A slight pause.

It’s not fair what Ian’s gone an’ done.

May hides a tear.

He’s been good-riddance-to-bad-rubbish for so long.

Silence, except for the ticking of the clock.

May looks up, she has a single tear in her eye.

He was my son.

“A single tear”. It is an image that reoccurs in four of Robert Holman’s plays. For me, it’s emblematic of the emotional depth at the core of all of his work. In such a simple way, it conveys a world of meaning; it speaks to the burning sense of shame most of us feel when we cry in front of other people. In one stage direction Holman displays, without melodrama or words, a painfully anguished mother trying to find the courage to stop herself from tearing up. It is this kind of observation of human nature that is present in so much of his work.

“There is something almost quiveringly exciting about staging a play that is mostly unknown”

Holman was a superb writer – like no other I have encountered before, and until spring this year I had never even heard of him; I dare say that nearly all of you reading this don’t know who he is either. He was born in 1952, and grew up near Guisborough in North Yorkshire. When he was 19, he left Yorkshire and moved to London. He was resident dramatist at the RSC and National Theatre, and has produced work which has shown at the Royal Court, the Donmar and countless other theatres. Fast-forward from spring to today and I am obsessed with his work. I have been devouring it all summer, reading every article on him I could find and listening to his interviews whenever I got a spare moment. I have felt exhilarated and moved by his work in a way I have felt for no other modern playwright.

His plays are special in their focus. He didn’t write to investigate or highlight “issues” but to explore people. His plays are delicate, fragile – so soft but simultaneously penetrating in their insight into human behaviour. His characters are courageous – they surprise us constantly but their actions always feel emotionally truthful. He used to say that he would sit down each day and wait for his characters to surprise him; he believed that people were cleverer than they thought they were, and were capable of things they thought they weren’t. On a podcast with Simon Stephens, he remarked that “I think my plays are about courage in one way or another”. This, for me, is what gives them their quiet power.

“His plays are delicate, fragile – so soft but simultaneously penetrating in their insight into human behaviour”

The eagle-eyed Camdram warriors amongst you will know that my friend Rafa and I pitched one of Holman’s plays for this term, Being Friends. It is so tender and gentle – and we all feel an immense sense of privilege in putting it on. If you haven’t already, you must read Holman’s work. The more I read of him and his catalogue, the more I listen to him talk, the more joy I feel. Simon Stephens was absolutely right when he said: “If you’re new to his plays, I envy you”.

Cambridge theatre is a brilliant creative space and I feel very lucky to be surrounded by so many passionate and talented people. But we seem to stay in comfortable territory – in the plays we pitch, the visions we have for our shows, our ways of working: the same hierarchical structure, the same rigid approach to direction, the fear of risk-taking and experimentation. Holman never entered that mainstream. In Rafts and Dreams, he floods the world, in A Breakfast of Eels, he has a character sing a Gluck aria. This is what makes his work blood-pumpingly exhilarating and truthful – he is original, and constantly takes risks, but it always feels right. His writing is always led by his characters, which imbues it with a deep and gentle understanding of how we as human beings exist.

“The more I read of him, the more I listen to him talk, the more joy I feel”

I adore working on classic texts (my friends know how much I love Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller) but there is something almost quiveringly exciting about staging a play that is mostly unknown, by a writer who is relatively obscure. There is little performance baggage, there are no prior expectations, there are few comparisons to be drawn. It is so fresh and so lively.

Reading Peter Brook’s The Empty Space over the last few weeks has resonated with me deeply. Those who know me will know how critical I am when it comes to the art I watch, and this is motivated by a passionate belief of how truly fantastic the theatre can be. We live in an age of highly commercialised theatre, where shows are staged because of celebrity stars or commercial interests. At Cambridge, despite the bureaucracy behind show funding, we’re lucky to be mostly free of this and have the potential to take enormous risks. Risks mature us as artists, and foster a bold creative environment which recognises we are not polished actors or directors just yet – but still learning.

So I urge you to read those plays that defy convention and only show at studio theatres, pitch the shows no one but you have heard of, take roles outside your comfort zone. We have the most incredible resources at our fingertips and we must take risks, push boundaries and experiment. It is how we learn - and unless we learn, and inevitably fail from time to time, the work we make, amateur or not, will not reach the level we desire it to.