‘This trying is pointed at you, because the show felt pointed at me for once’: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Sylvan Oswald’s ‘theatrical essay’ about transness and love.

Are we alone? Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Frantic Assembly’s ‘unwieldy’ new show that constellates characters in grief and loneliness.

Waiting for transcendence: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Antoinette Nwandu’s play racist police violence and structural discrimination in America.

‘Does love with boys always make you banal?’ Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Miriam Battye’s ‘millennial pink’ new play.

‘An avalanche of years’: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Alexandra Wood’s naturalistic depiction of the relationships between sisters over forty years.

‘It’s time to wank jubilantly with a cross’: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Breach’s exuberant retelling of the sexual adventures of a 14th century nun.

Wild waters: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Daniel Bailey’s production of Chinonyerem Odimba’s play exploring friendship, motherhood and recovering from trauma.

Art, out of context: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Jordan Tannahill’s look at queer sexuality and censorship in Renaissance Florence.

‘How far does self-awareness get us?’ Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Samuel Gallet’s metatheatrical skewering of the theatre industry.

‘We’re already in the dirt’: Frey Kwa Hawking writes on Emma Frankland’s performance demolition of Ovalhouse, made with a company of transfeminine artists.