first Review of #UnbrokenLine


From The PublicReviews.Com

“Jamie Zubari holds the audience in this gripping and often laugh out loud funny play”

“A true display of what a one man play can be”

“An assured performance by a charming and honest performer”

“this is a lovely alternative to the usual festive offerings that the London fringe has”

I guess I couldn’t be happier for that review.

 

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#unbrokenline discount code


This week, to get £3 off the full price please use

zooby3

as the code. It is valid until Sunday and it’s bookable via their website or calling the box office

http://www.ovalhouse.com/whatson/detail/unbroken-line

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Announcement for #UnbrokenLine


Last Friday I received confirmation that the Arts Council of England have awarded me a Grant For The Arts in support of Unbroken Line. I received the pack on Friday but wanted to read it carefully over the weekend before I made any announcements.

From now on, any publicity for Unbroken Line has to be accompanied with the words  ‘Supported using public funds by The National Lottery through The Arts Council of England’ and this logo:

Information on their support can be found here: www.artscouncil.org.uk

It’s a huge honour for me. I feel very much overwhelmed that my application has been awarded a grant. Unbroken Line has many themes that are very personal for me but I have a feeling that they will resonate with other people. It feels like a validation for the past 3 years of working on it, and for my artistry. It comes with a huge responsibility and a need for me to honour the support. It is funds from the National Lottery. The list of their recipients is huge and an honourable roll-call. I am one of them. Times are hard and it has been increasingly harder and harder for artists to get grants such as these. I feel incredibly lucky and grateful that Unbroken Line has been given an award.

Now I can concentrate on The Art

Now I can make it the best it can be.

Thank you Arts Council of England and Thank You to my friends and family who have supported me in this. You’re here with me.

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It’s Not Fair!


(Press play on this first:)

For the past 3 and a half months I have been pounding the concrete floor of Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall, along with around 300 other people. According to Nic Serota we had about 1.5 million visitors through the Tate’s doors. I have heard stories of fellow associates who have been approached by visitors saying “You were in that piece, weren’t you?” and then having an in depth conversation, like it could easily continue.

It’s been a few days now. 3 to be precise. I have fully immersed myself into the making of Unbroken Line which starts rehearsing in just under 3 weeks. Tidying up the writing, coming up with ideas. All the time more jobs come through which I must keep doing otherwise I can’t eat. Last night saw the episode of ‘Cuckoo’ I was in as it aired for the first time. This Friday I am doing a quick Mire Angelou in cabaret. Sunday I am filming a trailer for a short film, playing a 16th century Malay Sultan under attack. The agent called and offered a corporate for the 16th which is rather line-heavy but it looks like a good cause: since October last year I have worked with the theme of the elderly and young working together to achieve collaboration. Thanks Kath Burlinson and ‘Tender Age’ for that. Yesterday I was in my studio with some friends and Bob who was also a participant, who, because of Hurricane Sandy, found himself at a loss as to what to do until he can get a flight back to the States and his partner who lives in Brooklyn. Tonight I saw ‘Skyfall’ with a friend. It was thankfully all right. Actually pretty good for a Bond.

