Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Why Marriage Equality is important to me
I've been waiting to write this blog for a very long time. Rather, I am constantly writing it. I was writing it as I went through my endless stream of deep relationships with lofty structure(I'm an artist, I know a lot of artists... we dig depth, yo, and escape at an equal rate)I was writing it in my five years of abstinence from the idea of love. I was writing it a year ago, when I was in a relationship that was clearly headed toward a lifelong commitment in the expanse of the love story we were building- two old friends reconnecting in a better place than both had been when they knew each other before, excited for the future and the promise of collaboration, and all else. This was the love that I had been holding out for. This was the companionship that held promise. We were both there. I used to joke to my friends that he and I were not allowed to visit Vegas for a while, because we'd end up in a shotgun wedding, and it would be unfair to our families.
But that was the joke. I had a statement pinned to my sleeve(next to my heart, of course) that I had also joked about though all of this.
Legal marriage is not an equal right in the United States, and until it is, I can not marry. An overt portion of our active, tax-paying, child-bearing and raising, spiritually identified, loving and beloved community is segregated in the legality of marriage. In a country that claims to uphold a constitutional separation of church and state, and egregious oxymoron is continually overlooked: Marriage equality is considered legal only between the opposite sex in most states. And in those states where Marriage Equality is established, it is immediately opposed in a legal form(Prop 8,DOMA for examples, and every other example that follows a Marriage Equality ruling)But the arguments that inform all of this legalese of segregation is religion-based. Usually done so in the name of religion and translations of The Bible(in the US, at least), which is an interpretive text in and of itself. It's a frustrating rabbit-hole that manifests in persecution, anger, segregation, confusion and the desire to grow, build, understand and include to live this life on Earth as it is done in Heaven... Right? Legally I am able marry, sure. Morally,spiritually, I cannot. Yet.
Because, if I did, the morality in my stomach would twist.
Much like the morality in my stomach twisted last night, as I read of North Carolina's vote to ban the legality of same sex marriage. Much as it has twisted with every over-turn of other states' legal votes to support same-sex marriage. That knot has loosened a bit with Obama's spoken support of same sex marriage. There is much more that he can do, and he has done much leading up to now, to liberate the United States in honest equal rights on this issue and instill the hope and change that defined his political platform, and resonated with a nation. But this is not meant to be an accolade for Obama. I'm much more selfish than that. No matter where we fall on the political platform, we are able to vote and voice our votes, vocation and verility(regardless of gender). This is the first time, in my legality to vote, that our president has agreed with me openly on a personal level that effects me directly. It took a while, but it is there, and that is important.
There is another side to this that twists. I remember being a sheltered kid in Mrs. Smith's 9th grade English class in the late '80's in Kent, Ohio. We had a student teacher from Kent State who spent some time with us. He was funny, very serious and silly, at the same rate. We were all awkward and Ohioan. This student teacher asked us, in the form of trying to help us understand Shakespeare, what we discriminated against. No one answered... We were in Kent, Ohio. We were all born post 1970. No one was going to admit to discrimination, we had been taught not to do that, and we didn't get Shakespeare, yet. So, I raised my hand and said "Gay people." Why? I honestly don't know. I was a kid. I think I was trying to give him something to work with, because I was interested, my parents were teachers, and it was the most recent thing I had heard on a larger level than our small community. Looking back, that was at the time of the AIDS crisis, and an entire community was being left adrift to suffer and die needlessly and carelessly, being quarantined, demonized and segregated. That was terrifying. At that time, AIDS was shamefully and incorrectly publicized as a "gay disease." I wasn't a mean kid. I didn't really hate anyone, but I understood his question: what do people fear, and therefore decide to judge, in order to alleviate their own fear, and distance themselves from it in the form of disassociating openly from a group that has nothing to do with them, make choices to uphold this distance, and set another entire drama in motion that has nothing to do with the clarity of the situation at hand. The result is-everyone dies in the end. That's Shakespeare. That was AIDS in the 80's, from a 13 year old in an Ohio college town receiving disseminated information on a nightly basis. I watched the news with my parents every night. That is what I heard and saw from the media outlets, as they were.So that was my answer to the question he was begging. This was confirmed when he asked, "Why?" and before I had a chance to answer, some kid in the class yelled, "experience!". I remember this distinctly for two reasons: 1) shame and 2)a different shame. The first shame came with saying something I didn't actually believe as a kid trying to give an answer to a struggling teacher, and that was the easiest one to give. The second shame was deeper. It came with the kid yelling "experience," as if any of us had any. Dumb versus dumber. Ignorance versus ignorance. I knew what I was saying was wrong, and then that injustice was echoed with a retort to frame me back into that same cycle of ignorance. That exchange made me understand Shakespeare. And that cycle will continue until we break it in order to create a new one. That is when I understood childhood, and confirmed with the opportunities of experience and growth. This memory has stayed with me as an artist, teacher and human. This memory has stayed with me as I have built relationships. Kids do that. They remember. They acknowledge. They recognize when they are wrong and when they are right, because they are learning as they go. As adults, we are strong when we do, too. Nature and nurture both exist, and are equally powerful in different ways. The people we become are intrinsically influenced by our atmosphere,our upbringing and our communities, and that continually builds. While Marriage Equality is legally in flux,and state to state, the kids who are LGBT, their friends, families and loved ones will be forced to be unsupported, or forced to seek strength that we don't like to ask of children, friends families, and circumstances to seek a place that is accepting... Which is the segregation that exists. What disturbs me most about the North Carolina vote is the impact that it has on our children who are growing up in that state. A powerful message was sent by the voters about who is welcome, and who is not, and I cannot contest that, because I don't live there. This is a democratic country. Votes are important. Those votes, when dealing with equality, influence the country, as well. My heart broke yesterday from California. I registered to vote in California with Obama's spoken support of same sex marriage. At least there was that. Finally.
I believe in our democracy, our country and all of our communities. It clearly takes a while. We have come a long long way, in some places, from the place I was in in 9th grade. We have not, in other places. I hope that we do soon, as I'd really like to envision a life of legality with my life partner, and celebrate this country and democracy with my husband in good faith, morality and equality. Until then... I guess I'll keep dating musicians. And understanding Shakespeare.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
An open letter to David Cronenberg
Shame on you! I am not writing this to skewer a film or a director. That is neither my nature, nor my intent. So, as you read, if you feel I'm skewering, keep in mind that I have a deep respect for you, for film-making and film-makers, and I understand that I am completely green in big-budget deals with big budget casts, and directors who lose a bit of control on a project that they, initially, looked forward to touting in a new direction, bolstering the directional shifts they have built. Sometimes it works, sometimes, it becomes that shark in the water, and you are on that board, jumping away. I get it.
And that's what I understood from A Dangerous Method. I was lucky and excited to see the premiere tonight, thanks to a dear friend. I appreciated that, as the prospect of the film(as I always adore you for making films) was introduced, you affably(in tone) made apologies for the cast not being in attendance(an apology with a touch of privileged rancor that raised my eyebrows, but I don't attend premieres often, and certainly would not judge if the cast were not in attendance. I assume they are working.), So it began oddly. Twice the cast were admonished in apology that didn't seem like an apology. It was weird. Introductions always are, and you went on to say that the crux of this film is in the letters, as the original email, and that letters would be written in the morning, then responded to by the afternoon. Which, given distance, didn't make sense, but I got where you were going, and that you "weren't able to let these 5 characters die," despite the fact that the Freud/Jung/Sabine story is well known. That statement, in retrospect, should have been the first clue. But, again, I was honored to be there, and introductions to a new piece are always awkward. And it's Cronenberg, I both expect and revel in that awkwardness. Good things always ensue.
And so, the film began, only to clarify, right away, that this is no film. Perhaps it began that way- an exploration and expansion from a stage script, into a screenplay, known history, and all of that good stuff that has been explored for ages in multiple ways- Freud, Jung, psychotherapy,wellness, mania . My favorite exploration still lies with Erin Harper and Kate Hawley's interdisciplinary piece "Hysteria," back in the early days of Striding Lion in Chicago. No new territory for me, here. It's all documented with an expanse of interpretation. I was intrigued to see how it would unfold in this format. I was looking forward to a film.
Perhaps this was naive of me. I expected a film, and got a movie. That's fine. It also indicates that something was lost in the long line of producers, funding, bullshit and whatever else. Upon considering the whole of it, I'm wondering if the cast did not attend, not for busy schedules or lack of interest, but for not supporting a movie that they had expected to be a film, as well. Perhaps I'm giving them more credit than is due, but having none of the ensemble cast showing up for the premiere speaks volumes to me, after the fact. David Cronenberg, you are notorious for your unapologetic perspective, and revered for your horror history. To have the opportunity to work as an ensemble cast on a history as stringent, documented and notorious as the Freud/Jung/hysteria, directed by you- a dream!
And all of the actors worked their asses off. The performances were solidly based, but the focus of the piece was skewed and therefore hard to watch. I would have liked to appreciate Keira Knightley's performance, as she was working so hard and we don't get to see her acting often, but it was hard to watch, mainly because she is so painfully thin, and the sequences with her throughout the movie were filmed in an enlongated manner, despite the fact that her performance was intentionally grotesque. That is not fair. Note to directors: actors, unless you're the dude who played Angel in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, want to act, which was clearly her compulsion. She is a thin lady to begin with, but her weight loss for this film was jarring and uncomfortable. I am not faulting her for this, as given the same project, the physique is the same as I would have chosen, but as a viewer, and an actor, the expanse of the film showed no change, either in wardrobe or editing, to take into account that her character evolved. That is both a problem and concern and an exploitation of what she gave to you. I don't mind that there was no aging in the expanse of years that were covered here, when it came to Freud and Jung. That can make sense and be forgiven. However, particularly with the female characters, who are depended upon to shift and change, both emotionally and physically in the vast wasteland of the world explored... One was completely ignored, the other completely exploited. I couldn't even watch the movie as a whole. I was fuming. I couldn't pick up the humor, the stark themes or the sentiment. They were muddled, jumbled, and trying too hard to be proposed as clear, with at least one cast member dangerously dying before our eyes. And that wasn't in the script.
I left this movie not thinking about the movie, but angry that a director I have so appreciated could care so little about his cast and his work to allow it to be presented in this form. Sure- there are funny moments. You always have them. Yes, there are some catch phrases and gorgeous images. Costumes are intricate and beautiful. But care about your cast, as well. If the film you intended is not ready, don't just put out the movie yet, David Cronenberg. Take your time. You deserve it. So do we. And, yes, if there is a pompous line in you that insists that your actors were lucky to work with you, and you're annoyed they didn't show up- that is founded... but anyone watching your movie tonight is less concerned about your annoyance and more concerned about your lead actress being healthy. That concern is all physical imagery, not script, and perhaps something to put into your toolbox, because she's about to enter a world of hollywood tabloid hurt on her physical stature, which will override the fact that she worked really hard to act for you.
And that's what I understood from A Dangerous Method. I was lucky and excited to see the premiere tonight, thanks to a dear friend. I appreciated that, as the prospect of the film(as I always adore you for making films) was introduced, you affably(in tone) made apologies for the cast not being in attendance(an apology with a touch of privileged rancor that raised my eyebrows, but I don't attend premieres often, and certainly would not judge if the cast were not in attendance. I assume they are working.), So it began oddly. Twice the cast were admonished in apology that didn't seem like an apology. It was weird. Introductions always are, and you went on to say that the crux of this film is in the letters, as the original email, and that letters would be written in the morning, then responded to by the afternoon. Which, given distance, didn't make sense, but I got where you were going, and that you "weren't able to let these 5 characters die," despite the fact that the Freud/Jung/Sabine story is well known. That statement, in retrospect, should have been the first clue. But, again, I was honored to be there, and introductions to a new piece are always awkward. And it's Cronenberg, I both expect and revel in that awkwardness. Good things always ensue.
And so, the film began, only to clarify, right away, that this is no film. Perhaps it began that way- an exploration and expansion from a stage script, into a screenplay, known history, and all of that good stuff that has been explored for ages in multiple ways- Freud, Jung, psychotherapy,wellness, mania . My favorite exploration still lies with Erin Harper and Kate Hawley's interdisciplinary piece "Hysteria," back in the early days of Striding Lion in Chicago. No new territory for me, here. It's all documented with an expanse of interpretation. I was intrigued to see how it would unfold in this format. I was looking forward to a film.
Perhaps this was naive of me. I expected a film, and got a movie. That's fine. It also indicates that something was lost in the long line of producers, funding, bullshit and whatever else. Upon considering the whole of it, I'm wondering if the cast did not attend, not for busy schedules or lack of interest, but for not supporting a movie that they had expected to be a film, as well. Perhaps I'm giving them more credit than is due, but having none of the ensemble cast showing up for the premiere speaks volumes to me, after the fact. David Cronenberg, you are notorious for your unapologetic perspective, and revered for your horror history. To have the opportunity to work as an ensemble cast on a history as stringent, documented and notorious as the Freud/Jung/hysteria, directed by you- a dream!
And all of the actors worked their asses off. The performances were solidly based, but the focus of the piece was skewed and therefore hard to watch. I would have liked to appreciate Keira Knightley's performance, as she was working so hard and we don't get to see her acting often, but it was hard to watch, mainly because she is so painfully thin, and the sequences with her throughout the movie were filmed in an enlongated manner, despite the fact that her performance was intentionally grotesque. That is not fair. Note to directors: actors, unless you're the dude who played Angel in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, want to act, which was clearly her compulsion. She is a thin lady to begin with, but her weight loss for this film was jarring and uncomfortable. I am not faulting her for this, as given the same project, the physique is the same as I would have chosen, but as a viewer, and an actor, the expanse of the film showed no change, either in wardrobe or editing, to take into account that her character evolved. That is both a problem and concern and an exploitation of what she gave to you. I don't mind that there was no aging in the expanse of years that were covered here, when it came to Freud and Jung. That can make sense and be forgiven. However, particularly with the female characters, who are depended upon to shift and change, both emotionally and physically in the vast wasteland of the world explored... One was completely ignored, the other completely exploited. I couldn't even watch the movie as a whole. I was fuming. I couldn't pick up the humor, the stark themes or the sentiment. They were muddled, jumbled, and trying too hard to be proposed as clear, with at least one cast member dangerously dying before our eyes. And that wasn't in the script.
