Let's get naked

Consider this for a moment. If you were preparing to appear naked on stage or screen, how much of an expectation would there be that you would appear toned, tanned, lithe and dancer like? How much of that expectation would come from others (director, producers, co-stars, casting director, your agent)? And how much would come from you?

Is it a question of common sense, professionalism or ego? What about artistic choices? What if you chose to make your stripper/naked housewife/prostitute a fattie? What would it say about the character (or your personal character for that matter)? Would it make her more interesting, more appealing, more endearing or just plain wrong and repelling?

These are the questions I ask myself, as I ponder the development of my latest theatre project, working title: The Lusty Lady, based on my experiences as a peep show dancer in San Francisco.

I'm not new to the uh... nudity clause. It became my signature stunt at Drama School (and won me the "best skin" award at graduation). It's very empowering, not the actual nakedness but rather the awe it inspires in most people who wouldn't dream of disrobing in front of others, not even in the relative anonymity of the single sex changing room. It makes you feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time - quite handy for an actor.

I'm also not new to the skinny vs fatty debate. When I performed "There's Something in the Fridge that Wants to Kill Me!" at the 2008 Edinburgh Fringe, I lost a fair bit of weight through a combination of factors: cutting out chocolate and dairy for my voice, day long one-on-one rehearsals for 5 weeks, the general running around that producing and marketing a show at Edinburgh entails, and performing the show twice a day (I did a full run in my flat every morning as part of the warm up). I was looking pretty good up there. How did that work out for me? Actually, it cost me the trust and involvement of some audience members who thought I looked too slender to play the characters convincingly. They didn't believe my story and would have liked me a lot better if I'd been podgy. Oh the irony! Let's call it the Madonna syndrome.

Damned if your thin, damned if you're fat.

Now, The Lusty Lady project, as yet unwritten but surely one that's going to call for some flashing of the flesh. Am I too old? Am I too fat? Or the wrong body type? Will people like me better if I'm fit or if I'm pleasingly normal? Or downright chubby?

Is there such a thing as being a plus size actress? Do you get your own acting category? The sweet sweet chocolate covered irony in all of this is that for the last few years, it's the rounder actresses who've made out like bandits on the award circuit.

Remember Dreamgirls? Poor Beyonce was made to shave her signature curves with some godawful stringent diet but it's Jennifer Hudson playing the Fattie who got the Oscar. And what about Gabourey Sidibe nominated for an Oscar for her lead role in Precious? So much for Hollywood producers and their obsession with size 0 actresses. Somebody's coming round...

But to get back to the point, if you're going to strip to your birthday suit, which suit should that be? Skinny or Rubenesque? Renee Zellweger famously piled on the pounds to play Bridget Jones but she kept her clothes on (mostly, remember those big white panties?)

Of course, I could choose to play a character who doesn't disrobe. All Tease and no Strip as it were. But that's not the point. There will be other instances when I am asked to disrobe or consider disrobing. I didn't mind at all in Wire in the Blood even though the wide angle lense and lighting were rather unflattering... but it suited the character.

So I think the answer is that as an actor, I will seek to shape my body to the needs of the character rather than subsume all my energy in the pursuit off a tiny bottom. (Mind you, as a Latina, I am never going to achieve a tiny bottom, I'll settle for pert.)

These are my principles. There are limits of course and I did draw the line once when my very first agent asked whether I would consider doing an ad for a well known sports brand in which I would be required to do yoga naked.

D'you know what? I said no.

I don't like to chew but I like to swallow...

I discovered something new about myself today. It was such a strong realisation that I actually remember where I was and what I was doing at the time.

I was walking towards the Central Line turnstiles at Liverpool Street Station, biting into a ham baguette sandwich. (If you must know, whole meal, lettuce and tomato, no butter, no cheese). And what I discovered was this: I don't like chewing my food. To those who know me, this will not come as a surprise. I have an unseemly and un-ladylike habit of inhaling my food very very fast. It's not good for the digestion (although presumably it's reducing the wear on my teeth?) and a habit I've had since I was a small child.

This was going through my head as I took a bite out of my baguette sandwich and so I made a conscious effort to chew that particular bite conscienciously. And - the thing is - I didn't enjoy it. I could taste all the different components, textures, tastes. They were all blending in together and mixing and turning into mush.

I hated it.

I didn't like the messy taste and feel in my mouth. It was gross and disgusting. I really had to force myself to swallow.

Why was that? I seem to love food well enough. I have a healthy appetite, I eat EVERYTHING (exceptions: butter/margarine, anything with mayo, anything with any kind of cream (sour, double, single, whipped) Chicken Kiev, Coronation Chicken, Piccalilly sauce, mint sauce, greasy foods, mangostenes, and egg salad.) So how can I not like eating food?

The thing is, I do derive pleasure from ingesting food, but only when swallowing things without too much chewing. It's the swallowing whole that I find so satisfying.

