Typography & design by
Richard Wolfströme

Exhibition and installation
by Standard 8

Website
Words William Shaw
Design Richard Wolfströme
Photography Kenny Laurenson

Publishing consultant Adrian Driscoll

An Unmadeup Production

...but his brain still fizzes and sparks, unable to settle

Brighton Station is a terminus – the end of the line. It opened in 1841. From that point Brighton was open to all comers

He’s been hoping to catch the 22.06 but the concert has lasted longer than Chris had calculated.

Caught up in the infectious energy of the performance, the audience claps for longer than usual too. The baritone stands on the stage alongside the chorus and the other soloists, taking his bows, accepting the beautiful bouquet of lilies and gerberas wrapped in cellophane.

Afterwards, quick-changing out of his suit, he checks his watch anxiously. He worries if he’ll even make the 23.06. A cab takes him swiftly south, dropping him at Victoria with five minutes to make it to the train on platform 16.

He finds a place for his bag; the flowers are more troublesome. He wrestles the bouquet into the space between seats and sits back as the train fills quickly.

Chris relaxes, finally. This quiet hour is something he needs. He may be exhausted, but his brain still fizzes and sparks, unable to settle. It’s good to have the time to cool off, to replay his performance in his mind.

As the train pulls out, moving southwards, he’s going over a particular passage towards the end of the piece, note-by-note, wondering if he could have sung it better.

By the end of the performance of Carmina Burana, Chris’s voice had been tired. It’s not surprising. It has been a tough day. Their six-month-old woke them at 5.30am. In London all morning he’d been workshopping scenes for a new production of a Ravel opera at Covent Garden. Then, after a run-through of Ravel, he’d gone to St John Smith’s Square for the final afternoon rehearsal for tonight’s concert.

He knows he should have saved his voice for that last difficult high passage. He didn’t give it the delicacy it deserved. But he loves to sing; it is what he does. Sometimes it’s hard to hold back.

At Brighton, almost home, he grabs his bags, fumbling for his pass at the ticket barrier, and joins the taxi queue, water leaking from the bouquet down his shirt front.

In the morning, his sleeping wife will wake to flowers in a vase.