I left this movie not thinking about the movie, but angry that a director I have so appreciated could care so little about his cast and his work to allow it to be presented in this form. Sure- there are funny moments. You always have them. Yes, there are some catch phrases and gorgeous images. Costumes are intricate and beautiful. But care about your cast, as well. If the film you intended is not ready, don't just put out the movie yet, David Cronenberg. Take your time. You deserve it. So do we. And, yes, if there is a pompous line in you that insists that your actors were lucky to work with you, and you're annoyed they didn't show up- that is founded... but anyone watching your movie tonight is less concerned about your annoyance and more concerned about your lead actress being healthy. That concern is all physical imagery, not script, and perhaps something to put into your toolbox, because she's about to enter a world of hollywood tabloid hurt on her physical stature, which will override the fact that she worked really hard to act for you.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
I went to the Emmy's! And a year has slid by
At a pace that seems absurd and appropriate to the speed at which my mac-addled iphoto loaded my "smart-phone" photos in a 30 second slideshow. I'm not trying to be ironic, nor am I trying to be poetic or hipster. Holy fuck. I haven't written, bloggety style, since February. Again, not for lack of wanting to write, or having things to write about. Perhaps for having things upon which to follow through. To take a time of respite, as my dear, peace resting Jason Francis used to encourage me to do when we were actors in our 20's, trying to figure the world out. I had flashes of recognition and pride in the significant montage that began so simply so I could have some photos for this entry. And, now... I'm trying to write... After a a long respite. Pardon my rust.
I went to the 63rd Emmy awards as proud arm candy for my sweet boy. This was his second nomination with American Idol, and they were poised to win, after a season unlike any other in a long while. Reality television is a red-headed stepchild in the Emmy's, and I understand why in the awards show circuit. Hell, I'm a performance artist rooted in theatre and spectacle. I haven't paid attention to the Emmy's, Oscars, Golden Globes,or any of it, unless Sarah Parker is throwing her fantastic party. And only Sarah Parker. In Chicago. With her homemade buckeyes, fantastic lifelong friends, and specificity to the event that ends up in the Gilder, and a cab ride home. Girl puts on an event that rivals the reality. and wins. That's Chicago. That's Sarah Parker. She watches the Emmy's, maybe, but she holds her fire for the Oscars. In any accolade situation, you adhere to what you hold most dear. That's nature. How funny to be out here, one week to the year that I arrived in Los Angeles, at the Emmy's, an esteemed punctuation to Sarah's passion, and to do so as a guest of a wonderful and deserved nominee. I would take this time to gush about him and his work, but I will refrain for the simple respect I hold for him. American Idol had a great season. again, they were poised to win. I know he was terrified and excited. I was arm candy, and happy to play with costumes and humor. There were two things I openly wanted from the evening: 1) That he'd win his statue and have the acnowledgement of his tireless work 2)to hang out with Martha Plimpton. Because I think she's she's awesome, and recognize her tireless work.
I'll be honest, I had no doubt the American Idol would win this year, simply because they actually had a great and honest show(until Casey was eliminated, but that's my own artist geeking out to see a young adult so ridiculously skilled in a competition like that), and actually took risks by employing young artists who have burgeoning backgrounds in their genre, while still young kids, and all shared the desire to go further and grow together.That was a difference that was familiar to my own background of theatre. That was the difference between this year, and other nuggets of years I've clenched my teeth through. After having spent the past 10 + years working artistically with kids and adults to focus on, explore, and expand their specific desires and disciplines into a place that is tangible and pliable, a show like American Idol has been useful in saying, "hey, look, lots of kids try it, but not like you do, let's focus on your voice." which is an easy assessment and encouragement to make, while working with performance in schools, and preparing kids for investment, not in being an Idol, but in exploring their desires,strengths and the relationships that coincide naturally, and the integrity that lies within. It is a real shame that American Idol did not win this year. For an artist like me, and the millions of others who encourage artists to grow, it was a real shame. This was their year. Just not for the Emmy. Theo has a different, valid argument.It's all technical, and he is right on. I just go from what I know... and I've not seen a reality show competition engage young talent from varying circumstance and genre as I did this year on American Idol. I also didn't watch the Amazing Race. So, I may have missed something. I did not miss the rare connections and mutual growth that happened on American Idol this year. I have missed it in the past, which is why it always seemed an insufferable formula to me. But I digress...And insufferable formula is still the hue of accolade in reality television, and so it is. It is still the accolade of all awards, in many ways. The true reward in any venture explored is the ensemble that builds. Nothing, neither statue nor accolade, rewards the growth and process of discovery and identification.
And nothing touts that more than being on the red carpet! What a weird, hilarious thing! It is so not different than being at a punk show in Cleveland in the 90's, aside from the costume! It's all hilarious, a cavalcade of folks in formal wear being channeled into various annals of movement, this time with cameras snapping as a teenage you would want them to do. But no one is a teenager. No one is either excited to be there, as you might(or I might) have been at a punk show in Cleveland. I thin one of my favorite moments occurred after the Governor's ball, when everyone was either too drunk or too sober, and had to wait on the corner of Figueroa for the cavalcade of limos and and private cars, with no lead other than people screaming numbers into a megaphone. Theo and I laughed, in our mutual histories, as we watched people freak out and realign themselves in the cattle call of the elite.I realize that I may seem bitter about it, but it was not bitterness, at all that I felt. It was hilarity and... something else. I've seen this scene a million and ten times. I've been an actor, artist, activist, restaurant manager, writer, observer, waitress, drunk... and I've seen this scene of chaos. It was somehow comforting and hilarious and completely absurd.
We found our driver, Vidat, not through a megaphone, but through the luck of having an awesome guy who looked out for us as we looked for him. We didn't have to wait nearly as long as those yelling in their phones, and were greeted with a triumphant wave, halfway down the sea of black car traffic. We were on to our "Hollywood after party." It was decked out, silly, and pretentious as the day is long, which is even funnier... but it is as it is.We grabbed the itinerant space of not giving a shit. We found our leaning space, Theo took off to schmooze for a minute, as I held our space. He was maybe gone 10 minutes. Within that 10 minutes, Martha Plimpton and her two friends came over, set her shoes on the mantle, and asked me to take a picture of the three of them together. At least one of the hopes for the evening panned out perfectly and surprisingly.
Ours did, too. Theo may not have won a deserved statue, but we had a whole lot of fun. I was able to jump into an atmosphere that beckons, with humor and raised eyebrows, and we finished it off with night-swimming at the Hollywood farm. That's pretty great. Pretty lucky, and worthy of some fantastic accolades that make the onslaught of images I had intended to post alongside this more personal than had been anticipated post(and did not, as they capture a year). Love that surprise. Theo should have won the Emmy. But the things you actually win, in taking risks, being honest and giving up the ghost, don't necessarily jibe with an academy. Sometimes it's important to exist and play within a structure, in order to bolster the strength that it promises, or mirror the weakness of blindness with a good old reflection of the sun, right? Can't beat that.
I went to the 63rd Emmy awards as proud arm candy for my sweet boy. This was his second nomination with American Idol, and they were poised to win, after a season unlike any other in a long while. Reality television is a red-headed stepchild in the Emmy's, and I understand why in the awards show circuit. Hell, I'm a performance artist rooted in theatre and spectacle. I haven't paid attention to the Emmy's, Oscars, Golden Globes,or any of it, unless Sarah Parker is throwing her fantastic party. And only Sarah Parker. In Chicago. With her homemade buckeyes, fantastic lifelong friends, and specificity to the event that ends up in the Gilder, and a cab ride home. Girl puts on an event that rivals the reality. and wins. That's Chicago. That's Sarah Parker. She watches the Emmy's, maybe, but she holds her fire for the Oscars. In any accolade situation, you adhere to what you hold most dear. That's nature. How funny to be out here, one week to the year that I arrived in Los Angeles, at the Emmy's, an esteemed punctuation to Sarah's passion, and to do so as a guest of a wonderful and deserved nominee. I would take this time to gush about him and his work, but I will refrain for the simple respect I hold for him. American Idol had a great season. again, they were poised to win. I know he was terrified and excited. I was arm candy, and happy to play with costumes and humor. There were two things I openly wanted from the evening: 1) That he'd win his statue and have the acnowledgement of his tireless work 2)to hang out with Martha Plimpton. Because I think she's she's awesome, and recognize her tireless work.
I'll be honest, I had no doubt the American Idol would win this year, simply because they actually had a great and honest show(until Casey was eliminated, but that's my own artist geeking out to see a young adult so ridiculously skilled in a competition like that), and actually took risks by employing young artists who have burgeoning backgrounds in their genre, while still young kids, and all shared the desire to go further and grow together.That was a difference that was familiar to my own background of theatre. That was the difference between this year, and other nuggets of years I've clenched my teeth through. After having spent the past 10 + years working artistically with kids and adults to focus on, explore, and expand their specific desires and disciplines into a place that is tangible and pliable, a show like American Idol has been useful in saying, "hey, look, lots of kids try it, but not like you do, let's focus on your voice." which is an easy assessment and encouragement to make, while working with performance in schools, and preparing kids for investment, not in being an Idol, but in exploring their desires,strengths and the relationships that coincide naturally, and the integrity that lies within. It is a real shame that American Idol did not win this year. For an artist like me, and the millions of others who encourage artists to grow, it was a real shame. This was their year. Just not for the Emmy. Theo has a different, valid argument.It's all technical, and he is right on. I just go from what I know... and I've not seen a reality show competition engage young talent from varying circumstance and genre as I did this year on American Idol. I also didn't watch the Amazing Race. So, I may have missed something. I did not miss the rare connections and mutual growth that happened on American Idol this year. I have missed it in the past, which is why it always seemed an insufferable formula to me. But I digress...And insufferable formula is still the hue of accolade in reality television, and so it is. It is still the accolade of all awards, in many ways. The true reward in any venture explored is the ensemble that builds. Nothing, neither statue nor accolade, rewards the growth and process of discovery and identification.
And nothing touts that more than being on the red carpet! What a weird, hilarious thing! It is so not different than being at a punk show in Cleveland in the 90's, aside from the costume! It's all hilarious, a cavalcade of folks in formal wear being channeled into various annals of movement, this time with cameras snapping as a teenage you would want them to do. But no one is a teenager. No one is either excited to be there, as you might(or I might) have been at a punk show in Cleveland. I thin one of my favorite moments occurred after the Governor's ball, when everyone was either too drunk or too sober, and had to wait on the corner of Figueroa for the cavalcade of limos and and private cars, with no lead other than people screaming numbers into a megaphone. Theo and I laughed, in our mutual histories, as we watched people freak out and realign themselves in the cattle call of the elite.I realize that I may seem bitter about it, but it was not bitterness, at all that I felt. It was hilarity and... something else. I've seen this scene a million and ten times. I've been an actor, artist, activist, restaurant manager, writer, observer, waitress, drunk... and I've seen this scene of chaos. It was somehow comforting and hilarious and completely absurd.
We found our driver, Vidat, not through a megaphone, but through the luck of having an awesome guy who looked out for us as we looked for him. We didn't have to wait nearly as long as those yelling in their phones, and were greeted with a triumphant wave, halfway down the sea of black car traffic. We were on to our "Hollywood after party." It was decked out, silly, and pretentious as the day is long, which is even funnier... but it is as it is.We grabbed the itinerant space of not giving a shit. We found our leaning space, Theo took off to schmooze for a minute, as I held our space. He was maybe gone 10 minutes. Within that 10 minutes, Martha Plimpton and her two friends came over, set her shoes on the mantle, and asked me to take a picture of the three of them together. At least one of the hopes for the evening panned out perfectly and surprisingly.
Ours did, too. Theo may not have won a deserved statue, but we had a whole lot of fun. I was able to jump into an atmosphere that beckons, with humor and raised eyebrows, and we finished it off with night-swimming at the Hollywood farm. That's pretty great. Pretty lucky, and worthy of some fantastic accolades that make the onslaught of images I had intended to post alongside this more personal than had been anticipated post(and did not, as they capture a year). Love that surprise. Theo should have won the Emmy. But the things you actually win, in taking risks, being honest and giving up the ghost, don't necessarily jibe with an academy. Sometimes it's important to exist and play within a structure, in order to bolster the strength that it promises, or mirror the weakness of blindness with a good old reflection of the sun, right? Can't beat that.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Flies on the wall- The background superstar
Since moving out to Los angeles, I've been spending much of my adjustment time doing background work for film and television. I highly recommend this approach to any actor, artist, writer, bon vivant, student of human nature and fascinators of the absurd. Aaaand... everyone else. I never would have gone this route in my 20's when I was a fledgling actor. It's fantastic to work on a different set every day, have a fly-on-the-wall perspective of how different production companies work, and learn so much about people in a very short time. I would have been concerned that I would get stuck in a rut, or attach myself to a path of insignificance in a career that needed to move. So, I didn't. I traveled as an actor, in and out of NYC, Memphis, and any place that held a space on a stage for me. I wrote a lot. I read a lot of Sam Shepard's short stories. In my 20's(and now) I was a huge fan of the Los Angeles lifestyle that fed Shepard's Cruising Paradise and Motel Chronicles. He was the type of Hollywood actor I'd have liked to become- one who acts because he can, is invested, pays the bills, and has this full life of pursuits and experiences that color the idiosyncratic characters that he plays with leading man good looks, a dark and twisted innocence in his writing, full acceptance of his neuroses and privacy in life, and Jessica Lange. There is something about his Hollywood presence that assured me that I would fit there, too. Not with Sam Shepard, mind you, but in that niche. What attracted me to his work, and him, was his clear investment in passion. Something shared and familiar. I didn't want to be Jessica Lange, as an end goal. I didn't want to be the subject and cultivator of passion. I wanted to be Sam Shepard. I wanted to go out and make observations, awkwardly compiling and stringing together bits and pieces to make some sort of sense that is allowed to be non-sensical. I can put that together now, but at the time, I didn't know that. I hadn't learned it yet. When I started out in this industry, it was with much talent, training and promise. Benefits, all, that I put aside to pursue awkwardness, gain experience based on passion that has led to my work with art-outreach, literacy, performance art, writing and installation work. I never gave up on acting, training or this industry, after all. I've used it in all of my work as a skill. I broadened my perspectives and horizons. I took time to inform my view. I needed to act as an artist and a professional. I needed to marry the two, and I am still learning how to do this. Which is why I love being in Los Angeles now, with New York, Memphis and Chicago informing my path. Exciting and fun!