So when it comes to food, I like to swallow, not chew. Is this odd? Am I unique in this? Is this some sort of affliction? Is it mental or physical? Is their a cure or treatment?

You might well ask what I was doing getting on the Central Line with a sandwich in the first place? I was on my way to have tea at Maison Bertaux with one of my very dear drama teachers from East 15. It was 2 o'clock and I'd just come out of yoga so hadn't had a chance to eat my lunch hence the sandwich (from Upper Crust if you must know). At Maison Bertaux (Soho - fantastic characterful French Patisserie), I had mint tea. There was no chewing involved.

Now for an acting note...
This morning I had an audition for a corporate ad (it means it pays very little and no one is going to see it apart from a bunch of middle managers in a board room). The role was described as: "a waitress in a greasy spoon caf in East London who's been doing the job for 8 years."

I wonder if I'll get it...

It's Freezing!

Winter has officiallly arrived. With snow! Apparently, we haven't had October snow in London since 1934. So it's quite an event. I think we should celebrate with excess and great immaturity - following in the footsteps of BBC broadcasters Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand.Well maybe not stooping to prank calling but at least indulging in some form of childish lewdness. Maybe mooning. (Is it new moon yet?)

My agent called today and I have an audition tomorrow morning, to play a "rosy cheeked waitress who's been working in the same greesy spoon for the last 8 years and wonders what her life might have been..." So watch this space.

I am typing this wrapped in a tartan wool blanket, trying to keep warm, as I refuse to turn the heating on till after nightfall. I don't know why. It's a rule I've made up. And like all made up rules, there's no rhyme or reason to it, but also no way of breaking it. It's just not allowed. Maybe I'm trying to identify with the "fuel poor" and hoping to benefit from the tax windfall from the energy companies. How much do you get if your lips go purple? And pneumonia?

In preparation for typing up my expenses - foreplay for filling out my tax return - I did a huge clear out and some major filing yesterday. There's now a rather unruly pile of papers next to me, waiting to be processed. It has a rather resentful vibe.

There's also a dreadful, intermittent but recurring clanking noise outside on the street. I'm not too worried as I think it's coming from one of the building sites. Sounds like someone banging poles together. Maybe they're taking down some scaffolding. Let's live in hope.
The noise has stopped. Better get on with my expenses then... I've got a whole hour to kill before yoga class!

Don’t screw your face up like that!

I was at Yoga last night. Ashtanga.

For you neophites out there, it's a dynamic form of yoga that makes your heart race and your muscles lean and defined (like Madonna - that's why I do it).

We had a substitute teacher. I didn't catch her name but she was very beautiful. Her skin was the colour of honey. She also had the really serene vibe of holistic practioners. A vibe I would simply die for. You know: soft skinned and soft spoken, chilled, measured and with purposeful but unhurried movements. No sweat (apparently sweat comes from bound flow - tension and fear and a general feeling of wanting to run away from the situation).

Unfortunately, I'm genetically engineered along the lines of a sewing machine: tatatatatatatatatatatatata. Pause. Tatatatatatatatatatatatatata. Pause. Undo all the stitching, it's crooked. Tatatatatatat.... You get my drift.

She also practiced without a mat.

It turns out she's from Australia and has a wicked sense of humour. She spent most of the class giggling and gaffawing and making fun of people's funny facial expressions as they coerced their bodies into certain asanas (aka poses). (In yoga they have these things called "binds" where you're essentially tying your arms around yourself. If you forget to breathe, your face contorts and you look like you're trying to squeeze out a reluctant fart. Or worse.)

The trick is to close your eyes. Apparently. Harder than you think when you're balancing on one leg. With your chin touching your shin.

That was last night.

Today I'm going to do some running, an abs class and a body pump class. What can I say, I'm having what I call a "whale day" - feeling enormous and blobby - and a bit of cardio helps me sweat out those pesky thoughts. I could do another yoga class instead but I want to burn some calories.

Silly and pointless. But there you go. A minor delinquence in the scheme of things. What's caused it? PMT? Lack of control?

In other words, today I'm in a spiritual bind. Face all screwed up. Desperately trying to strike a pose and hold it for the duration.

When all I need to do is close my eyes and breathe...

You’re making a lot of noise!

It's rather noisy in my neck of the woods at the moment. There's been scaffolding going up across the street with the guys doing their best impression of a seal colony. There's been continuous drilling on a building site next door, and in the last few minutes, some serious sawing of the newly asphalted road just outside the house. They managed to set fire to it last time they did it (the asphalt, not my house) so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

And it's not just me finding London a tad wee noisy after my sojourn up north. Oh no! The really chilled out girl who works in the caf next door is going spare.

It's a bit like having your teeth drilled without anaesthetic.

But without a sexy dentist leaning over you real close.

Life takes on a different quality when it's submerged with noise. It's a bit like drowning in an ocean, except with drowning, there's an inevitable release. It's just singularly unpleasant.

Still, I'll be out of the house soon enough. Yoga beckons. And groceries!