"Who, day and night, must scramble for a living..."
-- "Tradition," the opening number of Fiddler on the Roof
--
I'm sitting in a university theater, watching the kids from my acting class perform "The Chicken Dance" as part of the musical revue that culminates the summer theatre camp. This particular number is a medley of several children's songs (they have now finished "Yankee Doodle" and moved into "Rubber Ducky"). The kids are ages 9-12.
My co-workers, two rows in front of me, are waving their arms and getting frustrated. They point, they hiss names. The artistic director looks at his watch, turns to someone and says that it's awful, it's all awful, and why don't they smile.
A kid onstage hears this and a smile jolts across her face. She forgets her place in the song and is a step late. Her eyes drop and her head makes the involuntary turn to check her place.
The choreographer yells for her to keep her head and eyes up.
Eyes start darting sideways as kids wonder if they were doing something wrong. The number disintegrates into unrehearsed confusion. Voices drop out as chests deflate. Stomps quicken and the accompanist tries to keep up.
"Don't rush," someone yells.
The kids slow down and the accompanist tries to keep down.
The artistic director says it's awful.
Hands flail. Kicks go awry. The number is over...thank God. There are scattered claps as the kids wander offstage, and everyone wishes they were anywhere but here.
The performance is tomorrow.
--
Teachers and artists, I think, must always struggle with the question, "Is this worth it?" The question is nothing new, and most of us find any number of reasons--good ones, too--that the answer is yes. Always and always, yes. The young must always be taught; the people must always be entertained and elightened; and if we don't, who will; and so on.
I know the answer is yes. And I know my reasons for believing that.
But sitting here in this auditorium, watching plastered smiles crack with uncertainty, wincing as tap shoes scrape the black paint from the wooden stage floor, I wonder.
--
A colleague asked me this morning how the summer program is going. He plans to watch the final performance tomorrow, he said, and was interested to know what he was getting into.
So I showed him a video I took two days ago of the tribute to Michael Jackson. The number had been conceived in the wake of the pop star's death. All of Jackson's choreography has been preserved in this difficult number, and the kids perform admirably.
When the video was over, my colleague asked if there were anything but song-and-dance numbers in the revue. I said no, and this began a long conversation about whether theatre could be used to turn kids into robots.
--
Don't get me wrong. The kids have fun and learn a lot. After a summer with us, they are ten times more prepared to work at our (or any other) theatre. Parents love to see their sons and daughters up on stage. Donors are impressed.
But there's a difference between directing and choreographing. The former implies taking the energy and ideas already there and simply pushes it towards a certain end. The latter implies taking what is already there and telling it where to move, and how, and what everything is supposed to look like. The results are as different as kids who only know to color inside the lines, and kids who know how to draw.
I know my complaint is a bit selfish. In four weeks, seven of my acting classes have been taken away so the kids could work on musical numbers--that's seven of twenty. It's hard to plan or make progress when you're not guaranteed time to work. It's a sad fact that in this camp as well as in this industry, song-and-dance gets most of the attention, and acting is an afterthought.
What happens when they are in their next show? They will wait for lines so they can start coloring. Any original instincts or ideas they will curb in favor of being told what to do. They will have no experience with improvising and will count it a waste of time. They will become automatons, following algorithms of steps and beats and notes, and their eyes will remain blank, their smiles plastered, their true creativity untapped.
--
Now the kids are in a line, acting like parts of a machine, building on each other. I've had them do the same thing in my acting classes, actually--it's a great improv exercise to add, one by one, the parts of a machine formed by human bodies. But there's one crucial difference. In my classes, the machine is different each time, the order varied, the participants creating something fresh and fun every time.
What I see now is an image of what they are becoming: cogs formed for a single purpose, one that is not their own. And I wonder.
7.30.2009
7.29.2009
Esteemed
"It's important to bring the facts to life. And that can include gossip. The material, political, and spiritual status of your world should be a part of what is considered when making or writing a piece. This is where we live; the world around us influences our reactions and opinions."
-- Elizabeth Swados, At Play: Teaching Teenagers Theater
--
It's been a while since I was in a newspaper.
The reporter showed up during one of my residency workshops at Grandview High School in Bellevue, KY. We talked for a while and then the article appeared last week. It's always good for a theatre to get any publicity these days, even for its secondary programs. Normally, theatres only get covered if there are shows or auditions of note, but this local paper decided to look for something different. And they found it: an actor at a large nearby theatre teaching kids how to use performance to boost their self-esteem.
As far as this story goes, I only wish two things. One, that I had mentioned all the wonderful workshops TCTC sends out each day--everything from an hour with Tom Sawyer to how we can use acting skills to stop bullies. While I enjoy the "Self-Esteem through Self-Expression" workshop, I must say that in my short experience (two months), kids seem to get most out of our "Art Alive!" workshop. In an hourlong session, kids learn to ask questions of paintings that they may never have had to ask before, which in turn causes them to question how they see the world. (In fact, I gave one day of my Grandview residency to analyzing paintings in just this way. I told them that truly understanding a painting can boost their connection to others and the world.)
And two, that I had chosen a better wardrobe the day the reporter came. Those beige loafers look ridiculous.
-- Elizabeth Swados, At Play: Teaching Teenagers Theater
--
It's been a while since I was in a newspaper.
The reporter showed up during one of my residency workshops at Grandview High School in Bellevue, KY. We talked for a while and then the article appeared last week. It's always good for a theatre to get any publicity these days, even for its secondary programs. Normally, theatres only get covered if there are shows or auditions of note, but this local paper decided to look for something different. And they found it: an actor at a large nearby theatre teaching kids how to use performance to boost their self-esteem.
As far as this story goes, I only wish two things. One, that I had mentioned all the wonderful workshops TCTC sends out each day--everything from an hour with Tom Sawyer to how we can use acting skills to stop bullies. While I enjoy the "Self-Esteem through Self-Expression" workshop, I must say that in my short experience (two months), kids seem to get most out of our "Art Alive!" workshop. In an hourlong session, kids learn to ask questions of paintings that they may never have had to ask before, which in turn causes them to question how they see the world. (In fact, I gave one day of my Grandview residency to analyzing paintings in just this way. I told them that truly understanding a painting can boost their connection to others and the world.)
And two, that I had chosen a better wardrobe the day the reporter came. Those beige loafers look ridiculous.
7.28.2009
Crafty
"You need to straighten your posture and suck in your gut....
If you want to build cities, you've got to build roads."
--Cake, "Comanche," Motorcade of Generosity
--
I'm writing this on Tuesday, a day after one of the best Mondays I've had in a long time. And it didn't begin with a cup of coffee or helping an old woman cross the street.
It began with work, oddly enough. Condensed three days of phone messages and emails into a solid two hours of answering questions and updating spreadsheets. Auditions for the upcoming season are full, so most of my replies are now in the "sorry but we do have a waiting list" variety. I've had to make a Word document just for that message. I copy and I paste and I replace names and dates.
Anyway, it felt good to do some office work after a weekend of auditions. The talent agency, by the way, has signed me on; I make the second interview tomorrow. I have about fifteen pages of paperwork to finish before my afternoon meeting--and I'll scour Facebook for pictures that could pass as glamor shots for their website. Along with membership comes a steep (but one-time) web fee, which I gather is essential as their clientele often hire from what they see online.
--
Next came class. We have focused on monologues and improv, yet I realized we had done precious little stagework. That is, while we had played actor games and tweaked audition material, I had devoted no real time to techniques they can actually use in rehearsals (assuming, of course, that they will get into shows with their glorious, newly-tweaked audition monologues).
So, we had a blocking class. I asked them to sit facing the chalkboard and give me twenty minutes to teach them how to write down their blocking. Nothing too complex--just marking crosses with Xs, the directions on the stage (SR, SL, USR, DSC, etc.), and levels. I quizzed them briefly just to make sure they got the concept. Then we put the papers away and I set blocks, tables and chairs out as if in a hotel lobby, and I went through the set and labeled each place. "This chair represents a fireplace," I said, "and this table is actually a stove." And so forth.
One by one, I had actors come up for an exercise. I would start the actor in a unique spot, doing a unique thing--far upstage and staring out the window, or down a level behind the couch, etc.--and give them 4-5 blocking instructions. Then I would let them walk through their blocking, just to review. They next had to create a character, conflict, and story using only their blocking as a guide. The audience guessed at what was going on, and based on whether anyone got it right, the actor would repeat the scene, trying to make everything clearer. The kids seemed to enjoy it, and I started having fun with it, too. I took an abandoned slipper, called it a dead fish, placed it in the middle of the stage, and made it part of one kid's blocking to pick up the "fish" and put it in his hat. I made one kid jump on the couch before suddenly running to hide behind the table. What they came up with were brilliant flashes of imagination, completely in-the-moment creations based only on movement and stage position.
