# The language of play

There are many words that get thrown around in the creative sector. Words like ‘imagination’, ‘creativity’ or, more recently, ‘play’. 

Play has to be one of the most difficult terms to define. It’s a word given to define taking part. You can play a sport, you can play a character in a film or get ‘played ’in a game of poker. You can be a player and a plaything, and those two words are completely different. You can play a part in something, you can play for keeps, you can play right into the enemy’s hands. The word play is easy pickings for any poet because it is different every time you write it. 

But it’s also different to different people. For some, playing is all about sport or a game of mafia or noughts and crosses, but when it comes to my idea of play I rarely ever mean games with set outcomes. I like play when it only involves the idea of freely messing about. 

This is best understood with an example. On a beach in Sri Lanka, we began with the idea of playing cricket. The problem was we didn’t have a cricket bat, ball or any of the stumps, so we spent a few hours constructing the bat from the bark of a palm tree. After we had put the bat together, we realised it made a good pencil for drawing in the sand, and this led into digging a hole in the sand. The hole was soon so deep that we made it into a road of water leading directly to the sea. Then we named the hole and it became a swimming pool and then a mud bath. Kids are great at playing because they are not led by the idea of a ‘good outcome’. They play freely, in fact having a kid is basically a membership card for a good 8 years of open play. Unfortunately though play is largely lost in secondary school. 

Capitalism is at total odds with the idea of play. Capitalism requires an outcome, a product, and it needs something to be consumed. But play is involved with trying to create without all of that. It’s about making the best out of what you’ve got and just making it work. In that way, play thrives on limitations. 

Let’s consider a further example, an example that perhaps could become an exercise you do by yourself. How much play could you weave into your journey home today? That could mean dancing home or leaping over a puddle, spinning on a bench or sliding the whole way. The major points of play are (for me): risk, no planning, spontaneity and no thinking of the product. 

I’m thinking about play a bit more at the moment because I’ve been an associate artist for Orleans House in Richmond, London, for their latest exhibition. It’s called ‘All The Things’ and it is an intergenerational exhibition by artists Abigail Hunt, Lucy McDonald and Matt Shaw. 

The artists collaborated with people from across the Richmond borough, aged from six months to ninety-four. Together, they explored one shared question: how can play and imagination transform everyday life? The project was born out of the belief that imagination is a powerful resource that everyone holds. It can grow, overlap, contradict, evolve and surprise us, no matter our age or background. 

Throughout the making of the exhibition, groups including Age UK, primary school children and gallery volunteers worked side by side. They talked, played, drew, moved, experimented with materials and reflected on their own experiences. Each group brought its own knowledge, energy and way of seeing the world, which in turn shaped the direction of the work. 

It’s an exciting prospect to be a part of it. Firstly, because it is a co-created space. Secondly, because it is full of the details and intricacies of a group of artists who really know their shit. From the limited materials to the colour of the tape used, I could tell straight away, that this was thought through. A lot of people might think it’s easy to get strangers in a room and create a space for everyone. But trust me, it isn’t. It’s hard to do the workshop bit. It’s harder to put it in the space, and then to put it in the space and have it actually make aesthetic sense… that really is a challenge. 

Incidentally, I did love the piece. It was funny and ridiculous. It felt held but, at the same time, random as hell. I also watched groups interact with it. I observed laughter and joy and connection and empathy. It really made me think of play differently. In many ways it helped me reflect on the kind of joy that play within poetry brings me. 

Let’s take a short detour on this and consider the joy I get from listening to a poet read a really great piece about death. You might see me at the gig smiling from ear to ear and think, ‘damn, that guy is weird.’ But usually I’m smiling because something playful is happening. Something that feels new and spontaneous and dangerous. I’m a true believer in the idea that playing with deep emotions can help us frame those emotions in a completely different way. When we frame them differently it changes how we see ourselves and the world around us. 

The Orleans House team asked me to respond to the exhibition. I thought about how I’d seen a lot of tactile play. Sticking, drawing, collaging. But I hadn’t seen much reflection, perhaps. I hadn’t seen the kind of introspective play that I love. The kind of play that brings the challenging things to the surface. I wanted to bring that to the exhibition. 

So we threw out a few workshops and invited strangers to come together and write. I wanted a space where all the emotions could be playful together. 

One prompt asked everyone to think of someone who had died. I invited them to bring that person back to life and place them somewhere they would never normally be. Maybe Kurt Cobain in a chicken shop. Amy Winehouse in a football stadium. Or someone from your own life. Your uncle at Waterloo Station. Your mum in the Tower of London. 

It was a way of making grief playful. It was about doing the impossible. It was about giving yourself permission to imagine something you could never do in real life. That is the freedom of poetry. And that is how writing can be an incredibly playful experience. 

The conversations moved between sadness and joy. We remembered the people we loved while feeling the space they left behind. That is so beautiful to me. We have to get used to holding sadness and joy in the same hand. 

As you can imagine, that kind of play can feel very personal. For that reason, not everyone wanted to share their writing in this exhibition. And I completely understood that. My favourite play is often the play that nobody sees. It happens in small rooms, on journeys, in quiet moments. It is unplanned, random and just for me. 

Without going into detail, I’d love to share a story which summed it up. A participant brought back an old friend of theirs. She put them in Lidl. She had them in the fresh bread aisle and then she wrote a dialogue between them. At so many points in the poem you could see she was being playful. She was being spontaneous, reacting to the work as it grew. She was taking risks writing about the difficult. She was not bothered about a plan or where it was leading. She was just going with the flow. That is exactly what we need in difficult times. Sometimes in the midst of spelling tests and corrections our schools forget that playing with words is literally the best bit of language. Making up words, breaking words, flipping their meaning and just writing without a goal. 

The experience of being part of this exhibition has been one of the highlights of the year. It has opened my thinking up about play. Not every playful activity has to be full of laughter. Sometimes we can play with incredibly painful feelings and that can be transformative too. Poetry is the art of being playful with words. So I leave you with an invitation, write some words, play around with them and see what happens. 

To explore more of Arji’s work and subscribe for future musings, visit www.arji.org.