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(Photo: supplied / Design: Archi Banal)
(Photo: supplied / Design: Archi Banal)

SocietySeptember 11, 2022

How do you design the perfect woman?

(Photo: supplied / Design: Archi Banal)
(Photo: supplied / Design: Archi Banal)

Novelist, short-story and script writer, Emily Perkins has spent almost 30 years exploring the world around her and what it means to be a woman in it. Opening next weekend in Auckland, her play The Made makes use of robots (and some fungi) to tackle these themes. 

Back in the mid-90s when I was mooching around Wellington having half-arsed relationships in rickety flats while doing a bad job of being a waitress, I read a book of short stories called Not Her Real Name by a 26-year-old called Emily Perkins. 

It amazed me that someone around my age in my city with a life resembling mine had taken those shabby materials and knitted them together to make something good. Something that everyone was raving about. Emily Perkins became an It girl before New Zealand had It girls, the voice of the nebulous slacker generation that no one knew how to define back then (and never would). 

Next thing Perkins was living in London, writing novels and newspaper columns for the Independent. She later returned to New Zealand where she’s remained a household name (in a certain kind of household) since that first book of stories, partly because she continues to knock out well-received novels, and partly because, with her hyper-alert elfin vibe, she offers a more compelling 3D presence than writers sometimes do; she was a teenage actress, studied drama before switching to writing and, in later years, hosted bookish shows on TV. Profiles invariably mention that she’s married to the painter Karl Maughan who, in a strange way is her art-world equivalent, both of them pulling off the rare feat of appealing to critics and punters alike. 

Another thing I remember reading in a long-ago profile of Perkins was that she believed everyone had a sort of enduring internal age, separate to their actual chronological age, and that hers was 24. And so, when Perkins, now 52, breaks from rehearsals at the Auckland Theatre Company to pick up her phone and talk about her new play The Made, I remind her of that comment. Does she still feel 24?

Hannah Tasker-Poland as Arie, a former sex bot who scientist Alice (Alison Bruce) attempts to imbue with emotion. (Photo: ATC)

She laughs. “I think [age] is more of an abstract concept to me now. I might think about being in touch with a version of my life before children, or when I was living in different places, but I don’t think in terms of feeling 24.”

The reason I ask is that the publicity about The Made (which opens next week) focuses on the age of two of its central characters: there’s stressed-out late-40s Alice, a scientist and divorced mother-of-one; and one of her creations Nanny Ann, a very humanoid robot who, in the playwright’s words, brings “an unbridled, no-fucks-to-give approach to the holy grail of post-menopause life”.

Anxious late-40s, no-fucks 50s, these are phases not often immortalised on stage. Is Perkins doing the same thing she did at 24 when, as a student of Bill Manhire’s creative writing course, she made art out of unpromising ingredients?

“I think I understand what you mean,” she says. “I know that when I was young my mother was an avid reader and there were novelists of a similar age to her, people like Margaret Drabble, who would chart the stages in a woman’s life in a way that my mother felt spoke to her. That has stayed with me and I am really interested in different times of life, but then it all just comes out of being interested in being alive.”

Emily Perkins winning the 2009 Montana Medal for Novel About My Wife. (Photo: Supplied)

“I think there are these bigger times, like say your mid-20s; and certainly this time for women [my age] is really significant. There’s quite a lot around about it these days, not all of which I follow or am interested in, but it does feel worth exploring because it’s a lens; a lens to look at women’s lives. Fundamentally what’s interesting to me narratively is that it’s about change. In that way it’s like that earlier mid-20s time of life, which might have felt like a time of drift, but also there was this inner turmoil.”

The 50s, like the 20s, she says, also bring a certain fearlessness. “You start to look around and think about who’s making decisions, who holds the reins, and you might think, well those people aren’t that different from me… It makes you feel a certain kind of ‘why not?’ It’s freeing.”

In The Made, Perkins has trained her lens on both the artificial and natural worlds. There are robots, of course, and mushrooms, apparently; material elements that give theatrical impact and are also vehicles for less tangible themes. One of those, embodied by Alice, is mid-life career angst and the professional sidelining that can happen in middle age. I ask Perkins if she’s experienced anything like that. “Not myself,” she says. “I haven’t worked in that kind of environment, but I’ve seen it happen to people who I really had thought were at the top of their game. People who are innovative and talented and full of institutional memory and all of those good things, and so it’s quite blindsiding when it happens.”

As a writer, you can’t be restructured out of your role, but you can be deemed irrelevant. How does Perkins avoid that? “I think you have to just keep paying attention,” she says. “You have to stay curious. I don’t know if there’s a formula, I try not to think about things like that. I don’t walk around wondering if I’m relevant, I think that’s a hiding to nothing. I just have to be really interested in something and troubled by it and then I’ll make work from it.”