--
After my regular class, I got to work with the kids who are doing an abbreviated version of a famous musical (because of royalty rights, I cannot say which). These are the older, more advanced kids at the camp, so I felt that I could do more with them in a shorter period of time. They had spent countless hours working on vocals and dancing, but in the process their acting had been overlooked. It happens often--too often, in my opinion--in musical theatre, that the musical part of it gets all the attention, while the theatre aspect gets dropped or lost.
So we played.
I began by telling them they could sit anywhere in the room--on any platform, in any seat, anywhere on the stage--and that they should feel comfortable. I told them what I thought about the show they're doing, what I sought to accomplish, and that I was counting on them to give everything their full effort in the next hour.
First, I had them do a simple centers exercise, borrowed from something we did in a college acting class. They walked around the space casually and I would call out body parts that they would then lead with. I told them to pay attention to what their body naturally did, and how they naturally felt. For example, when I yelled out, "Lead with your head!" they dropped their heads forward, their walks quickened, their brows furrowed and they felt like they were looking for something, etc. We led with heads, chins, foreheads, chest, alternating breasts (that is, with each step, the opposite pectoral leads), stomachs, hips, hips-and-hands, and knees. Then we talked about it.
When I told them to apply a center or lead to their character, it was obvious to me that they had never before considered the physicality of their roles. And it made me a little sad.
Second, I had them assume their characters and decide what body part they would choose to lead. They could walk at their own pace but were not allowed to talk to anyone else. I had them freeze and lock eyes with someone across the room. I told them that they were insanely jealous of that person, and when I unfroze them, they needed to behave accordingly. I repeated the freeze several times, having them choose different characters to relate to each time, with various situations. For example, "You are now terribly in love with that person," or, "You want that person to know you are better than them." They would have to communicate such things without words. We talked about this exercise afterwards as well.
Third--and this was the last thing we had time for--I had them pair up as their characters and tell the story of the musical from that character's perspective. I switched up the pairs three times so that they would have the experience of improvising with different members of the cast, or more precisely, with different characters. I wanted them to think about their relationships, which again was something they didn't seem to have worked on at all.
When it was time to go, I told them that I hoped they could take something away from the class, and that they would continue to use improvisation as a tool for out-of-rehearsal character development. I encouraged them to eat lunch the next day as their characters, even if only for a minute. And so on. I think they actually might take something valuable away from the class, and that, too, made me feel damn good.
--
Other things happened yesterday, too, but I don't really remember them. It was a good day to be an acting teacher.
If you want to build cities, you've got to build roads."
--Cake, "Comanche," Motorcade of Generosity
--
I'm writing this on Tuesday, a day after one of the best Mondays I've had in a long time. And it didn't begin with a cup of coffee or helping an old woman cross the street.
It began with work, oddly enough. Condensed three days of phone messages and emails into a solid two hours of answering questions and updating spreadsheets. Auditions for the upcoming season are full, so most of my replies are now in the "sorry but we do have a waiting list" variety. I've had to make a Word document just for that message. I copy and I paste and I replace names and dates.
Anyway, it felt good to do some office work after a weekend of auditions. The talent agency, by the way, has signed me on; I make the second interview tomorrow. I have about fifteen pages of paperwork to finish before my afternoon meeting--and I'll scour Facebook for pictures that could pass as glamor shots for their website. Along with membership comes a steep (but one-time) web fee, which I gather is essential as their clientele often hire from what they see online.
--
Next came class. We have focused on monologues and improv, yet I realized we had done precious little stagework. That is, while we had played actor games and tweaked audition material, I had devoted no real time to techniques they can actually use in rehearsals (assuming, of course, that they will get into shows with their glorious, newly-tweaked audition monologues).
So, we had a blocking class. I asked them to sit facing the chalkboard and give me twenty minutes to teach them how to write down their blocking. Nothing too complex--just marking crosses with Xs, the directions on the stage (SR, SL, USR, DSC, etc.), and levels. I quizzed them briefly just to make sure they got the concept. Then we put the papers away and I set blocks, tables and chairs out as if in a hotel lobby, and I went through the set and labeled each place. "This chair represents a fireplace," I said, "and this table is actually a stove." And so forth.
One by one, I had actors come up for an exercise. I would start the actor in a unique spot, doing a unique thing--far upstage and staring out the window, or down a level behind the couch, etc.--and give them 4-5 blocking instructions. Then I would let them walk through their blocking, just to review. They next had to create a character, conflict, and story using only their blocking as a guide. The audience guessed at what was going on, and based on whether anyone got it right, the actor would repeat the scene, trying to make everything clearer. The kids seemed to enjoy it, and I started having fun with it, too. I took an abandoned slipper, called it a dead fish, placed it in the middle of the stage, and made it part of one kid's blocking to pick up the "fish" and put it in his hat. I made one kid jump on the couch before suddenly running to hide behind the table. What they came up with were brilliant flashes of imagination, completely in-the-moment creations based only on movement and stage position.
--
After my regular class, I got to work with the kids who are doing an abbreviated version of a famous musical (because of royalty rights, I cannot say which). These are the older, more advanced kids at the camp, so I felt that I could do more with them in a shorter period of time. They had spent countless hours working on vocals and dancing, but in the process their acting had been overlooked. It happens often--too often, in my opinion--in musical theatre, that the musical part of it gets all the attention, while the theatre aspect gets dropped or lost.
So we played.
I began by telling them they could sit anywhere in the room--on any platform, in any seat, anywhere on the stage--and that they should feel comfortable. I told them what I thought about the show they're doing, what I sought to accomplish, and that I was counting on them to give everything their full effort in the next hour.
First, I had them do a simple centers exercise, borrowed from something we did in a college acting class. They walked around the space casually and I would call out body parts that they would then lead with. I told them to pay attention to what their body naturally did, and how they naturally felt. For example, when I yelled out, "Lead with your head!" they dropped their heads forward, their walks quickened, their brows furrowed and they felt like they were looking for something, etc. We led with heads, chins, foreheads, chest, alternating breasts (that is, with each step, the opposite pectoral leads), stomachs, hips, hips-and-hands, and knees. Then we talked about it.
When I told them to apply a center or lead to their character, it was obvious to me that they had never before considered the physicality of their roles. And it made me a little sad.
Second, I had them assume their characters and decide what body part they would choose to lead. They could walk at their own pace but were not allowed to talk to anyone else. I had them freeze and lock eyes with someone across the room. I told them that they were insanely jealous of that person, and when I unfroze them, they needed to behave accordingly. I repeated the freeze several times, having them choose different characters to relate to each time, with various situations. For example, "You are now terribly in love with that person," or, "You want that person to know you are better than them." They would have to communicate such things without words. We talked about this exercise afterwards as well.
Third--and this was the last thing we had time for--I had them pair up as their characters and tell the story of the musical from that character's perspective. I switched up the pairs three times so that they would have the experience of improvising with different members of the cast, or more precisely, with different characters. I wanted them to think about their relationships, which again was something they didn't seem to have worked on at all.
When it was time to go, I told them that I hoped they could take something away from the class, and that they would continue to use improvisation as a tool for out-of-rehearsal character development. I encouraged them to eat lunch the next day as their characters, even if only for a minute. And so on. I think they actually might take something valuable away from the class, and that, too, made me feel damn good.
--
Other things happened yesterday, too, but I don't really remember them. It was a good day to be an acting teacher.
7.25.2009
Agency
"These are the decisions you've been making all along as you measure your company's strength, energy, and expertise. You are putting together an orchestra and each instrument is unique in its character and the mood it evokes.... You look back and see that a 'casting' process has been going on all the time."
-- Elizabeth Swados, At Play: Teaching Teenagers Theater
--
This afternoon, I will audition for a local talent agency for the first time. Their focus is northern Kentucky and Cincinnati, and they're a new group, according to my boss. She actually works side jobs for the agency, and she's the one who gave me the tip about this open call today. I checked the website and they seem legit; not only that, but their auditions page mentioned that they are looking forward to "expanding their ethnic roster." As a half-Filipino with a Scottish last name who almost always gets mistaken for a Mexican, I think I have a decent shot.
