The inner critic. It’s the constant bugbear of most creatives. The writer who will never be Tolstoy or Shakespeare, the musician who will never be Bach or The Beatles. The painter who will never be Da Vinci or Tracy Emin.
So what’s the point? If we can’t reach the top, why flounder about in the middle? Or more likely on the seabed, because our work is so rubbish no one will ever read/hear/look at it anyway, right?
Yet we carry on. Something propels us. But happy? No! We’ll only be happy if we reach the stars – so for now, we’ll continue to beat ourselves up on a regular basis.
Arthur (Jack Fairey) is an artist. He’s got lots of commissions, none of which inspire him (to be fair, one is to paint a chihuahua named after a sausage.) He’s got a lovely, supportive girlfriend. He’s got a flat, even if it is a bit poky. He’s got a brother, Ethan, who drives him round the bend, especially when Ethan talks about his therapist and his new meds. Who wants to hear about all of that?
But, as Arthur informs us at the outset, he’s got his own problem. It’s a case of painter’s block – whatever that is. He’s tried everything possible to cure it; walks, music, visits to museums. Nothing’s worked. And as for that chihuahua,
‘Those eyes started following me round the room.’
But now Arthur thinks he’s found the answer. It’s in a childhood book of Greek myths. A picture of Icarus (the boy who, with his father Daedalus, was locked in a roofless tower by King Minos) leaps out at him. In Icarus he sees a young man trapped and longing for more than his life of confinement. He wants freedom. He’s reaching for the sky. Just like Arthur.
Bedivere Arts’ play The Sun, The Mountain and Me is about ambition, perfectionism and obsession. Ignoring the paintings he’s supposed to be finishing, the party he’s supposed to attend, and before long the food he should be eating and the sleep he should be getting, Arthur directs all his energy to painting a portrait of Icarus. Before long he’s on his fourth draft – none of the first three were right.
With only minimal props – easels, paint pots, a stepladder and some boxes – Fairey, who’s both the writer and solo performer of the show, switches smoothly between three parallel stories. Arthur’s, as he strives in vain to create the perfect work of art, Icarus’s, as he tries again
and again to climb out of the tower that imprisons him, and Italian Second World War prisoner Felice Benuzzi’s as he languishes in a camp in Kenya.
Ethan has asked him to paint a portrait of Benuzzi who, Arthur tells us, was bored in the camp, and so desperate for a sense of purpose that he decided to escape and climb Mount Kenya – a mountain far higher than any he had ever scaled before. The mountain has three peaks; Benuzzi wanted to reach the top of the highest one. Of course. Could there be more than one reason behind Ethan’s choice of subject?
As Arthur becomes increasingly manic, it would be easy for Fairey to play him as a one-dimensional obsessive. Instead, this excellent actor creates a warm and engaging character who never entirely loses his sense of self. Ethan visits and expresses concern; Arthur bristles at what he sees as patronising interference, but he still opens the present his brother leaves for him. Arthur alienates his worried girlfriend, but immediately regrets doing so. He’s no monster, just a young man whose mind is derailing under self-imposed pressure.
As Arthur nears crisis point he thinks for a moment he’s succeeded in creating perfection – but just as Icarus comes crashing down when he flies too high, and just as Benuzzi fails in his attempt to conquer the Batian peak, so Arthur realises that he has not, in fact, created a masterpiece at all. In fact all he’s made is a big mess.
Daedalus tried in vain to warn Icarus, to stop him flying too close to the sun. But as Arthur eventually discovers, someone persuaded Benuzzi that it was OK to aim a little lower. So when the person from whom Arthur least expects help gently shows him that there is another way,
‘It’s blissful to be told, taught, to let my brain stop spinning.’
The Sun, the Mountain and Me is ultimately about self-acceptance. We don’t have to be the best at everything, we can still achieve great things if we lighten up and rediscover the joy in work, and in life. The highest flyers have the farthest to fall. Look what happened to Icarus.
Skilful set design greatly contributes to the show’s impact. When Arthur starts throwing showers of coloured paper everywhere, we know that it’s paint; when Benuzzi is clinging to the stepladder, it becomes the icy face of Mount Kenya. When Fairey puts his paint-splattered shirt on, we know we are in the present, when he wraps himself in a blanket and stretches his arms wide, we are in no doubt that what we see are Icarus’s wings. Lighting is also used to good effect, particularly the spotlight shining like a halo on Icarus as he reaches for the top of the tower.
The Sun, the Mountain and Me examines the too often overlooked subject of men’s mental health, and does so in a clever, interesting and unusual way. (‘It doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing men talk about’ says Icarus, of the dark beast whose footsteps he hears following him in the night.) Arthur’s story could, however, reflect that of anybody who’s pushing themselves too hard. Its message is, perhaps, that while great art is a wonderful thing, taking time to enjoy the moment, to breathe, is ultimately what will save us from plunging headlong into the ocean, scorched by that unattainable, fiery sun.
During the Fringe Bedivere Arts are working with a range of mental health charities.
The Sun the Mountain and Me is at Venue 61, Underbelly (Big Belly) at 12.20 every day until 25th August. Tickets here.
