The studio is dark. Voices can be heard approaching its main doors.  Soon, a flick of a switch brings light, which reveals a white walled  room full of musical instruments of every shape and size, glistening  under the rays thrust upon them, all fighting for space  with a plethora of recording equipment already set up. The voices heard  earlier, now file in through the doors.  Musicians. The room falls  silent as a piano lid is lifted to reveal black and white keys that  stare back at the man now carefully placing his long fingers upon them.  'Okay chaps,' he says, 'shall we give the first number a run through?'  The arranger had arrived, the process had begun. 


Beautiful Deconstruction sees people come to  terms with the past, make peace with inner demons and learn to say goodbye to loved ones. A story of love, of loss and time.  In short,  what it feels like to grow older.  'I  learned very early on in my life that nothing was for ever; so I should  have been aware of disillusion in early middle age: but, somehow, we  try to  obliterate early warnings and go cantering along hopefully, idiotically...'  

Beautiful Deconstruction charts the disintegration of the idyll between Douglas and Anthony as they leave their retreat in France and return full circle  for an uncertain future in London.


I learnt very young in life that perhaps nothing was forever, sometimes  life meant being disillusioned. But we usually push side these thoughts  and cater on, hopefully.  Although we lived in the hills and could see  the sea, we rarely spent time down on the coast but when we did I can  remember those days so vividly.  It was always summer, bright glorious  sunshine and the beaches seemed wider, sandier and calmer than those in  England.  Standing on the beach, the sea resembled a golden sheet of blue, the sun sparkling off its coat which was  interjected with streaks of chalk white.  I remember bare feet submerging in the cool water, the salty smell of the sand, lazy days of  summer.  For hours we would sit and stare at the ocean, not a word  passing between us.  Water flapping lightly at the shoreline, the odd individual fisherman setting up his rods and wares to catch a piece for  his dinner.  Shells were sought, washed and packed ready to take  home and place around the terrace.  Big shells, tiny pink ones, shards of blue mussel and, the most prized of all, limper shells with conical  tops.  The day on the beach was never complete by an achievement or a  desire.  In a vain attempt to relive a childhood memory we would sometimes build a fort, our own castle.  Surveying the results at the  end of the day proved quite an accomplishment.  Until the tide turned  and washed away what you had created.    
One always felt unprepared for the destruction of the fort.  
We do not learn.  
We always believe it will stand and be okay for us.  
That our fort will survive, the tide will never turn.  
But of course, it does. 


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