At the least, I'd rather audition for a small agency than a big one. I've heard horror stories of actors showing up for an agency-referred gig, only to find fifty other people who got the same tip, who are the same type, and who are from the same agency.
Not that I have any real experience with these agencies, or with this kind of audition. From what I understand, you are filmed and your headshot-resume is archived as soon as they get it, and many people don't get their first job call for several months. Makes sense to me. It takes a while, whatever you do, to get on the first-string team. You can't always walk on with a resume and walk off with a job. Waiting is just part of the game.
In that way, I suppose auditioning for a talent agency is a lot like putting money away in a CD. You do it now and forget about it, and in the future when you're able to cash in, it's a merry surprise. This career is one built on lining up your next gig, planning your next contract, and always, always looking ahead.
--
Many of the young theatre people I've met graduated from their college programs with portfolios or binders filled with monologues and songs that work for them. They whip out polished material at every audition. I passed on the professional prep class at Hillsdale because by the time it came around (the class is offered every four semesters, or once every two years, because of how small the theatre faculty is) I was a senior and had already worked for three pseudo-professional companies, and I felt I had it down. I'm told that in the professional-prep class, you build your binder. Though I still feel prepared for doing this professionally, I do wish that I had spent some real time in college putting together my own binder.
As it is, I seem to find a new monologue for every audition. Last summer, at OTAs in Muskingum, OH, I just used a monologue from a successful Irene Ryans competition scene from ACTF in January; that one landed me my job at The Children's Theatre. Then, at ITAs in Chicago, I used a Duchess of Malfi monologue that is a bit obscure (and a bit out of my age range); that one worked in Illinois--I got three on-site callbacks and about a dozen offers or invites to audition again. But when I used the same one at the LCTs here in Cincinnati, it was a dud--I only got one solid offer and a handful of callback invites.
The other day when I went out for Stagecrafters, they didn't ask for a monologue. And today, I find myself rehearsing a new bit, one that is genuinely good but may go on the record a little sloppy. I just found it two days ago.
What to do?
The conservative part of me says rub the new one and stick to old hat. But there's a risk-taker part of me, too, one who rarely gets much ear time, who says to go for it. I've got a solid block of two hours before I hit up the agency; I can easily get through it thirty times, hell, even fifty; and if all goes sour once the red light blinks on, just improvise, paraphrase, and make good. At the very least, it gives you a story for the bar.
The risk-taker is the dishonest one. The conservative guy may be too honest. So I'll keep the old monologue as a fallback, but I'll rehearse the new one like I'm actually going to use it.
I believe strongly that above all (and this may be a trifle naive), what producers want to see at an audition is that you're a person they'd like to work with, that you have talent, and that you won't embarrass yourself or them in the event that they hire you. So that's it--cooperate, deliver, and don't let your pants down.
And plus, how many other half-Filipinos will show up today?
-- Elizabeth Swados, At Play: Teaching Teenagers Theater
--
This afternoon, I will audition for a local talent agency for the first time. Their focus is northern Kentucky and Cincinnati, and they're a new group, according to my boss. She actually works side jobs for the agency, and she's the one who gave me the tip about this open call today. I checked the website and they seem legit; not only that, but their auditions page mentioned that they are looking forward to "expanding their ethnic roster." As a half-Filipino with a Scottish last name who almost always gets mistaken for a Mexican, I think I have a decent shot.
At the least, I'd rather audition for a small agency than a big one. I've heard horror stories of actors showing up for an agency-referred gig, only to find fifty other people who got the same tip, who are the same type, and who are from the same agency.
Not that I have any real experience with these agencies, or with this kind of audition. From what I understand, you are filmed and your headshot-resume is archived as soon as they get it, and many people don't get their first job call for several months. Makes sense to me. It takes a while, whatever you do, to get on the first-string team. You can't always walk on with a resume and walk off with a job. Waiting is just part of the game.
In that way, I suppose auditioning for a talent agency is a lot like putting money away in a CD. You do it now and forget about it, and in the future when you're able to cash in, it's a merry surprise. This career is one built on lining up your next gig, planning your next contract, and always, always looking ahead.
--
Many of the young theatre people I've met graduated from their college programs with portfolios or binders filled with monologues and songs that work for them. They whip out polished material at every audition. I passed on the professional prep class at Hillsdale because by the time it came around (the class is offered every four semesters, or once every two years, because of how small the theatre faculty is) I was a senior and had already worked for three pseudo-professional companies, and I felt I had it down. I'm told that in the professional-prep class, you build your binder. Though I still feel prepared for doing this professionally, I do wish that I had spent some real time in college putting together my own binder.
As it is, I seem to find a new monologue for every audition. Last summer, at OTAs in Muskingum, OH, I just used a monologue from a successful Irene Ryans competition scene from ACTF in January; that one landed me my job at The Children's Theatre. Then, at ITAs in Chicago, I used a Duchess of Malfi monologue that is a bit obscure (and a bit out of my age range); that one worked in Illinois--I got three on-site callbacks and about a dozen offers or invites to audition again. But when I used the same one at the LCTs here in Cincinnati, it was a dud--I only got one solid offer and a handful of callback invites.
The other day when I went out for Stagecrafters, they didn't ask for a monologue. And today, I find myself rehearsing a new bit, one that is genuinely good but may go on the record a little sloppy. I just found it two days ago.
What to do?
The conservative part of me says rub the new one and stick to old hat. But there's a risk-taker part of me, too, one who rarely gets much ear time, who says to go for it. I've got a solid block of two hours before I hit up the agency; I can easily get through it thirty times, hell, even fifty; and if all goes sour once the red light blinks on, just improvise, paraphrase, and make good. At the very least, it gives you a story for the bar.
The risk-taker is the dishonest one. The conservative guy may be too honest. So I'll keep the old monologue as a fallback, but I'll rehearse the new one like I'm actually going to use it.
I believe strongly that above all (and this may be a trifle naive), what producers want to see at an audition is that you're a person they'd like to work with, that you have talent, and that you won't embarrass yourself or them in the event that they hire you. So that's it--cooperate, deliver, and don't let your pants down.
And plus, how many other half-Filipinos will show up today?
7.23.2009
Auditions
"MICHAEL. So where are you from? How was your summer? Are you taking blah 101 so you can major in blah, or are you really pre-blah? Will you sign up for blah and go out for the blah or audition for blah? Oh if you went to blah well then you must know blah who I met backpacking through blah on blah....
You guys going to the freshman blah blah?"
-- "Light Years," by Billy Aronson, rep. in The Best American Short Plays 1999-2000, ed. Glenn Young
--
We finished auditions today.
No, I don't mean actual auditions. But we treated them as such. I had assigned each kid a different monologue to memorize, rehearse and prepare as if for a real audition (a trip to the library yielded several books with titles like, Awesome Teen Monologues and Plays for Young Actors, prime material for the exercise). I even got Jack, our Artistic Director, to sit in and watch.
And one by one, each little star hopped up on stage and recited their thirty-second, one-minute, or two-minute piece. The times and subject matter varied according to their age and ability. So most of the kids got short commercials for fake products, and some of the older ones got to handle some actual "dramatic" material.
I gave them their monologues a week ago. First, I told them to read the monologue aloud to themselves, then in a mirror, then with a family member or friend. Second, I had them do some very basic script analysis: Underline verbs, circle nouns, and draw boxes around adjectives; then read the monologue again without speaking any of those words, instead acting out those words with gestures, facial expressions, etc.; and finally, reading it aloud once more, but this time saying every word and keeping every gesture. The idea is to unlock their physical expression by muting their vocal expression.
And third, audition.
It took three days to get through seventeen auditions. Jack, another instructor named Roderick, and I gave our feedback after each kid performed. We tried to focus on basics, especially with the ones who were still shifting their weight and pinning their arms behind their backs. (You'd be surprised how many adults I've seen do this in an audition and call it a character choice.) With the more advanced kids, we worked on content and timing. I limited the number of auditions to six per day, leaving us a good half hour to do something fun.
Now, to add solemnity to the occasion, I had them scatter throughout the auditorium at least three seats away from the nearest person (something my high-school director would do when we got unruly during rehearsal). You'd think this would be boring to a large group of 9-12-year-olds, but actually, they enjoyed it. They were able to learn from each other's mistakes, and as the days went by, the monologues got better and better. They had no choice but to pay attention to the performance and criticism. It also helped them build a sort of camaraderie as a class. Because of what we accomplished, I've decided to devote the remaining six days of class to putting together a sort of performance piece.