Doing background work has it's advantages, especially while new to the city. Very quickly, you will learn how to get around when you are scheduled for a different location daily. And you immediately know what is shooting and when. Very quickly, you will meet new friends and cohorts, as well as people that you may not want to meet. It is a thrill, for me, to be on set and observe the ways in which productions are run. Most are chaotic and frustrating, and you quickly get an idea of which productions you like to work on, and which you don't. I also love to watch the actors, both from a point of their work ethic, as well as their nature ethic. You really see it all- high profile actors who treat background like their own personal brothel of privilege to actors focused on their craft to actors who are so world-worn that they are calling it in. Every so often, you witness something amazing- Al Pacino being directed by Adam Sandler, JJ Abrams taking great care with his youngest actors, Bill Paxton telling endless stories, Frank Sinatra, Jr performing to your audience, Jerry O'Connell running to get a bottle of water, and asking the background if anyone else needs one, too. It's all a big show that everyone is in together, this Hollywood thing. Legendary and pedestrian life clash into a hilarious head. It's often Shakespearean- the beggar who et of a king, and all(although nothing epitomizes that reference more than the Dave Matthews Band tour bus dumping their literal shit on top of an architectural tour cruise in Chicago, and I'm talking about LA)Background work is not meant for your own personal showcase, which is why I am glad I didn't get into it in my 20's. You are meant to be the architecture of the scene and place. Whether or not you are seen is important to friends back home, perhaps, but you know, as a background actor, that if you do your job well, you will not be noticed. An easy job, and an important one. Some joke that you are a "prop," but I disagree. You are a city street, a courtroom, and texture, a layer. These are all important functions. If you want to be an actor- be aggressive and get those roles. I encourage actors to do background work, with the understanding of that role and its importance(because it is) as atmosphere, and to take the opportunity watch and learn while onset, as there is much to apply when you are acting in a featured role.
Sometimes, these opportunities collide. This is another benefit of starting out in background work. When that collision occurs, and you are ready and willing to go with it, amazing stories become your own.
An example:
Yesterday, I worked as background on Clint Eastwood's new film, J. Edgar. When I was originally booked for a fitting, by my call-in service, I knew nothing about it, other than it was clearly a big-budget film based on J. Edgar Hoover. I was excited about the costumes. I love the fashion of that era, and I haven't worked in this time period yet. My inner costume nerd was twitching. Sadly, I never got past the fitting, as the call in service had booked me in a category that would not have included women. Sigh. This is the same call-in service that had booked me on 90210 a week earlier, then cancelled, because someone probably looked at my AGE. With a want to wear the costumes, I ended up booking myself through LA Casting. YAY! I still didn't know who the director was, but I did know that the attention to detail, in regard to the costuming, was precise. Then I learned that Eastwood was directing, and was more interested.
Clint Eastwood is notorious for directing with a disciplined set that is atypical to most sets, but familiar to a classroom or theatre. On set, there is no talking, aside from the director and the script. No one yells. Before entering the set, you are taught the hand gestures that are used to denote "rolling"and "rehearsal," and reminded that even in points of turn around or change overs, no one is to talk, other than those who were needing to communicate in order to get things done. I love it. It creates the space of work, with no time wasted. Moments are continued, rather than broken, and there is no place for shouting, frustration or bullshit. Just work. Good work. You may have to be Clint Eastwood to get away with it, but I so appreciated it. The atmosphere created was one of passion for the project at hand. Iwas proud to be in that place.
By chance, I was positioned in the front row of a courtroom scene in which Leonardo Dicaprio, as J. Edgar, was making the argument for stricter policing in regard to personal and familial safety, namely kidnapping, heavily referencing the Lindbergh kidnapping. Leonardo Dicaprio was well schooled and working diligently with his character. It was inspiring to see in action. I definitely respect him, as an actor, but I haven't been a follower of his work since Gilbert Grape and Basketball Diaries. I found him exciting, then. I think he lost me, as an audience, with Titanic. This is no fault of his own- he's incredibly talented and strong. Like following a great band, you know when they've switched labels and gone in a direction that is less interesting to you, so you stop listening to the new stuff, and focus on the old, until you get bored, you know? And that former, impassioned stuff, is still there whenever you want to visit it. Audiences are selfish. That's their role. A new respect has formed for him, after watching him work. The guy is a pro. He is invested and intense. Watching him work was as inspiring as watching Eastwood direct, 2 inches from the camera and responding the whole time. There was a palpable sense of ownership between the two that was contagious. What a treat, to have a birds-eye view of this work in action, while being a part of it, as both a literal and figurative onlooker. I was sitting directly behind him. When we got to the point of filming, over and again, I was able to play as an actor. I knew I was on camera. Leonardo was acting his ass off, and earnestly, the director was poised and intent, watching and reacting, and the moment was clearly open for investment. I was happy to play. So I did. It was nice to let go. I didn't know where my investment would go, and that's the beauty of acting- you have your given circumstances, you let what happens happen. This scene was impassioned. I was sold. I just went with it, and played. It was an emotional scene. Tears welled. In between takes, I felt awkward, concerned that I'd gone too far. Another benefit of background(for you actors) is that, if you're emitting something the director notices and doesn't want- they'll switch you out. no harm, no foul. Nothing personal, (unless you take it that way, and if you do, then you know you're not comfortable doing background) it never is. I found myself flustered, a bit. The principal and the director were working their asses off, and it was allowing me to play, as an actor...but I'm background, and respect that...sooooo... I remembered to trust that if it is too much, I'll know. Just go with it. So, I did. Tears welled with every shot. Kind of a vulnerable, unexpected place. At a certain point, the director added in the applause that the speech called for. He directed that I begin it, and everyone else join in. A victory, for sure. Clint fucking Eastwood saw that I was involved through the lens of shooting. This would also add a fun level of my nerdy acting to figure out how to go from tears to clapping. Yay! Oh, and Clint Eastwood addressed me and gave me a direction! That's just cool. With the next take, and many after that, I did. Camera angles changed, and I noticed that, as the director softly spoke to the DP, he was pointing in my direction. We did a few more. Then the director and DP approached me, and Clint Eastwood said(to the DP), "I want to get a shot of my lady, here, responding, with those lovely tears." and to me, he said, "Really nice. thank you." (or something to that effect-much more eloquent than my recollection). The principals were given a break, the chairs were adjusted so the camera could be set on me, and the best part of this story is about to reveal, both as an actor and a person who reveres and appreciates everything that had been going on throughout this shoot, and all of the information and experience that has informed Clint Eastwood into the director that he is, and the acting that I want to explore.
The camera was set on my face. Clint Eastwood stood in the foreground to my left. Dicaprio's stand-in was placed. Clint Eastwood coached me through the beats of the monologue, softly and with open air. He gave me the space to work, punctuating points of emotion, only so far...just to let me play. Don't get me wrong, there was no Oscar winning performance involved, here. This is a difficult task to do, for any actor. I was so thankful to have the training that I do, especially because I have very little on-camera experience, save for Strasberg, a commercial class in Chicago, and a few smaller independent films and shorts. However, I have the wherewithal to understand the fun of the game presented. I held my own. I know that monologue, I had the repetition of what had been done prior, and at the one point I started to force it, he quietly ushered me back. I loved it. It was incredibly intimate. I hope that he can use it. I'd be proud. This experience also reminded me that I am trained as an actor. I am ready. I'm just picky. But I can hold my own amongst those who are passionate and prepared. In fact, I crave that position. Legend and celebrity, be damned! All I need to play is respect, acknowledgement and an invitation. I will rub shoulders with Sam Shepard, yet. I hope to do so with the grace of Jessica Lange and the constitution of my own.
Doing background work has it's advantages, especially while new to the city. Very quickly, you will learn how to get around when you are scheduled for a different location daily. And you immediately know what is shooting and when. Very quickly, you will meet new friends and cohorts, as well as people that you may not want to meet. It is a thrill, for me, to be on set and observe the ways in which productions are run. Most are chaotic and frustrating, and you quickly get an idea of which productions you like to work on, and which you don't. I also love to watch the actors, both from a point of their work ethic, as well as their nature ethic. You really see it all- high profile actors who treat background like their own personal brothel of privilege to actors focused on their craft to actors who are so world-worn that they are calling it in. Every so often, you witness something amazing- Al Pacino being directed by Adam Sandler, JJ Abrams taking great care with his youngest actors, Bill Paxton telling endless stories, Frank Sinatra, Jr performing to your audience, Jerry O'Connell running to get a bottle of water, and asking the background if anyone else needs one, too. It's all a big show that everyone is in together, this Hollywood thing. Legendary and pedestrian life clash into a hilarious head. It's often Shakespearean- the beggar who et of a king, and all(although nothing epitomizes that reference more than the Dave Matthews Band tour bus dumping their literal shit on top of an architectural tour cruise in Chicago, and I'm talking about LA)Background work is not meant for your own personal showcase, which is why I am glad I didn't get into it in my 20's. You are meant to be the architecture of the scene and place. Whether or not you are seen is important to friends back home, perhaps, but you know, as a background actor, that if you do your job well, you will not be noticed. An easy job, and an important one. Some joke that you are a "prop," but I disagree. You are a city street, a courtroom, and texture, a layer. These are all important functions. If you want to be an actor- be aggressive and get those roles. I encourage actors to do background work, with the understanding of that role and its importance(because it is) as atmosphere, and to take the opportunity watch and learn while onset, as there is much to apply when you are acting in a featured role.
Sometimes, these opportunities collide. This is another benefit of starting out in background work. When that collision occurs, and you are ready and willing to go with it, amazing stories become your own.
An example:
Yesterday, I worked as background on Clint Eastwood's new film, J. Edgar. When I was originally booked for a fitting, by my call-in service, I knew nothing about it, other than it was clearly a big-budget film based on J. Edgar Hoover. I was excited about the costumes. I love the fashion of that era, and I haven't worked in this time period yet. My inner costume nerd was twitching. Sadly, I never got past the fitting, as the call in service had booked me in a category that would not have included women. Sigh. This is the same call-in service that had booked me on 90210 a week earlier, then cancelled, because someone probably looked at my AGE. With a want to wear the costumes, I ended up booking myself through LA Casting. YAY! I still didn't know who the director was, but I did know that the attention to detail, in regard to the costuming, was precise. Then I learned that Eastwood was directing, and was more interested.
Clint Eastwood is notorious for directing with a disciplined set that is atypical to most sets, but familiar to a classroom or theatre. On set, there is no talking, aside from the director and the script. No one yells. Before entering the set, you are taught the hand gestures that are used to denote "rolling"and "rehearsal," and reminded that even in points of turn around or change overs, no one is to talk, other than those who were needing to communicate in order to get things done. I love it. It creates the space of work, with no time wasted. Moments are continued, rather than broken, and there is no place for shouting, frustration or bullshit. Just work. Good work. You may have to be Clint Eastwood to get away with it, but I so appreciated it. The atmosphere created was one of passion for the project at hand. Iwas proud to be in that place.
