Voice and Dance and Clear Music

IAN STEPHEN reports on the final stages of his story-telling residence in Orkney.
 

ONCE I was installed aboard the 33ft El Vigo, in Stromness, with the diesel heater fired up, I thought of a chain of stories which follow the sea-routes of the Scottish islands. But we started off in Ireland and reached on via Fair Isle to Shetland and Norway. Of course it was into story-ceilidh mode (also called research) with Tom Muir and Marita Luck. The exchange gave me a grasp of stories I knew but had never told.

I’ve already worked with primary schools on Mull and Lewis this year, focusing on stories to make a connection with the historic herring-drifter Reaper. So I was in training for working across the different age-groups which are often combined in village schools. Sometimes it would be a brief guest appearance where the aim was simply to entertain and find stories which engage the young listeners and remind them that technology only takes you so far – it’s down to a voice and an ear in the end.

But I’d have other classes for sustained periods on a weekly basis so could pass on stories and help encourage the pupils’ own storytelling skills. I found these to be impressive in a quiet, natural way. I was able to record some original, thoughtful versions of Orkney stories. But other successes were some Shetland tales that came to me via the voice of Lawrence Tulloch and some previous collections, plotting the links between Scandinavian sources, Orkney and Shetland.

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On-board ceilidhs didn’t happen every day but they’ve left a scent that’s more lasting than diesel stink

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I’ve become immersed in George Webb Dasent’s translations of the tales collected by Asbjornsen and Moe. The version of Why The Sea Is Salt, from the Norwegian “popular tale”, was one of the surefire successes. The same collection also shows the clear origins of stories like The Rousay Giant.

 

When you look at the concrete sculpture of George and the Dragon sited by the astonishing Italian chapel, you see the same essential myth which became Assipattle slaying the muckle maister stoor worm. That particular beast’s teeth became Orkney, but also Shetland and Faroes. Its liver still smoulders within, and that of course explains continuing volcanic activity in Iceland.

There was a seamless join in preparing stories to work with in school and reconciling versions so my own repertoire is increased. Often I’d teach a knot along with a story, and the act of becoming familiar with the elegant movements in tying a clove-hitch or “cheesing” a rope, were a meditative aid to concentration. Or else we’d make a storyboard from the sequence of strong visual images which map the structure of a story.

I’m greatly indebted to Tom for his generous sharing of so many versions of the variations of Selkie and Finmen tales, and those of lost girls and disappearing islands and mysterious transportation through fogs, calms and gales. His own huge range of stories amounts to a consistent Orcadian mythology, but the links out along the Norse sea-routes are not forgotten.

I hope we’ve been an effective team – the Orkney Islands Council and in particular Pam Beasant, the cultural co-ordinator I’ve been reporting to, and the committed but cool teachers and the pupils who are so keen to please. I think they still love stories up this way, across the generations. I’ve gained at least as much as I’ve given.

Part of the terms of this residency were development of your own storytelling and/or writing. On-board ceilidhs didn’t happen every day but they’ve left a scent that’s more lasting than diesel stink. I’d like to tell you about a great performance artist who does it like breathing. Tom Muir is erudite. If you look closely at his modest seeming collection The Mermaid Bride you’ll see it’s a lot more than a definitive and faithful collection of Orkney stories. The sources are widely researched as you’ll see from the full notes, and range from Radio archives to well known previous collections.

But the clear narrative voice essential to building a story that will linger in your mind – that’s found its way to the printed page. I’ve found the strongest affinity with Tom, one I previously knew with the fine Shetland teller Lawrence Tulloch. Earlier this year I met the dynamic Irish storyteller Clare Murphy, at Cape Clear Island, and the Swedish performer Mats Rehnman.

Thanks to the Scottish Storytelling Centre, I’ve also heard fine contemporary tellers from Norway and Iceland. Then there’s a Scot, Fiona Macleod, who lives in Brittany and tells stories from that end of the seaboard in French.

Surely there’s a project of huge scope waiting to be made. Of course the key partners have to be in place from the beginning, but the Year of Islands is planned for 2011.

I’d like to see narratives along a sea-route from Brittany to Iceland expressed across different art-forms. But not a sticky ragout of high-sounding concepts, nor overburdened with technology for the sake of it. Let’s look at voice and dance and clear music. And how the driving stories may lead into new visual art. And maybe these elements don’t have to be together – at least not all the time. 

 

Two days from the end of this project, my own perspective is, let’s do it the Orcadian way. There’s a justifiable pride in centuries of culture and in the achievements this island has made, in sciences and arts. But there’s also a willingness to see origins and seek contemporary parallels. Better than harping on about vanished ways of mythical people. 

© Ian Stephen, 2009

Links

• Ian Stephen 

• Orkney Storytelling Resident Press Release