I'm using Hugh Gallagher's college entry exam. I first read it back in high school when my English teacher gave it to us in an attempt to inspire creativity as we prepared to enter college. My idea is to assign each student one or two lines to memorize, and then to direct/choreograph the group as they dramatically interpret the essay.
My hope is to have them perform this in one week, when their parents come to watch their final performances. Since they have been working on musical theatre numbers (including a tribute to Michael Jackson), I figured a bit of physical theatre would make a nice addition to the evening. I just have to convince the powers that be...and to do that, these kids have to be good.
After the last three days, I'm optimistic.
--
On a personal note, I went to auditions yesterday for Stagecrafters, a community theatre whose season includes Our Town. The auditions for each show were set up in separate rooms, allowing you to choose which show's auditions you would attend. I liked that set-up, because I didn't have to sit and watch people audition for roles I can't play, in shows outside my range (one of the casts is entirely 40 years old and up).
Because I'm already contracted to TCTC, I don't think I'd be able to do Our Town, which rehearses through the fall and hits the stage in November. And I don't even know if I'll be asked. But it was good to get back on the usual side of auditions, just for the experience of cleaning up, reading cold, and being a fresh face.
Even if it turns out to be a waste of time, it won't be. At the very least, I got a chance to read some Thornton Wilder aloud, and that is always good.
--
I read in an acting book that actors should always be auditioning. Any show, any theatre, any role. All experience is good experience.
I also heard from a co-worker recently that whether you think you are or not, you are always auditioning. Anyone you meet is a potential producer, director, or fellow actor. And theatre people gossip (or network, depending on how you think about it) like people in no other profession.
And as with anything, that can be a good or bad thing. In any system, everything hinges on how well you make the system work for you.
You guys going to the freshman blah blah?"
-- "Light Years," by Billy Aronson, rep. in The Best American Short Plays 1999-2000, ed. Glenn Young
--
We finished auditions today.
No, I don't mean actual auditions. But we treated them as such. I had assigned each kid a different monologue to memorize, rehearse and prepare as if for a real audition (a trip to the library yielded several books with titles like, Awesome Teen Monologues and Plays for Young Actors, prime material for the exercise). I even got Jack, our Artistic Director, to sit in and watch.
And one by one, each little star hopped up on stage and recited their thirty-second, one-minute, or two-minute piece. The times and subject matter varied according to their age and ability. So most of the kids got short commercials for fake products, and some of the older ones got to handle some actual "dramatic" material.
I gave them their monologues a week ago. First, I told them to read the monologue aloud to themselves, then in a mirror, then with a family member or friend. Second, I had them do some very basic script analysis: Underline verbs, circle nouns, and draw boxes around adjectives; then read the monologue again without speaking any of those words, instead acting out those words with gestures, facial expressions, etc.; and finally, reading it aloud once more, but this time saying every word and keeping every gesture. The idea is to unlock their physical expression by muting their vocal expression.
And third, audition.
It took three days to get through seventeen auditions. Jack, another instructor named Roderick, and I gave our feedback after each kid performed. We tried to focus on basics, especially with the ones who were still shifting their weight and pinning their arms behind their backs. (You'd be surprised how many adults I've seen do this in an audition and call it a character choice.) With the more advanced kids, we worked on content and timing. I limited the number of auditions to six per day, leaving us a good half hour to do something fun.
Now, to add solemnity to the occasion, I had them scatter throughout the auditorium at least three seats away from the nearest person (something my high-school director would do when we got unruly during rehearsal). You'd think this would be boring to a large group of 9-12-year-olds, but actually, they enjoyed it. They were able to learn from each other's mistakes, and as the days went by, the monologues got better and better. They had no choice but to pay attention to the performance and criticism. It also helped them build a sort of camaraderie as a class. Because of what we accomplished, I've decided to devote the remaining six days of class to putting together a sort of performance piece.
I'm using Hugh Gallagher's college entry exam. I first read it back in high school when my English teacher gave it to us in an attempt to inspire creativity as we prepared to enter college. My idea is to assign each student one or two lines to memorize, and then to direct/choreograph the group as they dramatically interpret the essay.
My hope is to have them perform this in one week, when their parents come to watch their final performances. Since they have been working on musical theatre numbers (including a tribute to Michael Jackson), I figured a bit of physical theatre would make a nice addition to the evening. I just have to convince the powers that be...and to do that, these kids have to be good.
After the last three days, I'm optimistic.
--
On a personal note, I went to auditions yesterday for Stagecrafters, a community theatre whose season includes Our Town. The auditions for each show were set up in separate rooms, allowing you to choose which show's auditions you would attend. I liked that set-up, because I didn't have to sit and watch people audition for roles I can't play, in shows outside my range (one of the casts is entirely 40 years old and up).
Because I'm already contracted to TCTC, I don't think I'd be able to do Our Town, which rehearses through the fall and hits the stage in November. And I don't even know if I'll be asked. But it was good to get back on the usual side of auditions, just for the experience of cleaning up, reading cold, and being a fresh face.
Even if it turns out to be a waste of time, it won't be. At the very least, I got a chance to read some Thornton Wilder aloud, and that is always good.
--
I read in an acting book that actors should always be auditioning. Any show, any theatre, any role. All experience is good experience.
I also heard from a co-worker recently that whether you think you are or not, you are always auditioning. Anyone you meet is a potential producer, director, or fellow actor. And theatre people gossip (or network, depending on how you think about it) like people in no other profession.
And as with anything, that can be a good or bad thing. In any system, everything hinges on how well you make the system work for you.
7.21.2009
Lies
"A director doesn't 'make' students perform. She creates a whole atmosphere that is conducive to humor, exploration, and taking risks. She is a benign gang leader. In fact, she has to be the most intense performer of all--and then be willing to disappear."
-- Elizabeth Swados, in At Play: Teaching Teenagers Theater
--
Performing, then disappearing--this is the way to lead an acting class. I read this and other punchy passages this morning, and tried to embody Swados's ideas. We played a game suggested by an exercise in her book, a game which I decided to call "True Lies."
I had noticed that during improv games the kids would start out strong and fizzle as they went along, usually as they started to doubt themselves. It's an odd trend. You'd think they would grow more confident, their movements more strident and their voices greater, but instead, the opposite was happening. I needed a way to get them consciously to gain confidence, to own their space, to self-create authority.
So with an idea from a book and a few whims, here's what I came up with. A pair of kids gets in front of the group. Their dialogue is comprised of one-sentence statements, all of which have to be false. They have to state things, though, as if they are gospel truth. They have to try to top the other person's last lie--the more extravagant, the more specific, the more bizarre, the better. Example:
ONE. I am Barack Obama's best friend.
TWO. I killed a chicken with my mind.
ONE. I cooked a chicken with my mind.
TWO. I ate that chicken and it sucked so much I threw up in your face.
ONE. Barack Obama ate that chicken and liked it so much he replaced the bald eagle with my chicken as the national motto.
TWO. I am Barack Obama.
ONE. I am a chicken.
And so on. Soon the contest would turn into almost a comedic routine, with a straight man setting up a joke and the other giving a funny punch line. So to keep them on the objective--topping each other's lie--I allowed the audience to respond in the same manner as a talk-show audience. They were allowed to cheer, boo, hiss, etc., depending on how well the person had convinced you that their lie was true.
It worked very well. To Swados' description of the improv director, I would add:
The director has to regard all ideas as potentially useful or useless. The worth is in the moment. Energetic games are great for pent-up days, but they will flop with an exhausted group. The director must see the use and use what he sees. Used ideas, now stale, must be left for the moment and replaced with new, fresh ideas; and once what is new and fresh becomes stale, forgotten ideas must be rejuvenated. This is the essence of the theatre: The give and take of ideas over a period of time, the stories that remind us of stories we all know but forgot. We are always visitors.
-- Elizabeth Swados, in At Play: Teaching Teenagers Theater
--
Performing, then disappearing--this is the way to lead an acting class. I read this and other punchy passages this morning, and tried to embody Swados's ideas. We played a game suggested by an exercise in her book, a game which I decided to call "True Lies."
I had noticed that during improv games the kids would start out strong and fizzle as they went along, usually as they started to doubt themselves. It's an odd trend. You'd think they would grow more confident, their movements more strident and their voices greater, but instead, the opposite was happening. I needed a way to get them consciously to gain confidence, to own their space, to self-create authority.
