Upon entering the theatre space of Project Arts Centre, Octopus Children welcomes us with a wide and open playing space, framed only by an imponent set of drums, a platformed microphone, and a veil half open: like a pulled curtain, it tells us, as soon as we walk in, that tonight we reveal what might have once been concealed. A dim wash of green lighting sits between aquatic, wicked, and mysteriously supernatural.
The voice over fire-safety and Fringe announcements are incorporated into an introduction to the world of the play. As the poetic welcome begins to tease what we are about to see, a video projection on the veil hints further at the aesthetical elements we will experience. Here, FeliSpeaks, the playwright, voice behind the text and face behind the image, rests in the undefined borders between theatre and performance-art, between theatrical figure and themselves – maybe, probably, both; in multitudes. In this ethereal atmosphere, we are warned we might identify with the struggles, or with the comforts benefiting from the struggles, depicted here tonight, and with this motion we’re implicated: not removed, safely, unseen, in dark audience seats, but part of the collective event coming together here, tonight. And FeliSpeaks welcomes us, invites us to discover ourselves as octopus children.
What follows this beautiful prelude are 80 minutes of an impeccably consistent, colorful, moving, phenomenal show, full of rhythm and incredible stage presence. Starting in a club; moving through abstract, internal spaces of memory, emotions and imagination; cruising through a family home and the streets of Dublin; and taking residence within the poetic, this production is simultaneously beautiful and precise in its use of the languages and elements of theatre. Light, set, costume, sound, movement, text, projection and performance each tell the story in their language, from delicate details such as pride colors incorporated into the lighting at the club setting; and Nigerian fashion and fabric patterns into the costume design; to versatile set pieces that reconfigure the space in swift movements with total situational clarity; water texture projections that wash over the stage; and movement that proposes dance as conversation, as the passing down of culture and heritage. The esthetical components of this piece are weaved not in synchrony but syntony, as the moving tentacles that, together, make up a being greater than the sum of its parts.
We come to know the story of Young Felicia, who find themselves amongst the struggles of navigating gender, race, queerness, religion, family, heritage, and identity – each of these issues introduced through personal events in Felicia’s life, but echoing vast, collective experiences. Oftentimes, in our attempts to shield ourselves from as much pain as possible, we make the mistake of believing one might be able to do so by making themselves smaller, more palatable – easier to swallow. The notion that belonging and acceptance might be in reach if we minimize the disturbance caused to the way-to-be: it’s at the edge of this trap that Young Felicia is intervened upon by The Octopus – a fantastical creature, of neon colors, tentacle-styled hair, black skin, microphone and drums, here to warn Young Felicia: “You cannot live your life with your tentacles folded”. Through spoken-word poetry, we learn of the octopus children: children of water, diverse, adaptable, different. To the score of their drumming tentacles, The Octopus poses the challenge “You dare happen like this?!”, and also offers, gently, the answer “You have always been on purpose”.
In a heat foreign to Ireland, these words simmer under the skin of Young Felicia, soak their home-life, threatening to boil over, as the same child who once said “dresses make me uncomfortable but I’ll wear them so my mother can have a teenage daughter”, now asks a mother, who plated her own plate last, “Mother, do you eat or do you let yourself be eaten?”. Paralleling the movement the production itself does to its audience, Young Felicia uses the behavior of octopuses as metaphors to challenge and question the patriarchal and cis-heteronormative structures within their family dynamics: we learn that female octopuses often eat their male counterparts; that octopuses are adaptable to their environment; and that a safe, happy octopus displays softer colors. Where their parents might have only had rigidness and resistance to offer as answer, their brother offers the desire to understand, to embrace: a boy of water, who knows no one can feel safe in isolation. Who knows that safety to be soft is found in community, in collective joy – and knows where to find it.
We transition into Dublin night life, to a vibrant, pulsating, night of dance, music and poetry, as the ensemble moves with overflowing energy and presence, and FeliSpeaks captivates the audience with their spoken-word performance. Present in the linings of the entire show, this moment exults the celebration, the ode, to the Black Irish community. Audience members laugh at the mention of “clickty-clack heels” on pavement stones and alike, because as these Black Irish artists bring their experiences into the center of the stage – as Ireland’s first all Black cast –, and talk about themselves, they let people know they are seen. And to be seen, sometimes, can be to belong.
However, paralleling the opening scene – in which Young Felicia’s excitement to be going out with classmates is substituted by the isolation of being the only Black kid, while dealing with the feelings of misfit due to being queer –, this intensely joyful atmosphere is slowly shifted, as Felicia can no longer find their brother. At this point, momentarily, the show flirts with tragedy: the play acknowledges, as it always has, that we know, from reality, what could happen; because we know of suppressed women; and we know of young queer children rejected and thrown out; and we know of Black and immigrant kids attacked in the streets – we know of “another boy […] in D15”. We know the world is tragic, and for a moment we fear it might have completely made its way in, seeped through the walls. But this is a production that refuses this fate: we did not come here tonight for tragedy. And so a mother’s song calls her son home, and tonight, here, in this theatre, we hope; tonight, here, we’re safe; tonight, here, we display our softer colors. A father might yet learn to dance to a new tune, if only because we believe in him – maybe not tonight, but someday. A mother, lost, can still find herself, if only because she has come to believe she, too, can search, can want. Children will be themselves, reinvent tradition, honor it new, belong in their multiplicity. And love does conquer all. Octopus Children, in an incredible piece that stands tall, strong, and fluid as a dissident figure within a scene of western theatre, balances with masterful nuance heaviness and lightness; permeates beautifully an intricate myriad of themes; and boldly imagines a world of water, where we can flow and transform and reinvent. A world where we do not leave our parents behind, but bring them with us into softness; where we do not leave Holiness behind, but redefine our understanding of it – “You return to the Water. You are Holy Water”. A world of radical, beaming, political joy. And once we have imagined it, we are creating it. And now, as we have learned from The Octopus, we are here; we are forever.