By chance, I was positioned in the front row of a courtroom scene in which Leonardo Dicaprio, as J. Edgar, was making the argument for stricter policing in regard to personal and familial safety, namely kidnapping, heavily referencing the Lindbergh kidnapping. Leonardo Dicaprio was well schooled and working diligently with his character. It was inspiring to see in action. I definitely respect him, as an actor, but I haven't been a follower of his work since Gilbert Grape and Basketball Diaries. I found him exciting, then. I think he lost me, as an audience, with Titanic. This is no fault of his own- he's incredibly talented and strong. Like following a great band, you know when they've switched labels and gone in a direction that is less interesting to you, so you stop listening to the new stuff, and focus on the old, until you get bored, you know? And that former, impassioned stuff, is still there whenever you want to visit it. Audiences are selfish. That's their role. A new respect has formed for him, after watching him work. The guy is a pro. He is invested and intense. Watching him work was as inspiring as watching Eastwood direct, 2 inches from the camera and responding the whole time. There was a palpable sense of ownership between the two that was contagious. What a treat, to have a birds-eye view of this work in action, while being a part of it, as both a literal and figurative onlooker. I was sitting directly behind him. When we got to the point of filming, over and again, I was able to play as an actor. I knew I was on camera. Leonardo was acting his ass off, and earnestly, the director was poised and intent, watching and reacting, and the moment was clearly open for investment. I was happy to play. So I did. It was nice to let go. I didn't know where my investment would go, and that's the beauty of acting- you have your given circumstances, you let what happens happen. This scene was impassioned. I was sold. I just went with it, and played. It was an emotional scene. Tears welled. In between takes, I felt awkward, concerned that I'd gone too far. Another benefit of background(for you actors) is that, if you're emitting something the director notices and doesn't want- they'll switch you out. no harm, no foul. Nothing personal, (unless you take it that way, and if you do, then you know you're not comfortable doing background) it never is. I found myself flustered, a bit. The principal and the director were working their asses off, and it was allowing me to play, as an actor...but I'm background, and respect that...sooooo... I remembered to trust that if it is too much, I'll know. Just go with it. So, I did. Tears welled with every shot. Kind of a vulnerable, unexpected place. At a certain point, the director added in the applause that the speech called for. He directed that I begin it, and everyone else join in. A victory, for sure. Clint fucking Eastwood saw that I was involved through the lens of shooting. This would also add a fun level of my nerdy acting to figure out how to go from tears to clapping. Yay! Oh, and Clint Eastwood addressed me and gave me a direction! That's just cool. With the next take, and many after that, I did. Camera angles changed, and I noticed that, as the director softly spoke to the DP, he was pointing in my direction. We did a few more. Then the director and DP approached me, and Clint Eastwood said(to the DP), "I want to get a shot of my lady, here, responding, with those lovely tears." and to me, he said, "Really nice. thank you." (or something to that effect-much more eloquent than my recollection). The principals were given a break, the chairs were adjusted so the camera could be set on me, and the best part of this story is about to reveal, both as an actor and a person who reveres and appreciates everything that had been going on throughout this shoot, and all of the information and experience that has informed Clint Eastwood into the director that he is, and the acting that I want to explore.
The camera was set on my face. Clint Eastwood stood in the foreground to my left. Dicaprio's stand-in was placed. Clint Eastwood coached me through the beats of the monologue, softly and with open air. He gave me the space to work, punctuating points of emotion, only so far...just to let me play. Don't get me wrong, there was no Oscar winning performance involved, here. This is a difficult task to do, for any actor. I was so thankful to have the training that I do, especially because I have very little on-camera experience, save for Strasberg, a commercial class in Chicago, and a few smaller independent films and shorts. However, I have the wherewithal to understand the fun of the game presented. I held my own. I know that monologue, I had the repetition of what had been done prior, and at the one point I started to force it, he quietly ushered me back. I loved it. It was incredibly intimate. I hope that he can use it. I'd be proud. This experience also reminded me that I am trained as an actor. I am ready. I'm just picky. But I can hold my own amongst those who are passionate and prepared. In fact, I crave that position. Legend and celebrity, be damned! All I need to play is respect, acknowledgement and an invitation. I will rub shoulders with Sam Shepard, yet. I hope to do so with the grace of Jessica Lange and the constitution of my own.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Justification, discovery and belief
For what it is worth, which is much to me, I don't believe in settling in a negative sense. . .I've never known someone who has claimed settlement negatively and not been gripped with an ennui of regret and an excuse of tortured eyes, a dismissive tone in their valid accomplishments, and a torch burning so bright for something that is not impossible, that it blinds the steps taken, so they can be made towards the goals that they chose with eyes darting to the next downfall. I've known many who have made sacrifices, for many reasons, and I can include myself in that group, and we have done so to get to the next step- the next precipice- the next great unknown. And it's terrifying and invigorating. I've also learned that blindness to those steps, whether it be clouded in regret or drama or whatever vice is chosen, debilitates the beauty of those steps chosen to be taken. Those steps inform your journey, no matter what. Whether you choose to decide them, or allow them to be decided, doesn't matter. We are in our element when we embrace what we have, and implement what we want. It is that fucking simple.
To bolster this idea, I'll use my own growing story. As I write this tonight, I am scared shitless about what my life will become, if I am lucky enough to live long enough to accomplish half of the goals I've set out toward. That's a pretty good incentive, as it is, and one that was instilled by my family, to whom I was clearly the trouble-child, the non-conformist, and the one who carries the torch of all we were taught. A torch that helps me understand those who attach themselves to the negative form of settling. My family is comprised of educators and academics. Brilliant artists, too. My writing will never hold a candle to my father's poeticism. My painting(or sewing skills) will never be nearly so expert and precise as my mothers, nor will I ever have the meticulous patience or skill that my step-father has for color saturation. I will never have the visual aptitude, or the drawing sensibilty that Susan has, nor will I ever have the intense appreciation, knowledge, encouragement and articulation of art that Anne has built so effortlessly. I could mire under the weight of ineptitude in comparison with my family. The influence of this admiration and clear appreciation is what makes my work what it is. I love it- it is messy and precise, funny and extending, wonky and interpretive. It is what it is, and it is clearly my voice, from a generation of influence.
I understand my place in my family, for this reason, and I am lucky for this. When I decided to move out to Los Angeles, after how many moves? New York, Memphis, Atlanta, Chicago, I was scared to death to tell them, even though they had clearly seen both the successes and failures incurred in each city. I could have stayed in New York. I could have stayed in Memphis. I could have stayed in Chicago. Had I done so, I'd have negatively settled. The hardest thing about leaving Chicago was not leaving Striding Lion, it was telling my family that I was on the move again.
And they were relieved, which was a great support. And I was excited and following multiple dreams- some that were manifested the dream of California, as an actor, some that were dreams of the heart, as I had been led first with that, as I always am, and finally the dream of moving forward with adventure and hope, because I was lucky enough to do so. So, I did.
I drove out here in order to set a meditation of crossing at least some of the beautiful land of this country. To finally see it, because I could. Through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, I found myself turning off my ipod, and driving along in silence, mouth agape. I paced the journey with a photo documentation of a Mr. Potato-head. Some of these photos were sent to a person who held my heart, when I felt alone. I never was alone. I had my family, I had my friends, I had the absurdity of my Mr. Potato-head documentation.
Since moving out here, I have found a reconnection with some of my dearest friends. I found that the person who first turned my eyes and focus out here was drenched in excuses and dismissal, once the awareness that identified our relationship was clear, and there was no way to turn that around.I don't regret that, as it's not my regret to take, but i acknowledge it, and assure that I will never make those decisions in my world, which I protect and in which I believe. I've been out here for only four months and have incurred confusion, exultation, loss, dismissal, wonder and a myriad of other experiences. Sunny skies and unexpected drenchings. What strikes me about this transition is that, above everything else, I have built the awareness and luck to appreciate that which is clear: Clarity and truth are far more settling than manipulation or dishonesty. When my eyes close for good, they won't be wounded. Rather, they will be full of the wisdom that is continually built and shared. The art that I create is consistently built of those moments of transition, leading to the next. It is full of characters, interpretation, stasis and corrupted settling. A mirror, perhaps, of a wayward journey that is constantly found and accessible. I can't wait to see how it manifests when I have finally settled, and the wayward aspect is an influence, rather than an apex. To use a cheap navigation metaphor- I've definitely entered a phase where I'm comfortable with my role as a rudder, playing direction and skewing. I have a distinct feeling that the Anchor phase is presenting itself, and that is great. Of course, it will begin in a city that is famous for both it's fascination with constant filming,the make-believe believabilty and the unstable constitution of the land upon which we stand. Perhaps the treat of an earthquake actually works better for me- I'm accustomed to tornadoes, blizzards and terrible driving conditions. All of which can be forseen. It's terrifying to me to build upon both literal and metaphoric instability. Sigh. And I love challenges. So, here goes- I'm suddenly in a place of few responsibilities, beautiful weather, reinvention around every corner huddled with the experience to know that reinvention is nothing more than an introduction. I like that. A lot.
To bolster this idea, I'll use my own growing story. As I write this tonight, I am scared shitless about what my life will become, if I am lucky enough to live long enough to accomplish half of the goals I've set out toward. That's a pretty good incentive, as it is, and one that was instilled by my family, to whom I was clearly the trouble-child, the non-conformist, and the one who carries the torch of all we were taught. A torch that helps me understand those who attach themselves to the negative form of settling. My family is comprised of educators and academics. Brilliant artists, too. My writing will never hold a candle to my father's poeticism. My painting(or sewing skills) will never be nearly so expert and precise as my mothers, nor will I ever have the meticulous patience or skill that my step-father has for color saturation. I will never have the visual aptitude, or the drawing sensibilty that Susan has, nor will I ever have the intense appreciation, knowledge, encouragement and articulation of art that Anne has built so effortlessly. I could mire under the weight of ineptitude in comparison with my family. The influence of this admiration and clear appreciation is what makes my work what it is. I love it- it is messy and precise, funny and extending, wonky and interpretive. It is what it is, and it is clearly my voice, from a generation of influence.
I understand my place in my family, for this reason, and I am lucky for this. When I decided to move out to Los Angeles, after how many moves? New York, Memphis, Atlanta, Chicago, I was scared to death to tell them, even though they had clearly seen both the successes and failures incurred in each city. I could have stayed in New York. I could have stayed in Memphis. I could have stayed in Chicago. Had I done so, I'd have negatively settled. The hardest thing about leaving Chicago was not leaving Striding Lion, it was telling my family that I was on the move again.
And they were relieved, which was a great support. And I was excited and following multiple dreams- some that were manifested the dream of California, as an actor, some that were dreams of the heart, as I had been led first with that, as I always am, and finally the dream of moving forward with adventure and hope, because I was lucky enough to do so. So, I did.
I drove out here in order to set a meditation of crossing at least some of the beautiful land of this country. To finally see it, because I could. Through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, I found myself turning off my ipod, and driving along in silence, mouth agape. I paced the journey with a photo documentation of a Mr. Potato-head. Some of these photos were sent to a person who held my heart, when I felt alone. I never was alone. I had my family, I had my friends, I had the absurdity of my Mr. Potato-head documentation.
Since moving out here, I have found a reconnection with some of my dearest friends. I found that the person who first turned my eyes and focus out here was drenched in excuses and dismissal, once the awareness that identified our relationship was clear, and there was no way to turn that around.I don't regret that, as it's not my regret to take, but i acknowledge it, and assure that I will never make those decisions in my world, which I protect and in which I believe. I've been out here for only four months and have incurred confusion, exultation, loss, dismissal, wonder and a myriad of other experiences. Sunny skies and unexpected drenchings. What strikes me about this transition is that, above everything else, I have built the awareness and luck to appreciate that which is clear: Clarity and truth are far more settling than manipulation or dishonesty. When my eyes close for good, they won't be wounded. Rather, they will be full of the wisdom that is continually built and shared. The art that I create is consistently built of those moments of transition, leading to the next. It is full of characters, interpretation, stasis and corrupted settling. A mirror, perhaps, of a wayward journey that is constantly found and accessible. I can't wait to see how it manifests when I have finally settled, and the wayward aspect is an influence, rather than an apex. To use a cheap navigation metaphor- I've definitely entered a phase where I'm comfortable with my role as a rudder, playing direction and skewing. I have a distinct feeling that the Anchor phase is presenting itself, and that is great. Of course, it will begin in a city that is famous for both it's fascination with constant filming,the make-believe believabilty and the unstable constitution of the land upon which we stand. Perhaps the treat of an earthquake actually works better for me- I'm accustomed to tornadoes, blizzards and terrible driving conditions. All of which can be forseen. It's terrifying to me to build upon both literal and metaphoric instability. Sigh. And I love challenges. So, here goes- I'm suddenly in a place of few responsibilities, beautiful weather, reinvention around every corner huddled with the experience to know that reinvention is nothing more than an introduction. I like that. A lot.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Black Swan- holy shit. What a film.
"We're all mad here, I'm mad. You're mad."
-Lewis Carroll
Madness is the apex of all great conflict. We all have points of madness, awareness of mania in the circumstances that surround, and a fascination with those steps that lead to that point, that apex, that loss of control resulting in a need to assess, reorganize, rebuild or let go. We all know madness. It falls apart, at some point, or it builds- a never-ending ebb and flow of humanity, emotion, investment, call it what you will. We are trained to achieve- to build- to grow- to accomplish- to ascertain and to revel in the reward, whatever it may be, or to move on, lessons learned, tucked into the back pocket of identity. Madness is a part of the human condition.
It is no surprise that madness is in the architecture of many, if not most, films, literary works, works of art, performance and other forms built for an audience. Madness and beauty. Film-making, itself, is a maddening art. Madness is not pretty. It is not gorgeous. It is meticulous. It is laborious. It is a series of steps getting to a place of completion that is arguably completed. If a film is to be released, it is just that- released. Let go. Like the release of any goal, whether it to be to achievement, growth, distance, back pockets, what you will.
It is rare that an American film catches madness as Darren Aronofsky's film, Black Swan, has done. This film catches madness in simplicity and familiarity, following Nina in a place of consistent discipline as she traverses, not into madness, but with it. That is madness. So many performances and journeys focus on the descent into madness, and this film articulates the maintenance. The result of this difference is that the aftermath, if there really is one, is almost a relief. Beauty is as translucent and visceral as simple scenes and camera angles that catch pedestrian moments and associations: the muscled back of an aged ballet instructor, building and contorting with escalating movement and precision in a simple frame demonstrating a wingspan growing into flight- articulating an architecture of discipline and prowess, while showcasing the movement of each muscle and years of formation and structure as only a veteran of the movement can do. Black Swan is not about ballet, or the rigors involved in the precision of that particular discipline. But you see it. It is clear and accessible where madness fits within Nina; as a punctuation. It is beautiful and gruesome. And a sidenote. A structured evidence. It is a given circumstance. In this quick shot, anyone knows that Nina's journey is one that has been prepared and accepted and a part of a process. There is no "Rocky Balboa triumphant running up the hill" to it. Nina is clearly skilled and trained and aspiring, and has been for years. No need for concern about her well being, on that point.It is what it is, and the focus remains on her as the protagonist, deemed fragile, clearly being guided, and craving perfection. Ballet is a perfect industry for a backdrop to this story, for that point. It is an art built on precision. A perfect choice. She is clearly marked by the scars of direction, again placed in a pedestrian denouement. Because the story of her journey, again, in not a descent into madness; it is the maintenance of madness. There is no blame, no fall, merely following through. Kudos to all involved in this film- it is a delicate balance to tow the line of madness in this manner as there are so many temptations for all involved to "jump the shark" of imagery, performance and direction. This film is full of that constant opportunity, with a clear budget to do so. Constantly teetering on the edge, form and function maintained itself with integrity and real simplicity. How balletic, right?