So with an idea from a book and a few whims, here's what I came up with. A pair of kids gets in front of the group. Their dialogue is comprised of one-sentence statements, all of which have to be false. They have to state things, though, as if they are gospel truth. They have to try to top the other person's last lie--the more extravagant, the more specific, the more bizarre, the better. Example:
ONE. I am Barack Obama's best friend.
TWO. I killed a chicken with my mind.
ONE. I cooked a chicken with my mind.
TWO. I ate that chicken and it sucked so much I threw up in your face.
ONE. Barack Obama ate that chicken and liked it so much he replaced the bald eagle with my chicken as the national motto.
TWO. I am Barack Obama.
ONE. I am a chicken.
And so on. Soon the contest would turn into almost a comedic routine, with a straight man setting up a joke and the other giving a funny punch line. So to keep them on the objective--topping each other's lie--I allowed the audience to respond in the same manner as a talk-show audience. They were allowed to cheer, boo, hiss, etc., depending on how well the person had convinced you that their lie was true.
It worked very well. To Swados' description of the improv director, I would add:
The director has to regard all ideas as potentially useful or useless. The worth is in the moment. Energetic games are great for pent-up days, but they will flop with an exhausted group. The director must see the use and use what he sees. Used ideas, now stale, must be left for the moment and replaced with new, fresh ideas; and once what is new and fresh becomes stale, forgotten ideas must be rejuvenated. This is the essence of the theatre: The give and take of ideas over a period of time, the stories that remind us of stories we all know but forgot. We are always visitors.
7.16.2009
Trolls
"Keep your goals away from the trolls."
-- my latest fortune cookie fortune
--
A few days ago, I went to a Chinese restaurant to kill some time before my acting class (which gets better every day, by the way). In addition to receiving a fine plate of pineapple chicken, I got a smarmy fortune cookie. It's the best bit of advice I've ever gotten from a yellow piece of warped sugar, I'm convinced of it.
(It's not really a fortune, granted. But it's killer smarts.)
So I'm keeping my goals away from the trolls. Saving money from the spending of it. Fighting bad cases of morning apathy.
--
For the moment, I spy certain goals down the line: auditions, Stratford, Guster, Cincinnati Fringe.
Trolls: spreadsheets, whiskey-and-Cokes, playwrighter's block.
--
July is an up-month for work and travel, or so it seems. A down-month for reflection: No one's blogging. (At least, no one's blogging who doesn't have to blog--some corporate blogs on my list have served up daily vanilla posts for the last week or so.) It's the doldrums of summer, I guess.
Maybe this makes us wise. They say that a wise man only speaks when there is something to say, and a fool flaps his yap when he just has to say something.
Silence is golden; we grow rich by attrition. If you want something to gather interest, leave it alone. It will yield.
-- my latest fortune cookie fortune
--
A few days ago, I went to a Chinese restaurant to kill some time before my acting class (which gets better every day, by the way). In addition to receiving a fine plate of pineapple chicken, I got a smarmy fortune cookie. It's the best bit of advice I've ever gotten from a yellow piece of warped sugar, I'm convinced of it.
(It's not really a fortune, granted. But it's killer smarts.)
So I'm keeping my goals away from the trolls. Saving money from the spending of it. Fighting bad cases of morning apathy.
--
For the moment, I spy certain goals down the line: auditions, Stratford, Guster, Cincinnati Fringe.
Trolls: spreadsheets, whiskey-and-Cokes, playwrighter's block.
--
July is an up-month for work and travel, or so it seems. A down-month for reflection: No one's blogging. (At least, no one's blogging who doesn't have to blog--some corporate blogs on my list have served up daily vanilla posts for the last week or so.) It's the doldrums of summer, I guess.
Maybe this makes us wise. They say that a wise man only speaks when there is something to say, and a fool flaps his yap when he just has to say something.
Silence is golden; we grow rich by attrition. If you want something to gather interest, leave it alone. It will yield.
7.11.2009
Comets
"Spell with patience
And care."
-- Mitch Mahoney in The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee
--
The best view of the city is not of the city but its reflection. At night, I drive across this bridge, a blue suspension bridge, and the reflections catch my eye. The river looks black and the night is dark, and the lights of the docked ships and shoreline streetlights hit each wave and ripple in advancing angles, the brightness fading as if into the depths. These lights are like comets, the reflections the tails. The comets sprout towards the stars. These tails, side by side, create a random spectrum of amber and red and blue, indicating the element of man.
I can never get a good look at it because I only see it while driving. The bridge is a beautiful spot for drive-by viewings, but it is forbidden to night walkers. Shadows on the sidewalk hide selfish, desperate people.
One exception to that rule. It being July, the horses and their buggies are out of stable, traversing the river every night. Cars slow behind carriages. Couples make lifelong discoveries behind a semi-blinded animal and a man in a top hat.
Safe in the vehicle, idling along at five miles per hour, I can turn glances to gazes, and the city is beautiful in the river at night.
--
Saw another kids' show tonight, a summer camp project. They took an obscure 1970's musical about drugged-up teens and performed it for their parents. It is precisely the kind of show that is more unsettling than it needs to be (for example, two girls sing a duet about how a two-year-old's death by rat attacks will benefit the family because the landlords finally have to renovate the building; maybe, they sing, they will get a toilet bowl). Shock for shock's sake is a quick bore, and it perverts serious subjects with patronizing cliches. It oversimplifies grief.
In general, I'm starting to loathe urban-themed shows. Maybe the depressing problems of city life are exotic to bumpkins, but not to me. How many times must I hear about coke going through someone's veins, or being called a nigger, or how cutting yourself makes you feel cool?
Not to mention, this all loses its potential punch when these monologues come from the mouths of babes--babes who, for all their imaginings and late-night movie watching, have not the slightest idea what being high or drunk or addicted or hopeless is like. Angst does not equal crisis. It's all a mystery to them, and it remains a mystery. As it should.
There is no mystery, however, in a person who simply wishes to be mysterious.
--
I don't think I'd ever want to be a star, a tiny blot that twinkles on and off with a million brothers and sisters. Not even a shooting star, which blazes in a streak and in an instant is gone. And certainly not a meteor, which is beautiful until it crashes and burns and kills the dinosaurs.
I think I'd rather be a comet, the magical thing that comes almost once a century, the occasion that demands the waiting, a symbol in the sky that lingers for its time and fades with dignity.
And care."
-- Mitch Mahoney in The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee
--
The best view of the city is not of the city but its reflection. At night, I drive across this bridge, a blue suspension bridge, and the reflections catch my eye. The river looks black and the night is dark, and the lights of the docked ships and shoreline streetlights hit each wave and ripple in advancing angles, the brightness fading as if into the depths. These lights are like comets, the reflections the tails. The comets sprout towards the stars. These tails, side by side, create a random spectrum of amber and red and blue, indicating the element of man.
I can never get a good look at it because I only see it while driving. The bridge is a beautiful spot for drive-by viewings, but it is forbidden to night walkers. Shadows on the sidewalk hide selfish, desperate people.
One exception to that rule. It being July, the horses and their buggies are out of stable, traversing the river every night. Cars slow behind carriages. Couples make lifelong discoveries behind a semi-blinded animal and a man in a top hat.
Safe in the vehicle, idling along at five miles per hour, I can turn glances to gazes, and the city is beautiful in the river at night.
--
Saw another kids' show tonight, a summer camp project. They took an obscure 1970's musical about drugged-up teens and performed it for their parents. It is precisely the kind of show that is more unsettling than it needs to be (for example, two girls sing a duet about how a two-year-old's death by rat attacks will benefit the family because the landlords finally have to renovate the building; maybe, they sing, they will get a toilet bowl). Shock for shock's sake is a quick bore, and it perverts serious subjects with patronizing cliches. It oversimplifies grief.
In general, I'm starting to loathe urban-themed shows. Maybe the depressing problems of city life are exotic to bumpkins, but not to me. How many times must I hear about coke going through someone's veins, or being called a nigger, or how cutting yourself makes you feel cool?
Not to mention, this all loses its potential punch when these monologues come from the mouths of babes--babes who, for all their imaginings and late-night movie watching, have not the slightest idea what being high or drunk or addicted or hopeless is like. Angst does not equal crisis. It's all a mystery to them, and it remains a mystery. As it should.
There is no mystery, however, in a person who simply wishes to be mysterious.