Adam Gardiner, whose character is called The Director, workshops a scene with Hannah Tasker-Poland. (Photo: Andi Crown)

One of those things is technology and  the way we imbue it with human traits. Writing a play about the creation of female bots allowed Perkins to explore which feminine qualities, including and beyond sex appeal, are exalted by society. “Like nurturing,” she says. “That’s an obvious one. Being caring. Taking emotional responsibility. These aren’t necessarily bad things, I just think they need to be expanded. I think generally there’s a pervasive idea that women are more naturally emotionally intelligent than men. And that adds pressure in all kinds of subtle ways. In workplaces, families… And then there’s a part of people that really hates being mothered as well, that’s when it gets nasty. We need people to be these things but we don’t necessarily value them. We don’t want to give them power.”

Bronwyn Bradley as female bot Nanny Ann with Peter Daube who plays Alice’s ex-husband David. (Photo: Andi Crown)

Perkins herself has been a mother for a long time – the kids she shares with Maughan are now  22, 20 and 17. She’s always found domestic life a rich source of creative inspiration, she says. And, on a practical level, it hasn’t tripped her up as it does some female writers. “In a way I’ve felt pretty free within my family life, I’m aware that I’ve been really fortunate in that. It shouldn’t be unusual but maybe it is. Karl does take responsibility for most of the domestic sphere, practically… I still don’t think it’s normalised for a woman to be handing that role over. And I don’t think I was any more willing to let go of it than the average person, but he is just very skilled [domestically] so that was sheer dumb luck on my part… And then when the kids were older we started having other people involved with childcare.

“But I still feel complicated about all of that,” she adds, with an apparent twinge of working-mother guilt. “You kind of do what feels like the best thing at the time. But again, speaking about being this age, you have to face up to certain things –  those years don’t come back, it’s the hard truth… At the time you’re doing your best and needing to work for all kinds of reasons – sanity, money, all of that.”

In The Made, the robot that Alice creates to help with her complicated life, Nanny Ann, is played by Bronwyn Bradley. She’s someone who, Perkins says, through the workshop process added something of her own to the role. “It needed something and she just got it. It’s a beautiful combination of her intelligence, her humour and irreverence and warmth. The strength of her presence.”

‘She just got it’ says Emily Perkins of actor Bronwyn Bradley. (Photo: ATC)

The admiration is mutual. “I love Emily diving into this,” says Bradley, who’s on the phone next. Bradley is a similar age to Perkins and also has three almost grown kids. “Alice is at that stage of life where kids are getting big but they still have expectations, which is part of the obstacle course that no one bothered to tell us about,” she says with a loud husky laugh. “There’s so much that happens at this stage of life, I don’t feel that I was ready for it and I see the same thing in my friends.”

Exploring these themes feels fresh and new. “We are starting to see those women but for a long time we didn’t,” says Bradley. “I really love that [my character] pushes Alice to be bold, to not be polite and to maybe feel that it’s OK to need stuff and to take what she needs. I also love that in the heart of the story, Alice is looking for alliances.”

Female loneliness is another key theme in The Made, which again rang true for Bradley. “I think women can become quite isolated because busyness can make you neglect important things. They become really centralised around their children and put their relationships outside family on hold. And then when that part of your life moves on… Emily has written a play about technology, but it’s really about human relationships, particularly at this stage of life.”

Bradley, Tasker-Poland and Daube. The Made was extensively workshopped, a process Perkins enjoyed a lot. (Photo: Andi Crown)

Back to Perkins. The Made is just part of what feels like a renaissance from a writer who’s been quieter in recent years. Perkins has a novel out next year and is working on some short stories. The hiatus was in part because for eight years she had a hefty role as a senior lecturer at the place she started started writing herself, Wellington’s IIML. She loved the job, especially the interaction with the age group she adores, those fearless and conflicted early 20-somethings. “It’s a beautiful, delicious, explorative time of life.”

But even more than that, she’s loves being a full-time writer again, losing herself in her work. From a distance, hers seems like a rich, blessed life. I ask, has it ever had a really low point?

She thinks. “Probably mid- to late-40s. Not that long ago! It’s too recent for me to have much perspective on why that was. I had a job I loved, a lovely family, day-to-day was probably great. I don’t think it’s as simple as to say I wasn’t writing as much as I wanted to — I mean, that was a part of it — maybe it was that sense of something coming to an end, something else beginning. That’s probably why I’m feeling so fucking great now. It’s over. “

From stressed-out 40s to no-fucks 50s. Emily Perkins is back. “I feel like the released arrow.”