For this reason, madness gets to take center stage. This is a treat, a ride and completely terrifying. As an audience, we are not confused by side plot-lines and confusing choices. It all makes sense. There is no muddling, aside from some lighting choices in the ecstasy sequence, which I can forgive, and the idea that Mila Kulis' character, Lily, could be on the same level in ballet with shoulder tattoos and approving dancing sequences with free-flying hair, while overseen by superiors in the dance studio. I know enough about the ballet world to raise my eyebrows there and shrug my shoulders, because I get that it establishes her "rebel" stature. I understand that we are still an american audience. I could even create a list of moments, other than these, that I'd normally attach myself to in disbelief. But I won't, because I didn't, while watching the film. There are some definite points of the film that get "that close" to making me want to call bullshit and rolling my eyes. But those points weren't pushed past the melodrama point in which they could have been. Which makes it more authentic. Because melodrama is also pushed in pedestrian life. I bought it all.
The only film that I've seen that has hit madness so closely is Roman Polanski's "Repulsion." He, however, was not able to so deftly avert melodrama. His heroine did hurt others, rather than merely herself(which true madness is so closely married to self destruction), outside of the visions and dream sequences, and that built the waves to carry the madness ship home. Polanski didn't skirt melodrama in "Repulsion." He hit the madness, but Aronofsky eclipsed him with the maintenance. I guess it was time. 45 years will do that, right? There is something more horrific and identifiable in the vision of hurting and haunting, without the actual implementation. If, as a society, we were to look at those who are truly influenced by this idea of terror, the truly terrific awareness would not be in those who find a means to an end by hurting others, but by those who end themselves. It's all terrible and frightening, yes, and certainly not to be celebrated, as neither Black Swan nor Repulsion do, but Black Swan almost seems more disconcerting because it hits a bit closer to the madness that we all share. Varying degrees, of course, but to stand on the outside of watching someone accomplish their goals and potentially expire because of them, versus watching someone haunted and reacting to that haunting. There's something to that. Perhaps it is more terrifying because Nina is as haunted as Catherine Denouve's character, leaving a trail of evidence along the way that the audience sees, while those around her do not. But Nina's character is more public, watched over in every moment by friends, trainers, herself, and not "left alone for an uncomfortable weekend of rage." Is that the melodramatic difference? That it is public, in every sense? Is that the comparison between the two films, and a statement on the world now, versus then, in a cinematic sphere? It's certainly not "The Social Network." I love this film.
All of the performances by the actors were stunning. Good work, guys.
-Lewis Carroll
Madness is the apex of all great conflict. We all have points of madness, awareness of mania in the circumstances that surround, and a fascination with those steps that lead to that point, that apex, that loss of control resulting in a need to assess, reorganize, rebuild or let go. We all know madness. It falls apart, at some point, or it builds- a never-ending ebb and flow of humanity, emotion, investment, call it what you will. We are trained to achieve- to build- to grow- to accomplish- to ascertain and to revel in the reward, whatever it may be, or to move on, lessons learned, tucked into the back pocket of identity. Madness is a part of the human condition.
It is no surprise that madness is in the architecture of many, if not most, films, literary works, works of art, performance and other forms built for an audience. Madness and beauty. Film-making, itself, is a maddening art. Madness is not pretty. It is not gorgeous. It is meticulous. It is laborious. It is a series of steps getting to a place of completion that is arguably completed. If a film is to be released, it is just that- released. Let go. Like the release of any goal, whether it to be to achievement, growth, distance, back pockets, what you will.
It is rare that an American film catches madness as Darren Aronofsky's film, Black Swan, has done. This film catches madness in simplicity and familiarity, following Nina in a place of consistent discipline as she traverses, not into madness, but with it. That is madness. So many performances and journeys focus on the descent into madness, and this film articulates the maintenance. The result of this difference is that the aftermath, if there really is one, is almost a relief. Beauty is as translucent and visceral as simple scenes and camera angles that catch pedestrian moments and associations: the muscled back of an aged ballet instructor, building and contorting with escalating movement and precision in a simple frame demonstrating a wingspan growing into flight- articulating an architecture of discipline and prowess, while showcasing the movement of each muscle and years of formation and structure as only a veteran of the movement can do. Black Swan is not about ballet, or the rigors involved in the precision of that particular discipline. But you see it. It is clear and accessible where madness fits within Nina; as a punctuation. It is beautiful and gruesome. And a sidenote. A structured evidence. It is a given circumstance. In this quick shot, anyone knows that Nina's journey is one that has been prepared and accepted and a part of a process. There is no "Rocky Balboa triumphant running up the hill" to it. Nina is clearly skilled and trained and aspiring, and has been for years. No need for concern about her well being, on that point.It is what it is, and the focus remains on her as the protagonist, deemed fragile, clearly being guided, and craving perfection. Ballet is a perfect industry for a backdrop to this story, for that point. It is an art built on precision. A perfect choice. She is clearly marked by the scars of direction, again placed in a pedestrian denouement. Because the story of her journey, again, in not a descent into madness; it is the maintenance of madness. There is no blame, no fall, merely following through. Kudos to all involved in this film- it is a delicate balance to tow the line of madness in this manner as there are so many temptations for all involved to "jump the shark" of imagery, performance and direction. This film is full of that constant opportunity, with a clear budget to do so. Constantly teetering on the edge, form and function maintained itself with integrity and real simplicity. How balletic, right?
For this reason, madness gets to take center stage. This is a treat, a ride and completely terrifying. As an audience, we are not confused by side plot-lines and confusing choices. It all makes sense. There is no muddling, aside from some lighting choices in the ecstasy sequence, which I can forgive, and the idea that Mila Kulis' character, Lily, could be on the same level in ballet with shoulder tattoos and approving dancing sequences with free-flying hair, while overseen by superiors in the dance studio. I know enough about the ballet world to raise my eyebrows there and shrug my shoulders, because I get that it establishes her "rebel" stature. I understand that we are still an american audience. I could even create a list of moments, other than these, that I'd normally attach myself to in disbelief. But I won't, because I didn't, while watching the film. There are some definite points of the film that get "that close" to making me want to call bullshit and rolling my eyes. But those points weren't pushed past the melodrama point in which they could have been. Which makes it more authentic. Because melodrama is also pushed in pedestrian life. I bought it all.
The only film that I've seen that has hit madness so closely is Roman Polanski's "Repulsion." He, however, was not able to so deftly avert melodrama. His heroine did hurt others, rather than merely herself(which true madness is so closely married to self destruction), outside of the visions and dream sequences, and that built the waves to carry the madness ship home. Polanski didn't skirt melodrama in "Repulsion." He hit the madness, but Aronofsky eclipsed him with the maintenance. I guess it was time. 45 years will do that, right? There is something more horrific and identifiable in the vision of hurting and haunting, without the actual implementation. If, as a society, we were to look at those who are truly influenced by this idea of terror, the truly terrific awareness would not be in those who find a means to an end by hurting others, but by those who end themselves. It's all terrible and frightening, yes, and certainly not to be celebrated, as neither Black Swan nor Repulsion do, but Black Swan almost seems more disconcerting because it hits a bit closer to the madness that we all share. Varying degrees, of course, but to stand on the outside of watching someone accomplish their goals and potentially expire because of them, versus watching someone haunted and reacting to that haunting. There's something to that. Perhaps it is more terrifying because Nina is as haunted as Catherine Denouve's character, leaving a trail of evidence along the way that the audience sees, while those around her do not. But Nina's character is more public, watched over in every moment by friends, trainers, herself, and not "left alone for an uncomfortable weekend of rage." Is that the melodramatic difference? That it is public, in every sense? Is that the comparison between the two films, and a statement on the world now, versus then, in a cinematic sphere? It's certainly not "The Social Network." I love this film.
All of the performances by the actors were stunning. Good work, guys.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The National
I haven't been certain how to begin this post, yet I've been both distracted and incensed by the want to write it since seeing The National in Pomona on October 16th, 2010. Two disparate and appropriate worlds collided with this show- an intense production and a complete personal heartbreak like I haven't known as an adult. Both are selfish, self-imposed and specific. The circumstance was random and unrelated, but something between the two of these separate things fit. A sense of expectation exists in both the building of a relationship and the anticipation of seeing a band you really dig for the first time. I've been around bands, musicians, theatres, artists and the like for many years. I am one. I understand the frailty, strength and commonality of each performance, each rehearsal, each excuse, each responsibility. That's why I love it- it's all a process that builds to an end,that is never an end, and it is so very imperfect. It never stops growing, nor contorting, nor finding a sense of stasis, that may seem comfortable, but is actually deadening. Relationships are built. I love live music for the this reason, but it's more of a spectator aesthetic, being more theatre based. I know what goes into the tireless hours in the studio, in practice spaces, in personal dynamics between band members, in the creation of the songs, in general irks and behaviors. When you see a band live, it is in a presentation stage, but rarely a final one. Everyone is taking one for the team, and it's up to the relationships offstage to determine the interpretation. Where are the rocks getting off? Because they are, if it's an awesome show. If the bond is held. If the relationships are strong. And there is an audience. Another responsibility. This always begs the question of: where is the evidence onstage? You know it's there! The Beatles didn't break up because of Yoko. That's a story created seeking an excuse. The Beatles were a band. A great one. And they broke up. Why? A thousand reasons that became clear in one gesture over a span of ten years. Their story makes sense to them. It is still the fodder of speculation and legend for those who were witness.
But this is not an entry about the Beatles. This is an entry about the National. This is an entry about heartbreak. I went to see this show with a friend of a friend, whom I had not yet met. This band was pivotal in a relationship that I had been building for nearly a year- one that had been full of promise, beauty, support and strength-the beginnings of a beautiful world. A relationship that I had not expected to find, nor had I anticipated to crumble. Questions had loomed, but they always do, and I had chosen to give little weight to those questions in effort to discover what possibilities lay ahead. In that relationship, I had been curious and exultant to step away from my own protective nature and admire the view from the edge of the cliff. I loved it. At any point, I could have jumped, with a running start, a wistful glance to the nodding landscape, or a whim.I did none of those things. I built the view. I loved every moment of each shift and assessment. I had only been in Los Angeles for a month, and was excited to see the National as my first show out here, simply because it was informed with the promise and nostalgia of the aforementioned relationship that had been building for 11 months, the meeting of a new friend and cohort, and I didn't expect much from the band. They had recorded the beauty that informed my expectations. They had already provided the ultimate soundtrack to this knowledge, desire and want of discovery. They could have gone onstage and farted, and I would have waited for the line that seared my heart, the riff that would encapsulate the memory that I would attach to something separate. That was their brilliance. It had nothing to do with them as a band, further than a huge thank you for attaching a beautiful and textured key. They had already done a good job in the studio. I'm a bit of a romantic cynic, in that way, when it comes to seeing bands or anything live. The process is where the building takes shape.Sometimes the audience doesn't care.The audience is meant to be selfish. They've made their decision. But that couldn't happen in this case because of an unexpected twist of fate and common knowledge that my new friend and I shared. On the ride to the show, I learned that the relationship I had been cultivating and loving was a complete fraud, and completely common. On the ride to the show, I wanted nothing more than to run home and hide. How appropriate.
And that happens. And I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I couldn't launch myself off of that promised edge. It's not my style, nor nature. I could listen and learn. I could bide my time and save whatever face I could muster. For whom? Myself. The ghost of something I won't articulate. I liked my new friend, the view that had been established, and, although I was devastated by the sudden realization of the loss of something in which I loved openly and fully, there was no way that I was going to deem myself a victim, cry in a corner and hide. Falling was not an option. I had to stand as I was. Someone who believed in something, discovered a truth that didn't fit, and took responsibility for my hopes that this wouldn't devolve as it was clearly doing from this point of recognition. Sometimes the responsibility to take is to admit that you get it. All you can do is stand up and stand forward. In a 20 minute conversation, a world imploded. I knew I needed to dismiss everything I had believed in and hoped for in this past year. Okay. Shit. Damn. this was going to hurt. Walking away always does. But I will still choose walking over jumping. It's better that way.
Holy shit, did I not want to see the National by the time we got to the venue. I hoped they'd be quick. I hoped they'd be annoying divas. I hoped they'd suck.I hoped they'd phone it in. I wanted to be disappointed, because I already had access to that vacuum. I just wanted to get home. As soon as they took the stage, they did so with inquiry and attention to detail. They approached the show as a show, and they immediately set their rules. They would play, yes, but something else was waiting. Discovery was staged with the singer coming out from behind the microphone and standing at the edge of the stage, looking at the audience, as the rest of the band continued to blare, blaze and kick ass. This became a pattern that I recognized in the back of my distracted mind. It was overt. He overtly took to the edge as I prayed that Bloodbuzz Ohio and Slow show would be done with quickly. Those were the certain songs that would kill me in my addled heart. And they were. They were done within the first 5 songs. And in between each of the songs, the singer continued his pattern of stepping away from the microphone, standing at the edge of the stage, and looking inquisitively into the crowd. A clear tactic. A pattern was being set, and it was a good one. The band was flawless. they played amazingly. Eventually, the show was done. It was good. It was intriguing. It sounded great. One of the better shows I've seen in years, despite my distraction. Clearly, there would be an encore.And there was. When they came out again, they did so with a grin. I don't remember where they began. I think it was Terrible Love, but there may have been a song prior. But in Terrible Love, the constant stepping away from the microphone gave headway into purpose. It seemed planned, because it was. The singer took his stance at the edge of the stage and during, "It takes an ocean just to break" he entered the crowd. Not crowd surfing, just walking through this mass of people, his roading with his (corded) microphone steady. He made his way through the ground floor, up to the balcony, where we were, hugged a woman next to me, passed by me, as I patted him on the back, and continued along. The most amazing part of it? It wasn't pretentious. It was a conversation that had been begun at the top of the night. Keep in mind, this whole show, I was trying to keep my shit together. I didn't give a fuck about the band. I was taking pictures with my phone because I was surprised and really wanted something to do. By the time he got to me, I put my camera down. It seemed a breach of trust. It seemed embarrassing. That comfort and culture was created in the night. It was more than music. A relationship was built between the audience and the band. That is the brilliant point of an amazing live show. It is a conversation.