--
I don't think I'd ever want to be a star, a tiny blot that twinkles on and off with a million brothers and sisters. Not even a shooting star, which blazes in a streak and in an instant is gone. And certainly not a meteor, which is beautiful until it crashes and burns and kills the dinosaurs.
I think I'd rather be a comet, the magical thing that comes almost once a century, the occasion that demands the waiting, a symbol in the sky that lingers for its time and fades with dignity.
7.10.2009
Duct
"This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got."
-- second stanza of Henry Reed's "Naming of Parts"
--
It is called the air intake tube, or the intake duct, or boot; those are the names of the part. If you're looking into the engine, it is near you on the right side, beside the radiator, beside the compressor, down from the battery. To reach its clamps, you have to unplug a cord that clips to a stationary port, and stick the screwdriver over and under tubes and hot parts, like threading a needle except with the thread and needle reversed. It pops out and shimmies up and into your hands, steaming, the split in its rubber ribs like a dying fish's gaping mouth, like a useless puppet. It is hot--I hope you're wearing gloves.
My parents bought me the roadside safety/repair kit as a birthday gift. It's almost exactly two months since my birthday, and I've already used half of its contents: Band-Aids for self-repair, gloves for protection from a hot engine, and the entire roll of duct tape.
Because that's what the first mechanic did. He had me wait in the driver's seat and start and turn off the engine, and he removed the air intake tube and put some duct tape over the hole. And it held, through a month of city driving and a set of long drives up to Wisconsin.
But after a furious day of driving late, the high speeds caused the engine to grow so hot as to melt the duct tape--yes, melt it--until the old split split again, and so split a new one at the other end of the eight-inch tube. Yesterday, when I started the car, the old bitch screamed and revved again, upset at being awoken, and I knew duct tape could no longer suffice.
Still, I tried. I used a whole roll and still it roared.
See, the air coming into the engine has to be restricted with this kind of car. The engine's computer only factors for so much air, and if more is coming in--say, through a hole in the intake tube--the engine compensates by revving to use up the oxygen, and the computer scrambles, and you get what I got: 4500 RPMs in park, and shudders and stammers at 60 MPH.
--
So I bought the part, and learned its name in the process.
Brought the new tube home in plastic wrapping, like a gift. Peeled it out with a screwdriver, and needled that tool to the old tube, feeble in its gray duct repairs at both ends like an old man using two canes. I unscrewed the clamps. With gritty gloves on, I extracted the tube and tossed it. The new one popped on like it lived there.
I screwed it down, cranked the key, and it purred. A big quiet cat, tamed by amateur hands. Gloved hands.
Then I drove the quiet car to a Home Depot, where I bought another roll of duct tape. You never know when you'll need another temporary fix.
--
Like the narrator in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I like this kind of fixing. The easy solution, I know, is to have someone else take care of it--it's tempting, too, when plans start to hound. I don't mean to sound pretentious. I am not a mechanic, but I like to fix things rather than get them fixed. I'd sooner install my own shower head than call the plumber, and I'd sooner brush my own damn teeth than go to the dentist.
Doing it yourself also saves money. Convenience costs.
Today I had the naming of parts.
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got."
-- second stanza of Henry Reed's "Naming of Parts"
--
It is called the air intake tube, or the intake duct, or boot; those are the names of the part. If you're looking into the engine, it is near you on the right side, beside the radiator, beside the compressor, down from the battery. To reach its clamps, you have to unplug a cord that clips to a stationary port, and stick the screwdriver over and under tubes and hot parts, like threading a needle except with the thread and needle reversed. It pops out and shimmies up and into your hands, steaming, the split in its rubber ribs like a dying fish's gaping mouth, like a useless puppet. It is hot--I hope you're wearing gloves.
My parents bought me the roadside safety/repair kit as a birthday gift. It's almost exactly two months since my birthday, and I've already used half of its contents: Band-Aids for self-repair, gloves for protection from a hot engine, and the entire roll of duct tape.
Because that's what the first mechanic did. He had me wait in the driver's seat and start and turn off the engine, and he removed the air intake tube and put some duct tape over the hole. And it held, through a month of city driving and a set of long drives up to Wisconsin.
But after a furious day of driving late, the high speeds caused the engine to grow so hot as to melt the duct tape--yes, melt it--until the old split split again, and so split a new one at the other end of the eight-inch tube. Yesterday, when I started the car, the old bitch screamed and revved again, upset at being awoken, and I knew duct tape could no longer suffice.
Still, I tried. I used a whole roll and still it roared.
See, the air coming into the engine has to be restricted with this kind of car. The engine's computer only factors for so much air, and if more is coming in--say, through a hole in the intake tube--the engine compensates by revving to use up the oxygen, and the computer scrambles, and you get what I got: 4500 RPMs in park, and shudders and stammers at 60 MPH.
--
So I bought the part, and learned its name in the process.
Brought the new tube home in plastic wrapping, like a gift. Peeled it out with a screwdriver, and needled that tool to the old tube, feeble in its gray duct repairs at both ends like an old man using two canes. I unscrewed the clamps. With gritty gloves on, I extracted the tube and tossed it. The new one popped on like it lived there.
I screwed it down, cranked the key, and it purred. A big quiet cat, tamed by amateur hands. Gloved hands.
Then I drove the quiet car to a Home Depot, where I bought another roll of duct tape. You never know when you'll need another temporary fix.
--
Like the narrator in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I like this kind of fixing. The easy solution, I know, is to have someone else take care of it--it's tempting, too, when plans start to hound. I don't mean to sound pretentious. I am not a mechanic, but I like to fix things rather than get them fixed. I'd sooner install my own shower head than call the plumber, and I'd sooner brush my own damn teeth than go to the dentist.
Doing it yourself also saves money. Convenience costs.
Today I had the naming of parts.
7.09.2009
Grist
"In approaching a part, an actor should really have begun his work years ahead of time. That is, he should start as soon as possible to train his voice and his body so that his instrument of expression will be as responsive as he can make it...
Everything will be grist for his mill."
-- Carl Allensworth, in his The Complete Play Production Handbook
--
Grist comes from Old English, and it sounds like it does. Ironically, this word which describes the action of grinding or the material which is ground, has survived in its original form, with no warping or respelling, and no real descendants. We have relatives, but no grandchildren, of this great word. And even the quality of its expression calls forth sounds of minuscule destruction, grains toppled, tiny fragments falling apart in grit.
Humans develop languages, and they survive longer than we do, sometimes better.
--
Had a lazy morning which caused a crazy day. A deflating afternoon, and now, a remedial evening. I am the grist of my own grinding.
Everything will be grist for his mill."
-- Carl Allensworth, in his The Complete Play Production Handbook
--
Grist comes from Old English, and it sounds like it does. Ironically, this word which describes the action of grinding or the material which is ground, has survived in its original form, with no warping or respelling, and no real descendants. We have relatives, but no grandchildren, of this great word. And even the quality of its expression calls forth sounds of minuscule destruction, grains toppled, tiny fragments falling apart in grit.
Humans develop languages, and they survive longer than we do, sometimes better.
--
Had a lazy morning which caused a crazy day. A deflating afternoon, and now, a remedial evening. I am the grist of my own grinding.
7.08.2009
Casual
"I flew
With them in a plied exuberance of time,
My own malignance in their racy, beautiful gestures
Quick and lean: and in their riot too
I saw the stance of the artist's make,
The fixed form in the massive fluxion."
-- from Richard Eberhart's "The Cancer Cells"
--
Watched Ainadamar last night (for free). It's a new opera, only six years old, and it shows the passage of ideas and the passage of time. From the Spanish Civil War until now. It involves Lorca and the symbol of a statue, an actress swooning at memory in the wings of her final performance, and a pseudo-christic execution on a hill. Very moving. Innovative use of laptop sound effects synced with Flamenco patterns. An opera that was as much about theatre as it was about its story, which I was glad to see.
And it was only an hour and fifteen minutes long: shorter than most Disney films.
--
Learning their names is easy with pictures; hence, they smile for the camera before their monologues. Got through four today. Respectable progress, especially for a group of people whose time in theatre has mostly been spent watching.
I was so proud: Their criticisms were all constructive, their feedback pertinent. They do not know each other, but they have already grown enough with each other to give and take ideas with pleasure. They tied themselves in a knot today and had to unravel the blob of bodies. A girl on the tangle's edge kept trying to direct. It took a solid ten minutes of squealing at wrenching of twisting wrists, but they emerged, relieved, hand in hand, forming a giant circle, some facing in, some facing out, all smiling. I turned it into a living example of why performers need directors: because everyone is pulling in different directions, it helps to have an outside perspective.
