The evening took place at The Art Workers' Guild, a fitting setting for a room full of people carrying boxes, bags, and carefully wrapped limbs. About forty of us gathered in the main room, about half keen to reveal what they'd brought.
A cabinet show featured four puppets — a charming idea undermined by the space itself. Stand up, and you instantly block someone else's view.
Monty le Chew was present, operating Cupcake the donkey alongside a pianist. The exchange between puppet and piano unfolded as expected.
Upstairs, a talk on abstract puppets led by a practitioner from the Little Devil Theatre opened up more thoughtful territory. There was a seriousness to the discussion: how far form can be distorted before the puppet stops functioning. It was unapologetically nerdy, and genuinely useful. I caught myself listening more closely than I'd planned.
Downstairs, marionettes filled the back room. Delicate carved wooden figures — Little angel, jester, devil, mime — dressed in beautifully made costumes. These were the pieces that asked for time, that rewarded looking.
One maker stood out. A young woman, there on her own, told me her partner was still in Brighton. Her puppets were delicate and confident, with small mechanical surprises built in. They were the strongest work in the room, and she handled them with ease.
The evening felt uneven, but honest. A mixture of performance, theory, ageing objects, and moments of real craft. A small cross-section of the London puppetry scene, with all its quirks and contradictions.
I left with notes in my head — not just about puppets, but about space, attention, and what endures.