1 AS I SAW IT

Loosening our up-tights

SALLY VINCENT

Iles a funny place to come to lose your inhibitions. I wouldn't mind making the attempt on top of a mountain or at the bottom of the sea or even in a lonely room when the cats have gone out to play, but there's something about a hired schoolroom smelling of hot dust and no that brings out the bourgeois in me. Already I bate the mouldy floor covering, curling up all over the place like an old British Rail sandwich, and the first flash of human flesh, one crook- toed foot (male) denuded of its woolly sock, white, defenceless, obscenely intimate, exposed to the gaze of forty .strangers of various sexes, has me blushing internally. I am your fearless reporter. I keep my rain- coat on.

Off come the trousers and the blouses and the grubby vests and there we are, all ready to relate and express and expose and feel free in our underpants and our laddered tights and as the little man in glasses blurts as he struggles gamely from the carnival clothes he wears in his daily life, 'there's no false modesty in our workshop'. So quickly now, into a circle, just time for those two young men to tie on their hair-ribbons, shake a foot, shake a leg, shake an arm. shake a hand; an arm and a leg, a leg and an arm, all together now, shake shake shake so we have one massive St Vitus's Dance going and we're all saying blubbleubbleubble to loosen our up-tights. Being embarrassed is Wrong.

On with the motley and now we're horses prancing in rows to the beat of a tambourine. Here we go round the room, all the little trendies and would-be trendies, bank clerks and ad-men, housewives and typists, hippies and dollies and plain old-fashioned lonely hearts club triers, with a right, left, right, kick, feet together and—right, left, right, kick—whoops, bang, crash, there go the inhibitions. Somebody is being noisily flatulent. Let it go, man. Let it all out.

On the outskirts, somebody's baby sits up in her pram and plays with the little red tongue of her teddy bear.

So take your partners for Yoga massage. A lonely heart is not chosen and stands , alone, brave as a child they omitted to dib I up for; he slinks to a corner and does a head-

stand. A leader emerges, a pale and solemn youth in black undies and a nice necklace, with hallowed advice and a stop-watch. 'Get into non-verbal communication', he says, and 'try for a breathing relationship'. Tiny girls crouch behind sprawling lads and run dainty fingers over shaggy heads. 'Ten minutes each', intones the necklace. 'And try to discover the key area of tension.'

Little fingers drub away, kneading necks, tapping spines, waggling heads. pummelling thighs, prodding groins. On with the heavy breathing. Necklace consults stop watch. 'You should now be working on the lower half of the body'. Heavy breathing ascends to gasps and groans, to involuntary bellows and grunts and someone, somewhere, is making childbirth noises.

Now we bring out the tumbling mats. It's time to do head over heels. God only knows what such kindergarten games have to do with the business of extending con- sciousness, but Necklace has a good idea. 'Break through the barriers of fear', he demands. So head over heels it is.

'And now', calls the Necklace with the air of someone announcing treats for all, 'now we are going to do a bit of work on the cat'. The baby experiences a twinge of foreboding and starts to whimper. 'We'll take it up to the shoulder stand', says our leader, `up to the point where you lose track.' Half the company fling themselves to the floor and wait for commands. They are told to pull their heads round by their eye- balls, which for all I know is what they actually accomplish. Twenty damp and dusty bodies strain and stretch and fling limbs around, writhing into weird and sometimes wonderful contortions, finally establishing themselves in a sort of upside down head- lock where they appear to be standing on their necks. Maybe they lose track.

The rest of the company moves in and does random things with their bOdies like slow motion head over heels and tip-toe through the tulips with a lot of hand-waving and astounded stares. 'Colour', says the Necklace. 'Colour. Texture. Emotion.' Now we're being spontaneous. Now we're doing our thing. Slink, jump, tumble, creep.

`Explore' says our leader, 'respond' he says, `relate' he says, 'express your impulses.' A girl with a broad beam encased in black tights obediently looks through her legs and stays put. One large black bottom and an upside down face are engraved on my con- sciousness foi ever. The baby cries.

And goes on howling while we gather for our evening Om. 'Om shanti' is what those eastern fellows say when they praise the God of all related things, and Om is what we sing in our little workshop when we want to achieve a lovely spiritual mood of spon- taneous togetherness. So we kneel in a circle, bow our heads to the emanations of hot dust and produce a gloriously harmonious Om.

Now we arrive at the moment when we discover what all the heading over heels and yogic flouncing has done to our brains. Or, if you like, here comes the psycho-drama. Anyway, from now on it's all verbal.

`You, Jean, you're a married lady and, come on, Brenda, you're her husband's ex- fiancée, and you meet by accident in the street.' Everybody giggles and gathers round for the entertainment. 'Now Brian is Jean's thoughts, come along Brian, and who shall we have for Brenda's thoughts? I know, Graham. Come on Graham.'

Jean and Brenda and Brian and Graham stand about feeling foolish, go into a huddle and decide the whole thing's easier sitting down, thoughts to the rear like pretend- Satans. Thoughts say sneering, aggressive, defensive, beastly things and Words say mundane, social, boring things. 'Coo, doesn't she look old', says Brian. 'Hello my dear'. says Jean, 'how well you're looking.' We all fall about laughing. This is real life. This is how people really behave. Now we come to the straight conflict. Sheila's a militant Women's Lib. lady and Irene's ,a playboy nudie. What do they say to each other? Something about riding horses in Dorset. And how big's your London flat and that's a nice dress you're wearing. No good, change to Eric and Frank being Ted Heath and Richard Neville. No good, Frank is only pretending he knows who Richard Neville is. Try with Tony Armstrong-Jones and David Bailey. Sorry old chap, don't know who you are. Such an esoteric put-down.

Let's change the scene for another game. We sit in two rows, face to face, and we stare into each other's eyes. That's all we have to do, nothing else. Just listen to what the girl in the Arab's shift is saying as she walks up and down like a camp com- mandant and respond in your head to her words. Eye contact, we call it. Mustn't laugh, mustn't smile. rust stare, eyeball to eyeball and see what happens in your head.

'What are you thinking about?' says the girl in the shift, softly, meaningfully. Mustn't smirk, mustn't blink. 'What do you feel now? What emotion can you think of mostly? Do you like your partner? Did you conspire to be opposite this partner? is there anybody you would rather be opposite? Listen to the rain?'

Yes, listen to the rain. 'Do you feel warm towards your partner? Do you think your partner likes you? Look at your partner's face. Imagine change in it. Imagine taking it in your hands and moulding it. Can you see it changing?' The rows of faces relas, the girl's voice goes on asking its hypnotic questions for a full twenty minutes. `Do you think your partner has a better body than you? Do you think it matters? Do you feel closer to your partner now? Do you feel you will talk to your partner more? Can you' think of things you could say to your par? ner? Do you think you know your partner s face now? Do you think you will be able 10 visualise it when you are on your own? Do you think it will be easy?'

Listen to the rain. The voice goes awaY and we smile at each other. SomebodY kisses his partner. Somebody smooths 3 lock of somebody else's hair. SomebodY says hallo. One couple look away from each other. Then turn away. Then walk away,