They gazed into space and nodded. I'm going to assume it's because their paradigms were shifting.
--
I don't know what I would do in these sessions without college improv. What games we deemed inane and quickly abandoned they seize, and they enjoy the heck out of it.
There is an art to teaching, and a method. I feel the art comes naturally, and I know I do not know the method. But I learn as I go, as I hope they do, gleaning what lessons I can. Each session is a stairway and a single step at the same time.
--
Before I left, I was asked to go to the stage and watch another group while they waited for their instructor to return.
I went. They were settling into seats, gabbing about the cast list, giggling at unvoiced jokes. Some of them who did not know me came and asked who I was and what I was doing there, and when I told them, they lit up and asked, "Can you teach us a drama game?"
"Sure. Get up on stage and sit in a circle."
We played for fifteen minutes and when the teacher came back, I left with my head bowed, grateful. It's silly, but I feel like a professor half of the time.
With them in a plied exuberance of time,
My own malignance in their racy, beautiful gestures
Quick and lean: and in their riot too
I saw the stance of the artist's make,
The fixed form in the massive fluxion."
-- from Richard Eberhart's "The Cancer Cells"
--
Watched Ainadamar last night (for free). It's a new opera, only six years old, and it shows the passage of ideas and the passage of time. From the Spanish Civil War until now. It involves Lorca and the symbol of a statue, an actress swooning at memory in the wings of her final performance, and a pseudo-christic execution on a hill. Very moving. Innovative use of laptop sound effects synced with Flamenco patterns. An opera that was as much about theatre as it was about its story, which I was glad to see.
And it was only an hour and fifteen minutes long: shorter than most Disney films.
--
Learning their names is easy with pictures; hence, they smile for the camera before their monologues. Got through four today. Respectable progress, especially for a group of people whose time in theatre has mostly been spent watching.
I was so proud: Their criticisms were all constructive, their feedback pertinent. They do not know each other, but they have already grown enough with each other to give and take ideas with pleasure. They tied themselves in a knot today and had to unravel the blob of bodies. A girl on the tangle's edge kept trying to direct. It took a solid ten minutes of squealing at wrenching of twisting wrists, but they emerged, relieved, hand in hand, forming a giant circle, some facing in, some facing out, all smiling. I turned it into a living example of why performers need directors: because everyone is pulling in different directions, it helps to have an outside perspective.
They gazed into space and nodded. I'm going to assume it's because their paradigms were shifting.
--
I don't know what I would do in these sessions without college improv. What games we deemed inane and quickly abandoned they seize, and they enjoy the heck out of it.
There is an art to teaching, and a method. I feel the art comes naturally, and I know I do not know the method. But I learn as I go, as I hope they do, gleaning what lessons I can. Each session is a stairway and a single step at the same time.
--
Before I left, I was asked to go to the stage and watch another group while they waited for their instructor to return.
I went. They were settling into seats, gabbing about the cast list, giggling at unvoiced jokes. Some of them who did not know me came and asked who I was and what I was doing there, and when I told them, they lit up and asked, "Can you teach us a drama game?"
"Sure. Get up on stage and sit in a circle."
We played for fifteen minutes and when the teacher came back, I left with my head bowed, grateful. It's silly, but I feel like a professor half of the time.
7.07.2009
Drama
"so much there to see
inside of a week they came looking for something
new try to press it flat inside of a few days..."
-- "The Earth Pressed Flat," by 10,000 Maniacs
--
Someone should have told them that sitting on laps at the first meeting does not make for a great first impression, nor does wearing lime green. Someone should have told them lots of things.
Alas. The one thing they've been told over and over for almost two decades of life is, "You're gonna be a star."
--
The summer camp began yesterday and continues today through several weeks. Taught my first "drama class," cropped by morning auditions running late. Most of the instructors are fierce, so I gave my class some fun, drilled zaniness. I just can't become Campbell, the cool teacher in high school, who grasped lightly and let the ropes slip easy, who patronized curriculum and decorum and other -um's, who swaggered down the hall with a train of smart rebel types like a moving barricade, whose vain grip tightened in spring when finals and reviews drew near like a drop-off, who ultimately lost control of the large group who loved him.
Time to twist the screws today, then.
--
I was the only instructor in jeans, a dress shirt and a suit jacket. I felt like a tool.
--
Recalled high school, too. Those who lived through it always talk about how awful it was, but the talk is touched with nostalgia. These kids don't know, they just don't know, and it's our job to remember what it was like not to know and think you did, and break that wall from the other side. We are locks trying to be doors.
inside of a week they came looking for something
new try to press it flat inside of a few days..."
-- "The Earth Pressed Flat," by 10,000 Maniacs
--
Someone should have told them that sitting on laps at the first meeting does not make for a great first impression, nor does wearing lime green. Someone should have told them lots of things.
Alas. The one thing they've been told over and over for almost two decades of life is, "You're gonna be a star."
--
The summer camp began yesterday and continues today through several weeks. Taught my first "drama class," cropped by morning auditions running late. Most of the instructors are fierce, so I gave my class some fun, drilled zaniness. I just can't become Campbell, the cool teacher in high school, who grasped lightly and let the ropes slip easy, who patronized curriculum and decorum and other -um's, who swaggered down the hall with a train of smart rebel types like a moving barricade, whose vain grip tightened in spring when finals and reviews drew near like a drop-off, who ultimately lost control of the large group who loved him.
Time to twist the screws today, then.
--
I was the only instructor in jeans, a dress shirt and a suit jacket. I felt like a tool.
--
Recalled high school, too. Those who lived through it always talk about how awful it was, but the talk is touched with nostalgia. These kids don't know, they just don't know, and it's our job to remember what it was like not to know and think you did, and break that wall from the other side. We are locks trying to be doors.
7.05.2009
Dependant
"This is why man will prevail, and why your kind will never dominate the earth. This is what you can do if you've got thumbs."
-- Turner & Hooch
--
My first July 4th with my family in years. I've always been working summerstock. We're in Wisconsin Dells, and for the Day we went to Mt. Olympus, a Hellenistic theme park. Poseidon's Rage, an unreal wave pool, was the highlight for me. Huge surges and leaps into white overtows, limbs slamming unheard beneath a pulling muscle of water.
Watched a TV special last night after the fireworks: Thrill Rides of America. Parks featured were Cedar Point, Hershey Park, Mt. Olympus and King's Island.
An odd quadrilateral on the map, and a casual coincidence. Cedar Point is in Sandusky, near where I worked those summers of summerstock. Hershey Park has been a family favorite for years. Mt. Olympus is where we are now.
And King's Island is in Cincinnati.
--
Dependent and dependant are homonyms, and I used to think they were interchangeable. They're not. The ending -ent is adjectival, the -ant nounal. So it would be right to say that most dependants are dependant upon others.
Yesterday was my first Independence Day as a non-dependant. When I turned 23, my military ID went bad, expired. And I'm on my own as far as insurance goes. That was the date of my independance.
This is on my mind because of the holiday. I wonder when was the moment or period in my life when I became independent. And then I wonder if you can really count yourself independent if you still consider your hometown home, if you're tethered to the same folks for vacations, if you still split the hotel room with siblings and parents.
--
Woke this morning to Turner & Hooch, some childhood glee. I couldn't see the screen from my spot on the blue inflatable mattress near the window, but how can you mistake a young Tom Hanks screaming about barking and dog food and how "this is not your room"? You can't.
For the scene where he and the woman (was it Mare Winningham?) start to make out in the kitchen while they're wearing bathrobes and underwear, my mom changed the channel. She skipped over CNN and stopped at the Cartoon Network. "There you go," she said.
Sharon looked at me. I looked at Sharon. We both covered our eyes in a mock gesture of seeing no evil.
--
I guess the answer to the riddle is that you can be independent and still get a dependant's treatment. It's a matter of realizing you are a subject and an object always, that all your furious pushing is someone else's pull.
If the knots are tight enough, you can never escape the ties that bind.
In fact, there can be joy in bondage. Dependants don't pay admission to theme parks, and they don't pick up the dinner bill.
Happy Independance Day.
-- Turner & Hooch
--
My first July 4th with my family in years. I've always been working summerstock. We're in Wisconsin Dells, and for the Day we went to Mt. Olympus, a Hellenistic theme park. Poseidon's Rage, an unreal wave pool, was the highlight for me. Huge surges and leaps into white overtows, limbs slamming unheard beneath a pulling muscle of water.