By the end of the song, he was back onstage. No problems, no hysteria, corded microphone and roadie intact. They performed their final song, indicating that they wanted everyone to sing along. The musicians unplugged their instruments. The singer stepped away from the microphone.Again. It was natural now. Everyone in this room together sang in chorus, "Vanderlylle, cry baby cry," and it was beautiful. It was church.
Leave your home
Change your name
Live alone
Eat your cake
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crbaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no suprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
Hangin' from chandeliers
Same small world
At your heels
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swans are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
I sang all of the wrong words, which I wouldn't have known had i not just googled the lyrics now. Goes to show that you hear what you need.. I sang, "All the very best of us string ourselves up for love...I'll explain everything to the geeks" I know that I'm not the only one and what matters is not the specificity, but the intent, the space, and the opportunity. A beautiful show. Perhaps the best show I have seen in a while. Terrible circumstances, wonderful company of equal awareness in absurdity of an extreme circumstance, and a band that really performs what they have written and recorded. Luck.
When I got home, I knew I had to settle the awareness I had been given in this random evening. I could have pretended the knowledge I gained didn't happen. I could have played dumb and changed the relationship without warning. I could have been cruel and dissolute. I could have gone along and tried to salvage a false extension, because I really didn't want to lose this love. But I knew that it was false, and that's not how I appreciate the luck of love. I could have lied. I considered it. I didn't want us to disappear. I was scared to death of it. But the fact is, I needed to open the conversation. I still believed in the beauty of the fruition of knowing each other. Clearly, I had had my doubts and scrutinies, it wouldn't be a heartbreak if there wasn't some sort of indication of a fall. It wouldn't be a cliff edge that you'd pace without the trust that the other person would protect and watch out for you. Even when I got home, I went directly to him, offering an inch of what I was told. I had hoped for a conversation.A soccer mom arm at the edge. And he jumped. He was done. No explanation, no need. Yoko didn't break up the Beatles. The Beatles decided not to continue. They jumped. Because they could. Sometimes, people jump. Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, you see a great show. Sometimes, your heart gets smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, great bands play. Sometimes, you are both lucky and screwed. Points to the band that can play through that shit. Sheesh. The National- hats off to you! I'm still admiring the view, pacing the edge, pulling bits and pieces back together. I've never been a jumper. Like you, I like to admire and consider and articulate the right time to wade in. It just seems more authentic and respectful that way. I suppose I am drawn to the drama of cliffs, but I will always stop short. I will not jump nor fall. So give me the ocean. A world lives within the water.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TojO3l9CL4
But this is not an entry about the Beatles. This is an entry about the National. This is an entry about heartbreak. I went to see this show with a friend of a friend, whom I had not yet met. This band was pivotal in a relationship that I had been building for nearly a year- one that had been full of promise, beauty, support and strength-the beginnings of a beautiful world. A relationship that I had not expected to find, nor had I anticipated to crumble. Questions had loomed, but they always do, and I had chosen to give little weight to those questions in effort to discover what possibilities lay ahead. In that relationship, I had been curious and exultant to step away from my own protective nature and admire the view from the edge of the cliff. I loved it. At any point, I could have jumped, with a running start, a wistful glance to the nodding landscape, or a whim.I did none of those things. I built the view. I loved every moment of each shift and assessment. I had only been in Los Angeles for a month, and was excited to see the National as my first show out here, simply because it was informed with the promise and nostalgia of the aforementioned relationship that had been building for 11 months, the meeting of a new friend and cohort, and I didn't expect much from the band. They had recorded the beauty that informed my expectations. They had already provided the ultimate soundtrack to this knowledge, desire and want of discovery. They could have gone onstage and farted, and I would have waited for the line that seared my heart, the riff that would encapsulate the memory that I would attach to something separate. That was their brilliance. It had nothing to do with them as a band, further than a huge thank you for attaching a beautiful and textured key. They had already done a good job in the studio. I'm a bit of a romantic cynic, in that way, when it comes to seeing bands or anything live. The process is where the building takes shape.Sometimes the audience doesn't care.The audience is meant to be selfish. They've made their decision. But that couldn't happen in this case because of an unexpected twist of fate and common knowledge that my new friend and I shared. On the ride to the show, I learned that the relationship I had been cultivating and loving was a complete fraud, and completely common. On the ride to the show, I wanted nothing more than to run home and hide. How appropriate.
And that happens. And I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I couldn't launch myself off of that promised edge. It's not my style, nor nature. I could listen and learn. I could bide my time and save whatever face I could muster. For whom? Myself. The ghost of something I won't articulate. I liked my new friend, the view that had been established, and, although I was devastated by the sudden realization of the loss of something in which I loved openly and fully, there was no way that I was going to deem myself a victim, cry in a corner and hide. Falling was not an option. I had to stand as I was. Someone who believed in something, discovered a truth that didn't fit, and took responsibility for my hopes that this wouldn't devolve as it was clearly doing from this point of recognition. Sometimes the responsibility to take is to admit that you get it. All you can do is stand up and stand forward. In a 20 minute conversation, a world imploded. I knew I needed to dismiss everything I had believed in and hoped for in this past year. Okay. Shit. Damn. this was going to hurt. Walking away always does. But I will still choose walking over jumping. It's better that way.
Holy shit, did I not want to see the National by the time we got to the venue. I hoped they'd be quick. I hoped they'd be annoying divas. I hoped they'd suck.I hoped they'd phone it in. I wanted to be disappointed, because I already had access to that vacuum. I just wanted to get home. As soon as they took the stage, they did so with inquiry and attention to detail. They approached the show as a show, and they immediately set their rules. They would play, yes, but something else was waiting. Discovery was staged with the singer coming out from behind the microphone and standing at the edge of the stage, looking at the audience, as the rest of the band continued to blare, blaze and kick ass. This became a pattern that I recognized in the back of my distracted mind. It was overt. He overtly took to the edge as I prayed that Bloodbuzz Ohio and Slow show would be done with quickly. Those were the certain songs that would kill me in my addled heart. And they were. They were done within the first 5 songs. And in between each of the songs, the singer continued his pattern of stepping away from the microphone, standing at the edge of the stage, and looking inquisitively into the crowd. A clear tactic. A pattern was being set, and it was a good one. The band was flawless. they played amazingly. Eventually, the show was done. It was good. It was intriguing. It sounded great. One of the better shows I've seen in years, despite my distraction. Clearly, there would be an encore.And there was. When they came out again, they did so with a grin. I don't remember where they began. I think it was Terrible Love, but there may have been a song prior. But in Terrible Love, the constant stepping away from the microphone gave headway into purpose. It seemed planned, because it was. The singer took his stance at the edge of the stage and during, "It takes an ocean just to break" he entered the crowd. Not crowd surfing, just walking through this mass of people, his roading with his (corded) microphone steady. He made his way through the ground floor, up to the balcony, where we were, hugged a woman next to me, passed by me, as I patted him on the back, and continued along. The most amazing part of it? It wasn't pretentious. It was a conversation that had been begun at the top of the night. Keep in mind, this whole show, I was trying to keep my shit together. I didn't give a fuck about the band. I was taking pictures with my phone because I was surprised and really wanted something to do. By the time he got to me, I put my camera down. It seemed a breach of trust. It seemed embarrassing. That comfort and culture was created in the night. It was more than music. A relationship was built between the audience and the band. That is the brilliant point of an amazing live show. It is a conversation.
By the end of the song, he was back onstage. No problems, no hysteria, corded microphone and roadie intact. They performed their final song, indicating that they wanted everyone to sing along. The musicians unplugged their instruments. The singer stepped away from the microphone.Again. It was natural now. Everyone in this room together sang in chorus, "Vanderlylle, cry baby cry," and it was beautiful. It was church.
Leave your home
Change your name
Live alone
Eat your cake
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crbaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no suprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
Hangin' from chandeliers
Same small world
At your heels
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swans are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
I sang all of the wrong words, which I wouldn't have known had i not just googled the lyrics now. Goes to show that you hear what you need.. I sang, "All the very best of us string ourselves up for love...I'll explain everything to the geeks" I know that I'm not the only one and what matters is not the specificity, but the intent, the space, and the opportunity. A beautiful show. Perhaps the best show I have seen in a while. Terrible circumstances, wonderful company of equal awareness in absurdity of an extreme circumstance, and a band that really performs what they have written and recorded. Luck.
When I got home, I knew I had to settle the awareness I had been given in this random evening. I could have pretended the knowledge I gained didn't happen. I could have played dumb and changed the relationship without warning. I could have been cruel and dissolute. I could have gone along and tried to salvage a false extension, because I really didn't want to lose this love. But I knew that it was false, and that's not how I appreciate the luck of love. I could have lied. I considered it. I didn't want us to disappear. I was scared to death of it. But the fact is, I needed to open the conversation. I still believed in the beauty of the fruition of knowing each other. Clearly, I had had my doubts and scrutinies, it wouldn't be a heartbreak if there wasn't some sort of indication of a fall. It wouldn't be a cliff edge that you'd pace without the trust that the other person would protect and watch out for you. Even when I got home, I went directly to him, offering an inch of what I was told. I had hoped for a conversation.A soccer mom arm at the edge. And he jumped. He was done. No explanation, no need. Yoko didn't break up the Beatles. The Beatles decided not to continue. They jumped. Because they could. Sometimes, people jump. Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, you see a great show. Sometimes, your heart gets smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, great bands play. Sometimes, you are both lucky and screwed. Points to the band that can play through that shit. Sheesh. The National- hats off to you! I'm still admiring the view, pacing the edge, pulling bits and pieces back together. I've never been a jumper. Like you, I like to admire and consider and articulate the right time to wade in. It just seems more authentic and respectful that way. I suppose I am drawn to the drama of cliffs, but I will always stop short. I will not jump nor fall. So give me the ocean. A world lives within the water.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TojO3l9CL4
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The world is small
So, the world is small
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.
Monday, October 11, 2010
New city, still haven't written of the drive
In the midst of stasis
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE
Friday, October 8, 2010
of memory
I can tell a million stories
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
This is of the Moon
From Wikipedia: Desire
Desire (emotion), a sense of longing or hoping
Desire (philosophy)
Greed, one of the seven deadly sins, selfish pursuit of wealth, power, or possessions
Interpersonal attraction
Libido, sexual desire according to Freud and psychoanalysis
Limerence, an involuntary state of intense romantic desire
Lust, intense craving for self gratification
Motivation, a thought that leads to an action
Preference, a concept in the social sciences, particularly economics
Taṇhā, craving in Buddhist psychology
Want, in economics
To transpose:
To sit and to wait,
holding propriety in a pose projected
Nodding only to an esteem
That means nothing, merely a choice in position
while assuming clarity.
A passive projection.
A worthy rumination.
A formula of frequent fruition that stands aside,
watching over,
rejecting reasons right and demeanors slight.
I have been undone and intrinsically bound.
He has been apparent and stringent and sound.
Now Finally screaming yes and learning limerance
Understanding the sight.
Having Awkwardly skirted in this light
That has been due to shine like the moon
With Jupiter at her hip
As she does so now
My eyes are serpent sponges
With brows aware and knit
to welcome this slip
This indulgence of night
This truth.
Our protective grip.
Sent to stare and skip
in perfection and blips.
The welcome of bliss.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Rediscovering Memphis
I had a plan. I had planned to document my drive from Chicago to Los Angeles as a meditative practice. I did so on the first day. After that, the plan was shirked in the blogosphere because, well...I wanted to enjoy the drive and found that there was a bit too much, and a bit too little, to record. So, I condensed. If I were to follow my path of travel, it would be done so in a silly photo-documentary of a Mr. Potatohead adventure pictoral that I sent to a friend, who was kind enough to indulge.
Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.
Rediscovering Memphis:
I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.
As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.
Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.
Rediscovering Memphis:
I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.
As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Day 1: Driving on 9
9-3-10
I drove out of Chicago with a searing pain in my temple, a car packed strategically to the gills, and a quest for enlightenment, in whatever form it may, or may not reveal itself. The rain coursed down as I paced through the early morning rush hour traffic I had tried to time aside, nodding to the low-slung cloud coverage and constant gray pounding of water. I was thankful, knowing that rain will be a rarity in California, and this exit shower deserves appreciation. In traffic, it is fine. Stopping, starting, listening, wiping away, seeing through. Challenge arose when the traffic broke, and speed increased. Trucks barreled, landscape flew, and the mist tossed off by the barreling trucks became blinding, as it coated the windshield, and the wipers were forced to quicken, shake, desperately clearing a space for visability. After all, it's rarely the weather that creates danger or erases visibility- it's the byproduct of speed that courses past thoughtlessly, covering you in impenetrable film, loss of a moment, and a fury to regain sight and control.
This went on for a few hours. I did drive out of the rain, yet the thick cloud coverage hung like a low ceiling, and the drive seemed flat. Which makes sense.