The thing is, all of this is proving to be mere distraction. The thing is

IT’S NOT FAIR

I feel like Juliet Stevenson in the beginning of ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply’ in her sessions. I miss the people with whom I have made close and deep relationships with over the past 3 months. There’s something about the process of what we were doing – talking to strangers about aspects of our autobiographies or about something in our friends that we admired that has profoundly touched us. Profoundly changed us. Whether they believed us or not, I’m not sure matters. Those that did had a better time of it. Those that didn’t possibly had a realisation later that it must’ve been true. It has made us feel connected to each other on some other level. I’ve seen men and women, boys and girls, grandmothers and grandfathers, of all races, deal with critics who were after a scoop, deal visitors who were just looking to be told a story, deal gaggles of schoolgirls whose only response was to repeat monotonously, as if only to give a response, not actually to find out “What does that mean?”. Dealing with the challenging, the homeless, the lost. Watching the collective sphincter of London unclench.
I don’t know if I was any good at it. Who’s to judge? I don’t know what the other associates would speak their conceits about. I know I didn’t always stick to the seven basic ones. They were elemental in what I spoke but there wasn’t a huge denouement at the end of each ‘story’. Sometimes they weren’t stories but sometime they were springboards to conversations. Sometimes. Sometimes they went halfway round the world and back but always deepening, trying to get to a point of connection that was deeper. Sometimes the same story took on a different theme. I have a story about a wedding which ended up about not having grandfathers. I have a story about my friend who wears vintage clothing and how I want to be like her and take my time over my appearance. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes it would just happen like Boy From Brazil. Choosing each story to suit the person you’re about to speak with. Choosing parts of my history that I thought they might be ready for. Some of it is pretty frank. And shocking. But I wasn’t sure if I could go there. I did sometimes. I think the more comic I got into the story, the more I was trying to balm. To calm myself down, the story about my grandmothers and not having grandfathers connected me to safety.

I will miss sitting near Eleanor during the singing and inadvertently singing with her like a ‘Sound Of Music’ refrain, though we can’t agree what song it is from Sound Of Music that we were referencing, but I reckon it’s this one. From about 2:20 onwards.
The final day of the piece was extraordinary. I had finished my shift which was witnessed by my friends Juliette, Gemma, Zoie and her partner Desmond and their child Amolie Grace. All from the Authentic Artist Collective. They had associates come up to them, one who I planned her dramaturgy and the other happened to be spoken to by a person I wanted her to meet. I’m so glad that accident happened. For me, I spoke to Zoie. We weren’t encouraged to speak to friends but there was a part of this story I had actively avoided going to. I went there and I grieved for him. Thankfully Zoie was there to catch me. Selfish of me perhaps.

The final half hour was the most densely packed. More associates on the ramp than ever. I found Will sitting cross legged weeping. “It’s your fault” he half joked. It’s true. I did get him to be included in the piece in its second week. And he shone. Everywhere there were spontaneous hugs and more tears. Tino whispered that he wanted more discordant (sic) singing. I don’t think enough people heard him so we took it in our hands to end the piece how we wanted. Walking slowly backwards into the gloom of the east end of the Turbine Hall. I watched as some visitors attempted to follow, unsure of whether it was appropriate or whether he wanted to say goodbye to the piece. I found him on twitter a few days later. His stream is full of beauty and loss and longing. Irish Frank described it at the party later as “that graceful territory between a funeral and a birth”. I’m stealing that.

As an actor I never really found Belonging. Not until I found artists. They encouraged me to search for my grandfathers. The Authentic Artist Collective is my holy tribe and will always be. But These associates are my people. They are artists, even if they think they’re not. They will go back to being dancers or painters, or philosophy students or back to their GCSEs or back to making film or assessing grant applications, or psychologists, or grandparents, or mothers or fathers or lovers. What ever we were at the start of the process, I felt by the end of it the word belong.

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EarlyBird Discount for #UnbrokenLine


Secret Code Revealed!

in sensational headline!

Ovalhouse have generously made an Earlybird Offer for a limited time: Book before 11th November for Unbroken Line using the code “zooby4” to get £4.00 off the top price (usually £14.00 for top price). You can book via their website here:
http://www.ovalhouse.com/whatson/detail/unbroken-line

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Boy From Brazil


 Recently I have been working telling passing strangers stories from my life as part of a larger piece of art in London. Sometimes these stories spark conversations with these strangers. This is one such conversation. There are many like it.

Boy From Brazil

Boy From Brazil

Is in Europe alone

Needs to make money

To help his parents

Look after his sister.

Boy from Brazil

Bought an art shop bag.

Did he have friends?

He saw he was a speck of dust,

Insignificant.

I said he was to someone

And he held out a hand

And cried.

Boy from Brazil

Couldn’t be held by me.

I looked on helplessly

As the guard told him to leave,

We were closing

And down came our shutters.

Swarms

Swarms

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