Watched a TV special last night after the fireworks: Thrill Rides of America. Parks featured were Cedar Point, Hershey Park, Mt. Olympus and King's Island.
An odd quadrilateral on the map, and a casual coincidence. Cedar Point is in Sandusky, near where I worked those summers of summerstock. Hershey Park has been a family favorite for years. Mt. Olympus is where we are now.
And King's Island is in Cincinnati.
--
Dependent and dependant are homonyms, and I used to think they were interchangeable. They're not. The ending -ent is adjectival, the -ant nounal. So it would be right to say that most dependants are dependant upon others.
Yesterday was my first Independence Day as a non-dependant. When I turned 23, my military ID went bad, expired. And I'm on my own as far as insurance goes. That was the date of my independance.
This is on my mind because of the holiday. I wonder when was the moment or period in my life when I became independent. And then I wonder if you can really count yourself independent if you still consider your hometown home, if you're tethered to the same folks for vacations, if you still split the hotel room with siblings and parents.
--
Woke this morning to Turner & Hooch, some childhood glee. I couldn't see the screen from my spot on the blue inflatable mattress near the window, but how can you mistake a young Tom Hanks screaming about barking and dog food and how "this is not your room"? You can't.
For the scene where he and the woman (was it Mare Winningham?) start to make out in the kitchen while they're wearing bathrobes and underwear, my mom changed the channel. She skipped over CNN and stopped at the Cartoon Network. "There you go," she said.
Sharon looked at me. I looked at Sharon. We both covered our eyes in a mock gesture of seeing no evil.
--
I guess the answer to the riddle is that you can be independent and still get a dependant's treatment. It's a matter of realizing you are a subject and an object always, that all your furious pushing is someone else's pull.
If the knots are tight enough, you can never escape the ties that bind.
In fact, there can be joy in bondage. Dependants don't pay admission to theme parks, and they don't pick up the dinner bill.
Happy Independance Day.
7.02.2009
Benchmarks
"I hear in my mind all of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind all of this music
And it breaks my heart,
It breaks my heart."
-- Regina Spektor, "Fidelity"
--
Used to blog from my desk at the publishing company. With nothing really to talk about, I would report on the state's educational standards as they changed and came to our office. Changes in education legislation meant rewrites of textbooks, and it was always more complex than a simple switching of words. We had to reconceive whole sections, often breaking chapters apart and piecing them back together in a different order, which meant page layouts, graphic specs, and blocks of text kept changing.
From my part-time position, I could see how one new state requirement could spoil an entire textbook. The company is still failing. It's like playing a game where the rules keep changing.
--
Now, I'm copy editing a study guide to be used in conjunction with the workshops we offer. And I'm double-thinking again:
Skills of persuasion include "bandwagon, testimonial, glittering generalities, emotional word repetition, and bait and switch."
Let's try...
Bandwagon: Everyone's doing it; therefore, you should do it, too.
Testimonial: I did it; therefore, you should do it, too.
Glittering Generality: Your life is empty. Do this and be filled.
Emotional Word Repetition.: Zig Heil! Zig Heil! Zig Heil!
Bait and Switch: This is the best rhetorical skill, the Bait and Switch. Wouldn't we all agree? Don't we all believe in Bait and Switch? Yes? Bait and Switch. BS. We all have to believe the BS.
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind all of this music
And it breaks my heart,
It breaks my heart."
-- Regina Spektor, "Fidelity"
--
Used to blog from my desk at the publishing company. With nothing really to talk about, I would report on the state's educational standards as they changed and came to our office. Changes in education legislation meant rewrites of textbooks, and it was always more complex than a simple switching of words. We had to reconceive whole sections, often breaking chapters apart and piecing them back together in a different order, which meant page layouts, graphic specs, and blocks of text kept changing.
From my part-time position, I could see how one new state requirement could spoil an entire textbook. The company is still failing. It's like playing a game where the rules keep changing.
--
Now, I'm copy editing a study guide to be used in conjunction with the workshops we offer. And I'm double-thinking again:
Skills of persuasion include "bandwagon, testimonial, glittering generalities, emotional word repetition, and bait and switch."
Let's try...
Bandwagon: Everyone's doing it; therefore, you should do it, too.
Testimonial: I did it; therefore, you should do it, too.
Glittering Generality: Your life is empty. Do this and be filled.
Emotional Word Repetition.: Zig Heil! Zig Heil! Zig Heil!
Bait and Switch: This is the best rhetorical skill, the Bait and Switch. Wouldn't we all agree? Don't we all believe in Bait and Switch? Yes? Bait and Switch. BS. We all have to believe the BS.
7.01.2009
Sweetness
"For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I AM--an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more."
-- Eve, in Papers from the Adams Family, by Mark Twain
--
This morning, I went back to the high school where I have my "residency" (instead of a single workshop, I revisit every week with the same kids, in this case, for eight weeks). The program takes place on the stage in the cafeteria, and only children who sign up are allowed in the workshop. The rest, along with bored-looking parents and jaded teachers, sit on the lower level at the lunch tables, fiddling with cell phones or doodling.
On the stage, we play.
It lasts two hours every Wednesday morning. About twelve of the kids are staples, and the rest come and go at random. It's unusual to lead any kind of activity when the children themselves get to decide when they need to leave, but those are the house rules. And we play by the house rules.
I've been trying to build their theatre savvy, starting with simple warm-ups and progressing into advanced games. Lately, this has meant variations on Charades, including the following:
- Props (Charades with a prop, where we have to guess not what you're doing but what the prop has become)
- Animals (guess by physicality and voice the animal being portrayed)
- Dance Moves (guess what kind of music a person is listening to based on how they're moving)
- Machines (guess what kind of machine a group of people are representing, again based on movement and sound)
They may see the connection, but they have fun anyway. And given that the summer program is so loose, "having fun" is really the only goal.
--
We were playing Zip-Zap-Zop. Clapping and sending "it" around the circle, making eye contact, keeping up the pace.
For those who aren't familiar: Zips keep it going, Zaps reverse direction, and Zops can go anywhere in the circle.
At times, I would break from my spot and instruct the group, advising on all kinds of situations: can you zop after a zap, is a zip the only response to a zop, etc. And then this happened:
GIRL. Mr. Chris!
MR. CHRIS. Yes.
GIRL. If she zops to him (points) and he zips to her (points) but then she zops across to me, can I make it go back?
MR. CHRIS. Yes. You can zap a zop.
ALL. Ooooohhh....
GIRL. (nodding with eyes closed) Sweetness.
-- Eve, in Papers from the Adams Family, by Mark Twain
--
This morning, I went back to the high school where I have my "residency" (instead of a single workshop, I revisit every week with the same kids, in this case, for eight weeks). The program takes place on the stage in the cafeteria, and only children who sign up are allowed in the workshop. The rest, along with bored-looking parents and jaded teachers, sit on the lower level at the lunch tables, fiddling with cell phones or doodling.
On the stage, we play.
It lasts two hours every Wednesday morning. About twelve of the kids are staples, and the rest come and go at random. It's unusual to lead any kind of activity when the children themselves get to decide when they need to leave, but those are the house rules. And we play by the house rules.
I've been trying to build their theatre savvy, starting with simple warm-ups and progressing into advanced games. Lately, this has meant variations on Charades, including the following:
- Props (Charades with a prop, where we have to guess not what you're doing but what the prop has become)
- Animals (guess by physicality and voice the animal being portrayed)
- Dance Moves (guess what kind of music a person is listening to based on how they're moving)
- Machines (guess what kind of machine a group of people are representing, again based on movement and sound)
They may see the connection, but they have fun anyway. And given that the summer program is so loose, "having fun" is really the only goal.
--
We were playing Zip-Zap-Zop. Clapping and sending "it" around the circle, making eye contact, keeping up the pace.
For those who aren't familiar: Zips keep it going, Zaps reverse direction, and Zops can go anywhere in the circle.
At times, I would break from my spot and instruct the group, advising on all kinds of situations: can you zop after a zap, is a zip the only response to a zop, etc. And then this happened:
GIRL. Mr. Chris!
MR. CHRIS. Yes.
GIRL. If she zops to him (points) and he zips to her (points) but then she zops across to me, can I make it go back?
MR. CHRIS. Yes. You can zap a zop.
ALL. Ooooohhh....
GIRL. (nodding with eyes closed) Sweetness.
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