I drove out of Chicago with a searing pain in my temple, a car packed strategically to the gills, and a quest for enlightenment, in whatever form it may, or may not reveal itself. The rain coursed down as I paced through the early morning rush hour traffic I had tried to time aside, nodding to the low-slung cloud coverage and constant gray pounding of water. I was thankful, knowing that rain will be a rarity in California, and this exit shower deserves appreciation. In traffic, it is fine. Stopping, starting, listening, wiping away, seeing through. Challenge arose when the traffic broke, and speed increased. Trucks barreled, landscape flew, and the mist tossed off by the barreling trucks became blinding, as it coated the windshield, and the wipers were forced to quicken, shake, desperately clearing a space for visability. After all, it's rarely the weather that creates danger or erases visibility- it's the byproduct of speed that courses past thoughtlessly, covering you in impenetrable film, loss of a moment, and a fury to regain sight and control.
This went on for a few hours. I did drive out of the rain, yet the thick cloud coverage hung like a low ceiling, and the drive seemed flat. Which makes sense.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Moon always shines
A dream that recurs.
Standing in an apartment I've never seen
Preparing a departure dinner
we didn't mean
I can’t make myself
this time
To welcome strangers never met
that hold the world of the prior shaped fantasy
with tweezers and tenfolds of control and consistency,
twilight and transition.
I am happy to comfort and extend in my cowering
Happy to primp and prepare in reprieve
So long as it is distant
so long as the tears defining our sleeves are clear.
(by tears I don't mean tears, I never do)
I've asked for guidance.
He pauses and asks to come to my home
overwhelmed
In need of escape
I agree and we are in the car
He drives, as I sit in the passenger seat
Watching the landscape slide by,
happy to go.
I lose control
My hand, my arm
lucid and aware and involuntary
No ability to stop the movement of my limbs toward his body
My hand to his knee.
Until impulse returns
I offer a friendly squeeze
A note of comaraderie
To his glance of surprise
and some suspect suspense
My hand, my arm
Darts back to my lap
Eyes to the landscape
And the sliding of time.
It happens again
This loss of control
Inebriation of intent
My hand, my arm
Pulling to his on the shift
Control comes quicker this time, stopping short of a touch
He reaches out and grabs my hand
Placing it under his on the shift
Relief
Fingers entwining
Finding
Pulsing
Greedy
Exposing
Apparent
Free.
We walk our hands in our arms
Exploring the moon
Up the back stairs
Into my moderate mess
And he speaks to me
Fingers entwined
"Don’t bother with this
Start serving yourself
Let your world out
Instead of trapping it in
Reach."
I agree
Shining high above our atmosphere
with the promise of inhibition
and the dream that recurs
once a month.
sometimes twice.
when we're lucky,
blessed
and full of a moon that turns blue
with a promise that can be temporary
restrained
free
or discarded,
The moon always shines.
in the recurrence of a dream.
Standing in an apartment I've never seen
Preparing a departure dinner
we didn't mean
I can’t make myself
this time
To welcome strangers never met
that hold the world of the prior shaped fantasy
with tweezers and tenfolds of control and consistency,
twilight and transition.
I am happy to comfort and extend in my cowering
Happy to primp and prepare in reprieve
So long as it is distant
so long as the tears defining our sleeves are clear.
(by tears I don't mean tears, I never do)
I've asked for guidance.
He pauses and asks to come to my home
overwhelmed
In need of escape
I agree and we are in the car
He drives, as I sit in the passenger seat
Watching the landscape slide by,
happy to go.
I lose control
My hand, my arm
lucid and aware and involuntary
No ability to stop the movement of my limbs toward his body
My hand to his knee.
Until impulse returns
I offer a friendly squeeze
A note of comaraderie
To his glance of surprise
and some suspect suspense
My hand, my arm
Darts back to my lap
Eyes to the landscape
And the sliding of time.
It happens again
This loss of control
Inebriation of intent
My hand, my arm
Pulling to his on the shift
Control comes quicker this time, stopping short of a touch
He reaches out and grabs my hand
Placing it under his on the shift
Relief
Fingers entwining
Finding
Pulsing
Greedy
Exposing
Apparent
Free.
We walk our hands in our arms
Exploring the moon
Up the back stairs
Into my moderate mess
And he speaks to me
Fingers entwined
"Don’t bother with this
Start serving yourself
Let your world out
Instead of trapping it in
Reach."
I agree
Shining high above our atmosphere
with the promise of inhibition
and the dream that recurs
once a month.
sometimes twice.
when we're lucky,
blessed
and full of a moon that turns blue
with a promise that can be temporary
restrained
free
or discarded,
The moon always shines.
in the recurrence of a dream.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Hot apple cider and Union Square
Today marks the two week point before I leave Chicago and head out to the West Coast.( Warning: this post will be particularly self-indulgent.) I have neither doubts nor qualms about leaving. The time has been right to do so for years, really, and I've had the grace of having made this decision in January, allowing me 9 full months to explore, assess and find a renewed love and care in this city. I leave Chicago with peace, gratitude and the strength that this city has instilled. I have always held fast to the belief and action of following through- do not leave a place or circumstance until you have had your full teaching and discipline. Note the moments of movement, growth and stasis, and keep going. I came to Chicago on a dramatic whim, and will leave having the benefits bred into my being into a denouement. Dramatic, sure, but it makes perfect sense.
And, holy shit-I'm leaving in two weeks. I keep expecting to feel a sense of something akin to remorse, but I don't. I keep expecting to stumble across a failure, but I haven't. I keep expecting to find disappointment, but disappointment only lies in the idea of staying, not of leaving. And I keep coming back to the idea of transition.
Definition time!
Transition:
1 a : passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another : change b : a movement, development, or evolution from one form, stage, or style to another
2 a : a musical modulation b : a musical passage leading from one section of a piece to another
3 : an abrupt change in energy state or level (as of an atomic nucleus or a molecule) usually accompanied by loss or gain of a single quantum of energy
And of relationships.
Relationship:
1 : the state of being related or interrelated
2 : the relation connecting or binding participants in a relationship: as a : kinship b : a specific instance or type of kinship
3 a : a state of affairs existing between those having relations or dealings b : a romantic or passionate attachment
I have started to recognize that all of my work deals with the crossing of relationships and transition. Not a very deep thought or association- it makes sense. Wordplay ,teaching, movement, visual work, friends, acquaintances, inspiration, navigation. They all connect and are made interesting with interpretation, perception, building, skill, technique and evolution. This summer, as I was leading a performance program in which my students were to build their own show, from the ground up, I found myself encouraging them to "look for the game," follow the game, and then break the rules with moments of improvisation and honesty, as it erupted, and go back. I've taught this program for years, and my teaching of it always contorts with each program, and this is the first time that game-play came out nearly immediately. When teaching, I stand by discipline first. I didn't recognize this unconscious shift in my teaching until, at week 2 of the 6 week program, one of my students responded to a question with, "Well, I was looking for the game, and here it is." And everyone nodded and understood. In a group of high school kids who ranged from 14-18, brought in from all parts of the city. Apparently, I had introduced game-play immediately, with discipline. And the result was, in 6 weeks, these kids wrote and performed a show that was really wonderful, honest, full and thought provoking. No matter what, they would have created a show they loved, as they all wrote, built, choreographed and directed it. The nature of the program, which is why it always works. I was surprised that I went a bit for the jugular of game-play immediately, but it makes sense, as I knew that this was my last performance program in chicago, and it was completely my teaching. Fuck it. No bullshit. Find the transition and the relationship, and that is where the interesting developments come to light. That's the story, in both theatre and in life. That is where you learn, assess and grow. Pen to paper, paint to canvas, word to ear, eye to eye.
As I've been packing and organizing, I have been coming upon my old journals, that I've kept throughout the years. It's a writer thing, I suppose. Most are shit, and just over-dramatic musings of consequence and broken hearted quandries. Conversations with God, really. They've been prominent materials in the whole Joe Lies project, and when I was younger, I recorded them with the want to review in wisdom at a later date. To examine youth. To be able to access honest ramblings and questions. As I leave Chicago, it is clear that I will be leaving these journals, save a few. I found a journal that I had shared with a boyfriend in Memphis, that we used to mail back and forth between Memphis and NYC. Here is a bit of the first entry:
8/26/98
Times of transition. These are the strangest, these are the most free, yet feel as though you are trapped without any escape other the eminent departure and a desire for clarity. Yet, that is neither clear, nor unclear, and you feel lost. These are the times when a stranger can change your life, simply by appearing. Safety is no longer an option, it is a tease. Suddenly, safety becomes untouchable and pristine, hovering just outside a reach that refuses to grasp. You try not to stare, because you're aware that safety is taunting you, flaunting itself in quiet power with a high-pitched giggle. You react by taunting it with comfort. You create each moment into a cherished memory. This is my last taste of this coffee. This is my last glimpse of this coffeeshop. You become a tease to the commonplace, the position you've held. You know you won't be here tomorrow. So you become a camera, recording and memorizing each moment as it occurs. Each acquaintance becomes a dear, lifelong friend. Yet, like clarity, this is neither true nor untrue. You're sitting in a coffeeshop.
The point of this is that it all remains the same. What was scrawled in a journal about the state of leaving as a 23 year old remains the same as I set out to leave another city as a 36 year old. Wisdom is in this identification. Things and circumstances change, but the weight of transition indicates how aware you choose to be. As I have spent the past 7 months returning to the people and places I have loved and known best,because I had chosen to transition, I have done so with a recording eye, not a nostalgic one. Nostalgia is welcome later. Right now, I'm looking for the games and laughing as I play them with glee. Why am I surprised that I asked my students to do the same, when it is clearly a skill and technique? I think I wouldn't have noticed it, were it not for my students bringing it to my attention in honest action and response. Beauty of teaching. It is a cyclical exchange.
And, holy shit-I'm leaving in two weeks. I keep expecting to feel a sense of something akin to remorse, but I don't. I keep expecting to stumble across a failure, but I haven't. I keep expecting to find disappointment, but disappointment only lies in the idea of staying, not of leaving. And I keep coming back to the idea of transition.
Definition time!
Transition:
1 a : passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another : change b : a movement, development, or evolution from one form, stage, or style to another
2 a : a musical modulation b : a musical passage leading from one section of a piece to another
3 : an abrupt change in energy state or level (as of an atomic nucleus or a molecule) usually accompanied by loss or gain of a single quantum of energy
And of relationships.
Relationship:
1 : the state of being related or interrelated
2 : the relation connecting or binding participants in a relationship: as a : kinship b : a specific instance or type of kinship
3 a : a state of affairs existing between those having relations or dealings
I have started to recognize that all of my work deals with the crossing of relationships and transition. Not a very deep thought or association- it makes sense. Wordplay ,teaching, movement, visual work, friends, acquaintances, inspiration, navigation. They all connect and are made interesting with interpretation, perception, building, skill, technique and evolution. This summer, as I was leading a performance program in which my students were to build their own show, from the ground up, I found myself encouraging them to "look for the game," follow the game, and then break the rules with moments of improvisation and honesty, as it erupted, and go back. I've taught this program for years, and my teaching of it always contorts with each program, and this is the first time that game-play came out nearly immediately. When teaching, I stand by discipline first. I didn't recognize this unconscious shift in my teaching until, at week 2 of the 6 week program, one of my students responded to a question with, "Well, I was looking for the game, and here it is." And everyone nodded and understood. In a group of high school kids who ranged from 14-18, brought in from all parts of the city. Apparently, I had introduced game-play immediately, with discipline. And the result was, in 6 weeks, these kids wrote and performed a show that was really wonderful, honest, full and thought provoking. No matter what, they would have created a show they loved, as they all wrote, built, choreographed and directed it. The nature of the program, which is why it always works. I was surprised that I went a bit for the jugular of game-play immediately, but it makes sense, as I knew that this was my last performance program in chicago, and it was completely my teaching. Fuck it. No bullshit. Find the transition and the relationship, and that is where the interesting developments come to light. That's the story, in both theatre and in life. That is where you learn, assess and grow. Pen to paper, paint to canvas, word to ear, eye to eye.
As I've been packing and organizing, I have been coming upon my old journals, that I've kept throughout the years. It's a writer thing, I suppose. Most are shit, and just over-dramatic musings of consequence and broken hearted quandries. Conversations with God, really. They've been prominent materials in the whole Joe Lies project, and when I was younger, I recorded them with the want to review in wisdom at a later date. To examine youth. To be able to access honest ramblings and questions. As I leave Chicago, it is clear that I will be leaving these journals, save a few. I found a journal that I had shared with a boyfriend in Memphis, that we used to mail back and forth between Memphis and NYC. Here is a bit of the first entry:
8/26/98
Times of transition. These are the strangest, these are the most free, yet feel as though you are trapped without any escape other the eminent departure and a desire for clarity. Yet, that is neither clear, nor unclear, and you feel lost. These are the times when a stranger can change your life, simply by appearing. Safety is no longer an option, it is a tease. Suddenly, safety becomes untouchable and pristine, hovering just outside a reach that refuses to grasp. You try not to stare, because you're aware that safety is taunting you, flaunting itself in quiet power with a high-pitched giggle. You react by taunting it with comfort. You create each moment into a cherished memory. This is my last taste of this coffee. This is my last glimpse of this coffeeshop. You become a tease to the commonplace, the position you've held. You know you won't be here tomorrow. So you become a camera, recording and memorizing each moment as it occurs. Each acquaintance becomes a dear, lifelong friend. Yet, like clarity, this is neither true nor untrue. You're sitting in a coffeeshop.
