Oberon White

Ill met by moonlight
Serving up military realness.  ToiToiToi after an opening night in Trinity Laban’s 2014 opera, a staging of Handel’s Belshazzar. 3 more to go.

Serving up military realness.  ToiToiToi after an opening night in Trinity Laban’s 2014 opera, a staging of Handel’s Belshazzar. 3 more to go.

Happy All Fools’ Day!

From one Fool to another, I’d like to wish each and every one of a very merry day! To celebrate, I’d like to share with you a Fool’s vision of the end of the world.

'Do You remember when Narnia ended?'


Text, video and performance: Oberon White

Music: Olivir Haylett

Prince Johnny, you’re kind but do be careful.

By now I know just when to stand clear,

When all your friends and acolytes are holding court

In bathroom stalls

Lord of Misrule

Lord of Misrule

… and the spiders from Mars.

… and the spiders from Mars.


NME Takes St. Vincent to the Isabella Blow Exhibition

This lady just knows.

Lets play catch up. - Pie Eyed

It’s high time to blow some cobwebs off this blog and while we’re now trudging into the lurid maelstrom that is ‘the holiday period’, it wasn’t always this nipple freezingly chilly.  So with that I mind, I thought I’d share some of the projects that kept me busy over the last summer, you might like the think of them as a virtual gateway to a time of cocktails, ubiquitous floral patterns and the eerie lack of Christmas songs haunting our shopping centres like a Beckettian silence. 

With my fellow fabulous freaks of Chalk Dust Cabaret, we brought our lurid and hallucinatory ‘Pie Eyed’ to Brighton Fringe and Mimetic Festival.


There was compèring to be done, with the previously uncredited assistant of a bottle of vino. (Photography: Elemental Media)

photo 1003451_484925898248991_558597746_n_zpsbf1ae98e.jpg

Flyering to be done with the ever talented and hard-working performer/strip-o-gram Daniel Ash

imageAnd generally a chaotic, but incredible journey with a brilliant group of artists.  I like to think we brought a bit of intoxicated intrigue to our intrepid audiences. *hic*

Bechdel Test, Woolf’s Assessment

“Chloe liked Olivia,” I read. And then it struck me how immense a change was there. Chloe liked Olivia perhaps for the first time in literature. Cleopatra did not like Octavia. And how completelyAntony and Cleopatra would have been altered had she done so! As it is, I thought, letting my mind, I am afraid, wander a little from Life’s Adventure, the whole thing is simplified, conventionalized, if one dared say it, absurdly. Cleopatra’s only feeling about Octavia is one of jealousy. Is she taller than I am? How does she do her hair? The play, perhaps, required no more. But how interesting it would have been if the relationship between the two women had been more complicated. All these relationships between women, I thought, rapidly recalling the splendid gallery of fictitious women, are too simple. So much has been left out, unattempted. And I tried to remember any case in the course of my reading where two women are represented as friends. There is an attempt at it in Diana of the Crossways. They are confidantes, of course, in Racine and the Greek tragedies. They are now and then mothers and daughters. But almost without exception they are shown in their relation to men…

Also, I continued, looking down at the page again, it is becoming evident that women, like men, have other interests besides the perennial interests of domesticity. “Chloe liked Olivia. They shared a laboratory together…” I read on and discovered that these two young women were engaged in mincing liver, which is, it seems, a cure for pernicious anaemia: although one of them was married and had—I think I am right in stating—two small children. Now all that, of course, has had to be left out, and thus the splendid portrait of the fictitious woman is much too simple and much too monotonous. Suppose, for instance, that men were only represented in literature as the lovers of women, and were never the friends of men, soldiers, thinkers, dreamers; how few parts in the plays of Shakespeare could be allotted to them: how literature would suffer!”

Chapter 5 of A Room of One’s Own; Woolf, Virginia