Follow Pauline Lynch, director of Secret Wrapped In Lead, as she reflects on what she’s learned.

Sunday 6th August

Ok, so directing Secret Wrapped in Lead became a bit of a whirlwind and this diary took a back seat – but now we’re in calmer waters. Let me sum up the experience for you.

I was a first-time director with a lifetime’s experience in performance and storytelling in one way or another. Clearly, I was always going to learn something throughout this experience. Before rehearsals began, I read and read and read. These weren’t books I bought especially. No, they were already in my possession. An array of directing books I bought when, in my twenties, I wanted to direct but had no idea of how to go about landing that role. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe you can learn how to direct from a book. What you can learn though, is how many different approaches there are. And the benefit of being a first-time director at my stage in life is how easily you can discard certain approaches, and how eagerly you can nod in agreement at others due to having been an actor in various rehearsal rooms with different directors over the years.

In addition to reading, before rehearsals began I asked several directors this question: As an actor and first time director, what is the one thing I may not know, and what is the most important thing to remember?

The replies were at once immensely useful and occasionally contradictory.

Of course, they would be, because every rehearsal room is different, and each play, each cast, comes with its own set of needs and demands. And you can never really know what that’s going to be until you’re in the room. Which is mildly daunting for a first-time director. (Always bring your game face was an excellent piece of advice from one director I asked – thank you JL.)

I believe wholeheartedly in the rehearsal room as a private space. Performing is a brave, vulnerable, dangerous business, and actors deserve respect and dignity in their work, and need to feel safe to fail while making their way towards performance. For that reason, I won’t write about rehearsals other than to say it was a joyous process. There were, of course, necessary bumps and forks in the road that we navigated well. I am so proud of everyone involved in this production. There was not one person who did not bring their A game. Braw Clan finally, after two years of trying, came to fruition in the most satisfying, humbling, and wholesome way possible.

This extended beyond the rehearsal room and into every aspect of the production, not least the audience engagement through our nightly Q & A sessions where we had the opportunity to speak directly with audiences about our shared experience of the evening. In all of my professional life, I have never experienced anything quite like it, and yet it is something I have pursued throughout the entirety of my artistic life and achieved only fleetingly in certain productions, or in the occasional random conversation with someone who has enjoyed one of my books – and that is the sure and solid realisation that I, or in this instance we, have succeeded in making work that matters to people.

That, to me, is the power of theatre at its best.

It’s about community, the shared experience in the room, and it’s about the conversations that happen afterwards. It’s about connections, and relationships, and making ourselves whole and healthy. It’s about the collective understanding that we all need each other. We need to see ourselves reflected in our cultural media to help us understand who we are, and to help us gain empathy and care for those outside of our immediate environment. It makes the world a better place and I don’t care a hoot (see what I did there?) how that sounds.

Braw Clan set out to tell a story, but as the dust settles on our tour, I think we, along with the audiences of Clydesdale and beyond, achieved so much more. I can’t wait for the next time.

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