The trajectory of womanhood never bothered me, until I was confronted with the uncomfortable silence of Little Absences. In the play, psychologist-turned-writer Garzia Marin explores the pits of female loneliness—or rather, abandonment. Across two hours, we wake up with an elderly and widowed Chris (Janet Watson Kruse)—hibernating through lonely ramblings, a rediscovery of poetry, and alcoholism. 

A motorbike crash outside Chris’ home introduces Alex (Veronika Devlin), a young poet and copywriter. The two bond over poetry as self-gratifying resistance to pervasive societal structures. Jenny (Piera Dennerstein), Chris’ daughter, reflects the struggle to respect a mother’s independence whilst managing her physical and mental decline. 

The show had commenced from the moment we entered the blackbox theatre. The seats were on an upwards incline, looking down at the performance area. Our physical elevation above the actresses was a fascinating reflection of society’s dismissive pity for women, especially those over a certain age. Societal death was quickly added to my ‘worry’ list. 

Crossing the stage to get to their seats, audience members stepped over copies of The Faraway Tree and Hansel and Gretel splayed across Chris’ musty floors. The set was a fully furnished home, sectioned with theoretical walls. Every surface was covered in pots, antiquities and those horribly itchy woollen blankets with satin borders. 

Eyeing clusters of elderly hoarding, I noticed a lump in the bed: “Is that a doll?” I gasped, “ohmygoodness that’s a woman.” 

Watson Kruse-as-Chris was already curled under the itchy blankets whilst the audience filed in. I was immediately uncomfortable; I was intruding. Not only was I creeping on the typically inaccessible stage, but into the home of a sleeping woman. This successfully simulated dismissing the vulnerabilities of the elderly to remain comfortably ignorant as audience members made more of an effort to ignore the disheveled woman. 

The ‘official’ beginning of the show was awkwardly shaky. Technical difficulties unfortunately weakened the foundation of opening night. With generic bird sounds glitching in the background, the audience politely chatted whilst panicked troubleshooting afforded three more welcome to country announcements and a desktop background that contaminatedthe projection. 

Finally, the show settled into Chris monologuing conversationally with the audience, until she started drinking wine and spilled into reflections on lovers in Spain and wasted scholarships. Direct dialogue trapped the audience in her resentful spiral for caving to societal expectations, suppressing her poetic talents—a tension I constantly battle. 

Chris’ degradation was physicalised by Watson Kruse’s shuffle and hazy facial expressions. She masterfully presented like a guilty dog scouring over a cold can of baked beans for a fill-in meal—the audience couldn’t help but feel sympathy for this shell of a woman. 

Director Elnaz Sheshgelani commanded pathos through emptiness. Eerily, the play relies on silence and stillness, accompanied with a clock soundscape. Cue flashbacks of my Oma’s grandfather clock that petrified me from sleeping. Still, the oversaturation of glum stillness weakened the plot and I found myself losing focus in the drowsy tempo of the ticking. 

The recitation of poetry between Alex, Chris, and Jenny finally livened the actresses with substantial lines; mentally invigorating me with passionate discourse of female empowerment.

Sometimes the set's insinuated structures were shattered as imaginary walls were forgotten and ran through, exemplary in one of the final scenes. Dennerstein walked part of the stage before stepping around to create the impression of walking into a new room. However, Devlin ran through said imaginary wall when her character Alex hears the commotion of Jenny discovering an unconscious Chris. The scene is quickly rectified by Chris’ startling regained consciousness—a well sustained moment of tension and focus by Devlin and Dennerstein which had the whole theatre yelp. 

As death neared, Watson Kruse-as-Chris gaped her mouth a few times before slumping still—a beautifully directed moment by Sheshgelani that visualised the sacred transition to the liberation of death. This final scene would have been more sentimental if watched with your own maternal figure. Alex and Jenny’s subsequent grief was possibly more hyperventilation than the deep, guttural weeping I was wanting. Yet, we transitioned into Jenny’s eulogy where the audience were deserving funeral attendees, having intimately experienced Chris’ final days. 

The show concluded with a reprise of Chris’ poem: “It starts with little absences // small deaths of words once known”, leaving us with the projection of a youthful Janet Watson Kruse on the backdrop. Thus, the sorrow of physical—and societal—death symbolically extends past performance and to the women of our communities.  

Chris stands as an omen of abandonment and inferiority complexes. Little Absences left a sickening pit of dread in my stomach. Is this the trajectory for my also brilliant mother? Even worse, is this my destiny?! I felt the urge to flee to Spain, meet my own “sexy Eduardo”, and hope my life ends naturally before the loneliness and dependency on european liquor poisons my autonomy. 

“But poetry!” 

If I learnt anything from this show: the arts spark liveliness and it is important to engage with your elders through this medium. Don’t watch this show by yourself, take a woman who holds meaning in your life. Confront the uneasiness of ageing—particularly as women—for it is now that we can commune to fill little absences with great presence. 

Photography Credit: Julian Meehan Photography