Auckland Theatre Company’s world premiere season of The Made is at the ASB Waterfront Theatre, September 20 to October 8. atc.co.nz

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Illustration: Jewelia Howard.
Illustration: Jewelia Howard.

The Sunday EssaySeptember 11, 2022

The Sunday Essay: My prognosis is good, thanks for asking

Illustration: Jewelia Howard.
Illustration: Jewelia Howard.

Despite being diagnosed with cancer, I was doing really well – until I stopped sleeping.

The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand.

Illustrations by Jewelia Howard.. 

In June I stopped sleeping and went a bit mad. For about six weeks I was averaging around two hours sleep a night. There were some nights where I didn’t sleep at all. Everything went sideways, real fast. I started stuttering. My body was jumpy and my eyes twitchy. I lost my appetite. I moved through the world like I was underwater and far away.

Funny things happen when you’re that sleep deprived. I had conversations with people that I simply don’t remember. I put a pencil in the fridge. Allegedly I went to Top Gun. The days and nights collapsed into each other. Perhaps most alarming of all was the online shopping. At some point during the haze, a parcel arrived with my name on it. When I opened it up I was assaulted by a spangle of sequins. Evidently, I had bought a black sequin dress and matching black sequin jacket, like some kind of unrealised (unconscious?) homage to Liza Minnelli. I have no recollection of ordering this, nor do I have any occasion to wear sequins.

I discovered that when you don’t sleep you wind up crying a lot. Loud noises and bright lights are too much. Anxiety sets in. My nerves felt quite literally frayed like exposed wires, my heart would pound so hard that it made my t-shirt tremble. My stomach churned and gurgled.

I tried all the sleeping pills; Zopiclone, Amitriptyline, Nortriptyline, Temazepam, Quetiapine (this one is an anti-psychotic but in low doses is supposed to help you sleep). One of them worked, the rest didn’t. I took magnesium, melatonin, sour cherry juice, sleep tea, CBD, CBD with THC (I spent one night accidentally and terrifically wasted imagining that the bed was swallowing me up every time I closed my eyes). I read everything I could get my hands on about sleep. I tried Epsom salts in the bath. I ate more protein at night, microwaving a cup of milk at 3am, trying to drink it but then retching. I hate milk. I ate dinner early, I avoided exercise at the end of the day, I limited screen time in the evening. I tried tapping, mindfulness, guided meditation and sleep stories. I can recommend ‘The Glassmaker of Murano’ if you like to be bored to death over and over again. It’s astonishing how dull someone can be. One of my darkest moments was the first time I reached the end of the sleep story. You’re not supposed to reach the end of those stories. At one point I googled: “Can you die from lack of sleep?”

It’s difficult to determine the precise reason I stopped sleeping, because it was undoubtedly a combination of factors. Cancer being the main one. Last year, I was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer, just before Auckland’s interminable level four delta lockdown. I was fortunate in that it was discovered early – and lucky it was discovered at all, given it eluded detection in two mammograms and an ultrasound. I had surgery, three months of chemo, 19 rounds of radiation and I’m now on hormone therapy for the next five years.

There were silver linings to having cancer in lockdown. When the chemo wiped out my white blood cells compromising my immunity, I didn’t have to worry about catching bugs off others since we were all isolating. My kids weren’t bringing home colds from school, because they were already at home ALL THE TIME. I wasn’t missing out on any fun events either, because there were none happening. Very few people saw me really sick and bald, which meant I didn’t have to deal with well-meaning, awkward interactions.

And while we’re on this topic, here’s some things not to say to someone with cancer:

“What’s your prognosis?”

“Are you asking if and when I might die?”

“Yes”

“Yeah, maybe just don’t.”

“I knew someone who had cancer.”

“How are they now?”

“Er. Dead.”

These are things that are acceptable to say if you are an eight-year-old:

“Your head looks like it’s covered in nostril hair and it makes me feel weird. Can you grow it back?” 

“Please don’t die.”

Anyhow, it’s true what they say about how when something bad like this happens, you get to see the goodness in people. It’s in the outpouring of generosity and love from family and friends. And it’s in the kindness of strangers; the basket of woollen beanies in the oncology ward knitted by one of the doctors in her spare time. It’s in the hospital orderly’s quiet singing at 3am as he wheeled me in for scans, taking an extra blanket and tucking it all the way up to my chin so I wouldn’t be cold. It’s in the young barber who gently shaved off what little hair I had left and then refused to charge me. 

There’s a lot of humour in cancer if you want to look for it. Take wigs for example.

