Early versions of Kristin Fredricksson's show included an appearance by her elderly father, Karl, a man who, unwittingly or not, turned his entire life into a slightly chaotic work of art. Life, he believed, was too short to be anything but ecstasy. He dressed up as different characters in women's clothes; he taught ballet to boys under the guise of PE, and read them Pinter at school assembly instead of the Bible; he turned his back garden into a forest of flowers; he had a special pair of shoes that he used to steal newspapers from the local library.
He lived artfully and died just before Fredricksson premiered this artful little show at Edinburgh last summer. It is about his absence and about his traces. It is about the clearing up that goes on after somebody dies. The physical and emotional mess left behind. What you let go off and what you treasure.
It's a lovely piece, as chaotic and infuriating at times as Karl himself and yet full of delicious moments of invention: a tiny puppet version of Karl is glimpsed lying in his green house as if it is a glass coffin; grainy home movies and old songs are cleverly spiced. Sometimes it feels as if you are at a particularly jolly memorial service for someone who is dead but who you are just getting to know for the first time – but most memorial services don't include simulated sex with a tripod.
This is very much a labour of love, and though there are times when as a performance you wish there was more craft, you couldn't ask for a bigger heart from this act of love from a daughter to her father, who was sometimes difficult and unpredictable but who was always full of life.
