MAGAN'S WORLD:FOR FOUR whole decades I had managed to avoid the ordeal of a family slide show. Then, last week, a neighbour just back from Nevada caught me unawares and suggested, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that I might like to drop by to see her slides. I was too taken aback to think up a good excuse, so ended up mumbling a flustered acceptance.
Why would she want to inflict this on me, I thought. If I want to see great images I go to an art gallery or the cinema. I don’t choose to watch people’s drunken, lobster-skinned adventures projected on to a sitting-room wall. A domestic slide show is all about gratifying the host at the expense of the guests. It’s not that I’m against slide shows, per se – I’ve been captivated by serious mountaineers and travellers recounting their adventures accompanied by a judicially chosen range of photographs – it’s just that people who give home slide shows don’t seem to understand the concept of photo selection or, most importantly, how to tell a story – the pacing and creation of narrative that are required.
You’d think that the Irish, reputedly the great storytelling race, would have no bother spinning an anecdote, but our tradition was based on keeping things as loose and long-winded as possible. The aim was to while away interminable nights, so the longer and more meandering the better. Nowadays, to have any hope of competing with YouTube, Wii and television, a story must be well honed. It must be buff.
Ira Glass, a virtuoso storyteller from Chicago Public Radio’s This American Life, contends that all stories need a hook, something to bait the audience, a moment of heightened adventure, a quest or question that needs resolution, or some form of clearly identifiable structure, a sequence of actions constructed in a way that leads listeners deeper into the action, so they know they are being led somewhere. The more moments of reflection, or questions sparked, the better. This and this happened, then this, and that made me think of this, which made me wonder . . .”
Although adhering to none of these rules, the Nevada slide show worked out far better than I had anticipated. After four mind-numbing photographs of her hotel room my neighbour switched to desolate scenes of the Nevada desert, where she had driven to without food or water the day before 49,000 people were due to arrive for the Burning Man festival last August. By not telling me how she survived the experience without adequate shelter or supplies in scorching heat and violent storms, in a temporary community where money is not permitted but where any other behaviour is allowed, she ensured I hung on her every word. What I saw in her slides had me desperately trying to reformat my mind, to come to terms with a world based on bartering, where free and fearless expression was the unifying goal.
After 70 slides and more than two hours of stories I was left with countless questions. Burning Man is one of those things that can be understood only by experiencing them, and as a self-proclaimed travel addict I should want to experience it for myself, but I dunno.
My neighbour tells me she plans to go back this year and bring a whole group of dancers, artists, dreamers and wild men with her, to help build the temporary metropolis dedicated to community, art, self-expression and self-reliance. If you think you have something to offer and are up for an adventure, contact her at Shawbrook School of Dance (shawbrook.org). Her name is Anica Louw.
manchan@ireland.com