I ordered a wig at the beginning of my chemo treatment and was told it would take around a week. Three months later it arrived from Germany, a week after my final chemo session. In the meantime, I looked on Trade Me for wigs. There were all manner of wigs on there, but the standout was the one that looked like a black frazzled dead thing. It was an eletrocuted ebony cat. It was a large, dark tumbleweed. It was a dust ball the size of a bicycle helmet. It was five dollars and so spectacularly bad that it brought me great joy.

My husband wanted to help me find a wig so contacted a friend who is a drag queen. Yes, there was a wig I could borrow. He collected it and brought it home but hadn’t thought to ask about the colour, which resembled dirty dish water. Or, more formally (and generously) described as “ash blonde”. I put it on my head and my sister couldn’t talk for laughing. Bent over, wheezing in hysterics. Because the universe is a marvellous place, I happened to be wearing overalls that day. The resemblance to Worzel Gummidge was uncanny.

The thing about receiving bad health news at a reasonably young age – I’m 42 – is that you begin thinking about how you might be remembered when you die. The stories you leave behind, the tales people will tell, the good, the bad, the weird. Will they talk about the pets you once had? Bessie Bunter the pig, Aristotle the axolotl, Cecil the peacock who landed on the roof of your suburban Hamilton home one day and never left. Will they talk about how you could read by age three, but only got 51% in School C maths after six months of tutoring? Will they mention the time you decided in your infinite 11-year-old wisdom that what your intermediate school really needed was to experience your choreographed dance routine to Sir Mix-A-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back’ during the school assembly? Will they talk about how you travelled the world, lived in different places, got married, had a couple of lovely kids and lived a good, ordinary life? Will they talk about the astonishing number of pot plants you have drowned because you loved them too much? Will they talk about that essay you once wrote about when you couldn’t sleep and you had the audacity and bombastic self-importance to ponder your legacy?

On the darker days you make deals with ghosts, pleading to have enough years to see your kids through to adulthood. Anything after that is a bonus. In the darkest moments you beg to get them through childhood. But you have nothing to offer in return. 

Up until I stopped sleeping I was doing really well. “I’m doing really well,” I said to anyone who asked. I had done everything the doctors had recommended and more. I was attending pilates twice a week and avoiding bacon. My hair grew back, albeit as a riot of curls reminiscent of Napoleon Dynamite (chemo curls – it’s a thing). My immunity returned; now I could catch Covid – and I did – and enjoy it just as much as a healthy person. I gained back some of the weight I had lost. I know this because a massage therapist patted me on my bottom as I lay in front of her on the bed and said approvingly: “Fatter, good.” Which I relished, because the last time I saw her she told me I was too skinny while she poked at my hipbones and told me to eat more ice-cream. 

Then the sleeping went haywire and the wheels fell off. I later learned that this is not uncommon around six months after treatment ends. Kill phase. That’s what they call the active part of cancer treatment when your body is being infused with toxic drugs designed to destroy cancer cells – and every other cell in the process. That’s followed by daily radiation sessions that leave your skin blistered and peeling. There’s a calm that descends during this time knowing that you are, in that moment, doing everything possible to ensure that any rogue cells are being destroyed and zapped. It’s a surrender to the process. But once the kill phase is over, the realisation dawns that cancer cells could be once again flourishing, in the way they did the first time around. Recurrence is a constant threat. You no longer trust your body the way you used to. Aches and pains and twinges could mean it’s back.

Last month, in an attempt to win back my sleep and sanity I left my family at home and went to Alaska. On a cruise ship called Quantum of the Seas, a gargantuan floating mall, with 15 floors, a surf simulator, bumper cars, a skydiving tunnel, and 6,000 other morons cruising up the coast of the American continent. It represented everything that’s wrong with capitalism and the west’s culture of excess and consumption. And by god, it was magnificent. I played bingo and trivia, joined a silent disco, attended an Elton John impersonator show and watched the absolute shitshow that is cruise ship karaoke. I drank pina coladas and missed the towel-folding seminar because I was at ‘The World’s Sexiest Man Competition’. The absolute cheek of it. As if the world’s sexiest man would be riding the Quantum of the Seas to Alaska. The gentleman who won enjoyed wearing loafers with no socks and executed an astonishing impression of a dolphin, squeaking and jerking around on the floor. I played ping pong, strode around the running track on the 15th floor in Birkenstocks with socks, photographed the cheese sculptures and considered striking up a conversation with a chubby, old white fella in Osh Kosh denim dungarees and a Make America Great Again cap. I had the goddamn time of my life.

Someone asked me the other day if I see life differently now, have I experienced some kind of profound shift in perspective because of cancer? Do I feel #blessed? The answer is no. There has been no come to Jesus moment. Sometimes life is just a dick.

Things are good now. Actually, they’re great. I’m back home, I’m sleeping again. I returned the sequins and got my money back.

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Anna Rawhiti-Connell
— Senior writer
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