need’ - and then leave people to it. I go to salsa classes and I always warn the teachers I’ll be dropping out for a rest now and then (mainly so they don’t think I hate their session or am a lazy slob who can’t be bothered). Some of them are fine - others go into unspoken panic, treat me as if I might break at any moment and watch me intently for signs of collapse.
The people I work with are great. They leave me to get on with it but are incredibly flexible if, say, I need to change a meeting to another day because I am particularly tired and the Ilkley Literature Festival board have been very supportive about bringing in Assistant Directors who work with me during the Festival so that I don’t have to do all those early mornings, late nights and daytime events alongside weekends and evenings. The result - we have been described as one of the best run lit fest in the country (somebody clearly likes us!) with someone always on hand to offer a cup of tea. And by and large, despite all the pressure, as a team we don’t do stress - which has to be good for everyone.
I want to work with an organisation that ‘doesn’t do stress’! I’ll have to ask you more about that later, but first can I push you on? How you broker the conversations with people now, to make sure you get your needs met? You don’t ‘look disabled’ so it must always be up to you to bring up the subject? I suppose I’m really interested in knowing if people’s opinions shift, if they seem to change what they think of you because of your condition? I’m interested to see if you think people accept leaders with physical limits or if they question what you can do? Oh and how have you been able to rebuild your confidence – you certainly don’t come over as unconfident!
You’re quite right in that I always have to introduce the question of how people can help meet my needs because, unless they know me well, they often have no idea there’s a problem. I generally say ‘I’d love to do that / be involved with that but as you may know, it would be difficult for me to … (whatever it is)’. Quite often I then propose an alternative - ‘I don’t think I could speak at your all night conference but I could do a contribution on DVD if that would be helpful’. I think DDA has made a huge difference. Most arts organisations and local authorities are aware of their legal responsibility to meet people’s needs and quite often I get the impression that they haven’t had much chance to show that they can do it in a flexible way. So when I ask if things can happen slightly differently they are often really helpful and imaginative - both making suggestions and asking me what would work best. I generally make sure I have a suggestion or two up my sleeve.
As a manager, whatever your own situation, I think it’s essential you’ve thought through the big picture: we need to make this happen - I can’t physically do it, so what’s the strategy? In fact in some ways it’s easier because your role isn’t about doing everything, it’s about knowing what needs to happen and who needs to do it, in what order (very important and often forgotten. Architects and engineers call it the critical pathway.) to create a successful show, festival, project, arts centre. I also have a sneaking suspicion that I am a nice easy way for people to tick off a box saying ‘we involved someone with a limiting condition and it wasn’t that hard after all’. And if that is true, then at least it’s a good way to get the ball rolling.
The thing that doesn’t happen to me is that people question what I can do. Well, not in terms of my physical limits. And I don’t have a strong sense that people treat me differently. I was interviewing student interns the other week and ten minutes before the next candidate was due I was on the floor with a tachycardia, unable to do more than crawl - not an ideal interview position really! My 15 year old son, off school for half term, was the only one in the house so the prospective intern was greeted on the doorstep by a teenager explaining ‘Sorry, she can’t see you. She’s got a heart problem and she’s just been taken ill.’ The young woman came back the following week and didn’t seem at all phased.
I think that may well be because of my age and how long I have been around so I’m not having to prove myself. By the time I discovered my tachycardia I had already co-founded a national touring company; been chair of drama for ACEY; been artistic director of Red Ladder for seven years and so on. I think it would have been much harder if I’d been starting out. And I suspect it would be very different if I had a visible impairment or if my impairment affected my ability to communicate quickly - for good or bad, the arts tends to be run by people who appear to communicate quickly and confidently.
I think part of being a leader is either having enormous confidence in yourself - or (which I think is truer for many of us) accepting you are going to have to take on that role and appear confident because you are passionate about making something happen. That doesn’t mean having all the answers (in fact it often means saying we’ve got a problem, how can we solve it) but I think it does mean having a clear process and not being afraid to take decisions. And do people accept people with physical limits taking on that role? Well when I think of some of the inspiring ‘leaders’ I have worked with they would definitely include Graeae’s Artistic Director Jenny Sealey; Tom Shakespeare, Research Fellow at the PEALS centre in Newcastle and actor/director/writer Mat Fraser.
Where I do still find people openly questioning my abilities is as a woman in a position of authority, particularly in relation to finance and funding. (Yes, still in 2008!). I have been the only woman, or one of only a handful of women, in so many meetings, funding assessment panels and committees over the last thirty years it’s ridiculous. I can’t remember anyone ever questioning whether I could do something in the light of my physical limitations but I have had to deal with innumerable ‘The Office’ style male colleagues (generally the ones with the least ability or experience who don’t actually work in the arts but see clearly why subsidy is unnecessary or equal opportunities a waste of time) explaining to me how I don’t understand what I’m doing.
And as for the final part of you question - how did I rebuild my confidence? Partly by just carrying on doing it, partly by accepting I would never be rid of this new part of my life and partly by acting. I was never a great actress but I worked as a performer for four years and the one thing you learn is look as if you know what you’re doing, even when things are falling apart!
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Jo Verrent (joverrent[at]adainc.org) said on 2008-06-02 10:10:
I'm quizzing Rachel as part of Sync, a leadership development programme for disabled people funded by the Cultural Leadership Programme - find out more and join in at www.syncleadership.com
Whats your take on disability and leadership?
tony heaton (tony[at]shapearts.org.uk) said on 2008-07-12 08:01:
what an inspirational article, it reminds me of the need we have in the world of Disability to nurture and learn from and support each other. And the sad reality that discrimination and oppression is never far in its different forms from our lives. thank you.
Liz Whitehouse (lizwhitehouse[at]the-arthouse.org.uk) said on 2008-12-09 14:45:
Thank you, Rachel and Jo. A most interesting conversation!
last updated: 2008-05-20 11:44:52