The point of this is that it all remains the same. What was scrawled in a journal about the state of leaving as a 23 year old remains the same as I set out to leave another city as a 36 year old. Wisdom is in this identification. Things and circumstances change, but the weight of transition indicates how aware you choose to be. As I have spent the past 7 months returning to the people and places I have loved and known best,because I had chosen to transition, I have done so with a recording eye, not a nostalgic one. Nostalgia is welcome later. Right now, I'm looking for the games and laughing as I play them with glee. Why am I surprised that I asked my students to do the same, when it is clearly a skill and technique? I think I wouldn't have noticed it, were it not for my students bringing it to my attention in honest action and response. Beauty of teaching. It is a cyclical exchange.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Myths are public dreams; Dreams are private myths- Joseph Campbell
Oh, goodness gracious. How much fun is this performance project of Joe Lies?! A nice swan song for Chicago, a city where my favorite talented, driven and awesome friends are those who are in functioning bands that build, dissipate and transform with associations, logic and common interest. From the moment I entered Chicago, music, music culture and those relationships that are built of familiarity and support have defined my experience here. Chicago, as it contorts and cries to redefine itself, has a constant.The bands that exist here. Bands require intense relationships. Chicago is a city built on intensity and looking forward to the next step. As I spent nine years traversing the non-profit world of interdisciplinary art and education, relief came with my musician friends who were doing the same thing. And our hours matched, and some gorgeous friendships were made. These friendships were beautiful and consistent enough to make Joe Lies an easy band/ performance project/ silly playground to pursue.
To tie Joe Lies into the body of my work as a performance artist is easy. It is as simple as association, much like the Femme Fatale project. There are clear parallels between the two. The femme fatale project put an archetype from a clear genre of horror into a human atmosphere, showcasing ritual, isolation, humor and scrutiny. Joe Lies takes that a step further- still playing with the archetype of a powerful and influential woman- this time taken from a silly 80's film(Say Anything)- and offering the next step. We are a band. We play out. We need to build an audience. It is a play on the pop culture and influence with which I am familiar, clearly, and an association with which I could easily find my musician friends to jump and say, "Yes! Let's play! That's fucking funny." And we can play, make obscure references, have much fun, and build. What a treat to simply to build and explore because we find a common joke and association amusing. Sometimes, there is nothing more simple nor pure than just that. So, with the grace of this, the play has been wonderful and fun.
This is the point of both the Femme Fatale project and Joe Lies. They are both exaggerated character studies of an archetype put in a painfully pedestrian frame. While the Femme Fatale Project focused on isolation, Joe Lies teases and offers isolation as an impetus to build association and community. Lyrics are literally pulled from journals of real circumstance and played with in presentation. We play as a band. and we play with a real relationship of a band, hopefully, joyfully, and based on our comfort, practice and kinship. We are a relationship. As every band is. As every association is. As every tortured journal entry that we discover and explore promises to be. We have a goal, set by an archetype, to fulfill. Brilliance and ridiculousness will ensue. And that is what it is. Hilarious, uncertain, honest, and done when it is done. The relationship remains. And we have 63 songs. All about pain. All about you.
To tie Joe Lies into the body of my work as a performance artist is easy. It is as simple as association, much like the Femme Fatale project. There are clear parallels between the two. The femme fatale project put an archetype from a clear genre of horror into a human atmosphere, showcasing ritual, isolation, humor and scrutiny. Joe Lies takes that a step further- still playing with the archetype of a powerful and influential woman- this time taken from a silly 80's film(Say Anything)- and offering the next step. We are a band. We play out. We need to build an audience. It is a play on the pop culture and influence with which I am familiar, clearly, and an association with which I could easily find my musician friends to jump and say, "Yes! Let's play! That's fucking funny." And we can play, make obscure references, have much fun, and build. What a treat to simply to build and explore because we find a common joke and association amusing. Sometimes, there is nothing more simple nor pure than just that. So, with the grace of this, the play has been wonderful and fun.
This is the point of both the Femme Fatale project and Joe Lies. They are both exaggerated character studies of an archetype put in a painfully pedestrian frame. While the Femme Fatale Project focused on isolation, Joe Lies teases and offers isolation as an impetus to build association and community. Lyrics are literally pulled from journals of real circumstance and played with in presentation. We play as a band. and we play with a real relationship of a band, hopefully, joyfully, and based on our comfort, practice and kinship. We are a relationship. As every band is. As every association is. As every tortured journal entry that we discover and explore promises to be. We have a goal, set by an archetype, to fulfill. Brilliance and ridiculousness will ensue. And that is what it is. Hilarious, uncertain, honest, and done when it is done. The relationship remains. And we have 63 songs. All about pain. All about you.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
As read at CHIRP Radio(Chicago's Independent Radio Project- www. chirpradio.org) inaugural "The First Time Series" on April 28th, 2010. Originally, this had been posted after the event. However, the format was skewed...So, here it is again. Tying virginity to music... One in a Million is One More Than Me, by Karen Louis and great humility
From Wikipedia:
A virgin (or maiden) originally meant a woman who has never had sexual intercourse. Virginity is the state of being a virgin. It is derived from the Latin virgo, which means "sexually inexperienced woman", but also of older women, and even goddesses.[citation needed]
…another association of virginity—the notability of its loss. More properly, the association is with the significance of the addition of a new status, rather than a loss. Hence this association is typically found in references to the first instance of a potentially extended series of like events.
I’m a virgo. Virginity is my schtick. I like definitions. I can’t think about virginity, and the loss thereof, without associating when I recognized that it would be lost, at some point. And that I would, barring any unintentional traumatic theft, choose the loss of said virginity. I wanted it to be such a cool distraction. I wanted the idea to be musical, a journey of slides, steps and images made interesting by unexpected refrains that repeat and hook. And this was the late 80’s/early ‘90’s so you had this information: be safe, it’s going to hurt, it’s going to suck, protect yourself, oh, and by the way…you might die. Or get pregnant. And teenage pregnancy, by the way, is the equivalent of killing your youth. And the world, by the way, might collide, your heart, by the way, might break, and you may, by the way, fall in love and get married. So design your life now, before you know what it is, or how it can be taken from you or given to you! Because, no matter what, it’s all your fault, so question your desires. Virginity is supposed to be a big fucking deal. Boo. No fun. What a bother that would happen some day, at some point. So, I chose music over sex. It was an innocent choice, and much more fun. And music is always awash with love and clashing and things more interesting to me at a young age than an awkward experience that promises nothing more than a new status. An uncomfortable story to share in front of a room full of strangers. And a microphone.. If the loss of virginity was going to be such a chore, I wanted to decorate it. I wanted to be a muse, of sorts, so I searched music.
This is when I found Michael Penn. These are his muses(Law and order Dong dong)
A woman of common majesty. A waitress. A motorist. A nurse. An angel lost in a pedestrian eternity. A Dorothy Lamour who beats her reputation and circumstance by smiling quizzically, raising a brow. accepting the world and walking away, believing in her own disbelief. Beauty lives on the outskirts of action, watching and documenting in each peel of an orange, each heave of a metaphor, and therefore becomes the action. She is constantly out of reach and under skin. She can neither be caught, nor escaped. Her power is her placement in life and the luck that she is gracing the presence of a sensitive marksman in her public bower.
In the hey-day of the early ‘90’s we were inundated with the pull of fascination in explicit lyric warning labels, an age of legality to buy cigarettes and alcohol, and other vices that are less addictive than the tortured poet claiming the desire of pining over the purity of lost causes and undetermined hope wrapped in a world-wise woman rolling her eyes and waiting for her shift to end, her car to arrive, her ship to sail, only to turn and find you standing in hopeful anticipation, humming a catchy refrain and holding her bag that she had left three cities behind. Fuck you, Michael Penn. Fuck me. I was smitten. He was one in a million. Everyone was a muse. That’s what I wanted to be and to find.
I studied.
I had lots of boyfriends in high school, although I never recognized them as such. The boys I dated were muses themselves, of their own making, The sweet, kind, caring , enigmatic and Morrissey obsessed best friends who eventually came out of the closet with their very supportive best girl beside them(points to self), cheering them on and moving forward. If we ever really dated, or just experienced the world for a moment didn’t matter. I was the “last beautiful girlfriend.” We had awesome relationships, just not the kind that ended in sex.
Then there was the DJ playboy from Akron, who thought he looked like Morrissey, but was closer to Vanilla Ice, and would play songs for me at Thunders on Alternative night, talk on the phone for hours, and dedicate sets to me on the radio, but our physical intimacy would end at kissing , picnics, stories and my trusty friend Kim who would test the waters of his loyalty by telling him that I was a virgin, and she was not, then reveal that she pierces her body for each boy she has fucked while tucking her hair behind both of her ears that were decorated to capacity.
I brought Kim along to all of the punk shows in Cleveland, as well. She liked to fuck. I liked to fall in clandestined love with random strangers. We had a symbiotic relationship, I suppose. I was the one. She was the million. Or she was the one, I was the million.
I went to college a virgin, without Kim and her piercings. I fell in love my very first day, as I was prone to do, with an angst ridden boy in horn-rimmed glasses who didn’t seem to notice anything more than the disturbance settled around his brow and the Fugazi he blasted from his stereo. As I bounded up the stairs in a blonde glee, I knew we’d destroy each other in the end. I’d make him play with happiness as he brought misery to my blue-eyed plate. That was how college love was supposed to work, right? Knew it in an instant, as his doting and tall friend carefully moved his guitars. I was smitten, bounding and infatuated in the way we would one day meet and discover how our polar opposite muse-ridden teenage identities would clash. I was nearly 18.
I met his tall friend first. He was awkward and smarter than everyone. A comic book artist, a musician, an actor, an enigma wrapped up in Tim Finn hair and a nickname taken from Dune. I assumed he was gay when he asked me out, after watching me swing my sweater in boredom during a blocking rehearsal for a play we were in together. He made a terrible excuse of it. He told me that his friend(angst boy) had backed out of seeing a show, and that he found me amusing. So, I bit. Protected. Happy to be in the atmosphere of this world I admired. One step closer to the angst boy, and two steps closer to finding friends.
We went on our convenient date. We went back to his room, where friends who would become mine, sat around as he played guitar and smoked and he broke out into Michael Penn. My grin and comfort pricked as I admired his sculpture of cigarette butts in his industrial sized ashtray, and the comics he had drawn lining the molding of his 5’ x 10’ single dorm room. I was in love with everything. All of the clichés fit. Friends left, and he put his guitar away, put Michael in the Cd player and kissed me, and I began to laugh as Michael Penn sang, “She said she always pegged me as gay.” I told him that I had done the same, and he was encouraged. I took Kim’s role to tell him I was a virgin. And then we had sex. And it was appropriately awkward. A surprise, but not a mistake. Afterwards, he told me he loved me, and I politely dismissed it. The Michael Penn muse doesn’t fall for false, though sweet, proclamations of love. I had a walk of shame to enjoy with a wistful gait. Drama would ensue later, when I dated his angst ridden friend, and we appropriately destroyed each other, as fortold, but by that time, I had mused myself into a new status; Leonard Cohen back-up singer, something that can’t be done as a virgin.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Another workshop, another Joe Lies song
This one is about guacamole, in the spirit of trying to create a performance piece for "Night Roars: Live art Series v.3-House Party" I've been exploring how to perform making guacamole in performance while hosting, dealing with themes of home, security and chaos...and the human condition.
Today's workshop was focused on music, which is not included in my Night Roars piece. However, I am in the process of studying the ingredients of "the perfect guacamole" and find myself stuck in a barrage of history while trying to build a script that is both literal, metaphoric and absurd. I'm finding that Joe Lies is a nice outlet of being outright cheesy-a perfect extreme. Condense it into a song, and play further with the elements that are interesting, right?
"The perfect guacamole" begins with "Alligator Skin"...the newest Joe Lies song!:)
Alligator Skin
Pierce your alligator skin
A samurai sword to lance your win
Separate half from a solid seed
A fleshy fruit and a salty need
Cross your cuts for assault or slander
Scandalous names to pet and pander
Splayed below in a bowl of woe
a lost and over-ripe avocado
We won't call this what it is
We won't call this now
You stand and sway with yellow hand
gripping and squeezing in demand
Drop a line in quick retreat
Adding acid to the meat
We won't call this what it is
We won't call this now
Remove the layers of asexual vice
Cloves of protection, a repelling spice
Here I stand, turning pink to red
Blushing away the words falsely said
We won't call this what it is
We won't call this now
I'm chopping colors to make this new
flavorful treat to admire and pursue
Forgoing history and fucking the how
The beauty of the future is in the now
We won't call this what it is
Choose another name
Pierce your alligator skin
Samurai sword set to win
we won't call this.
So, there it is- a song about guacamole. Pretty hilarious! And terribly dramatic! Although I totally stole the melody for the recording from The National. I have to fix that, somehow. Just can't stop listening to that band. They are so good!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Workshop Sunday
I am driven by process, in both creating work and in life on a grand scheme. What intrigues me further is the space of process: what is left behind in evidence: physically, emotionally, accidentally or intentionally in the necessity of continuing on. By no means, is this a new or insightful concept-it is just what it is: an actuality. Anything that grows or builds requires tools and stages that are essential until they are cast aside. In order to get to one place, one needs to leave another. What is left behind provides fertilizer for future growth. Plants shed their casings, leaves, and blossoms to the ground that enrich the soil. Having my own growth begin with theatre and the stage, there is little more beautiful and comforting to me than a stage lit only by a ghost light-an open and eerie space of charged inactivity, waiting to be filled, both vulnerable and incensed. All stages are haunted. Much of my personal body of work, teaching and study explores the many different stages that exist outside of the traditional theatre: on the street, in classrooms, museums, public spaces, characters, interactions, it goes on. The less likely conceived to be a stage, the more interesting to explore. The first indication of a stage is the information left behind as evidence. The histories and mythologies borne, explored, and rediscovered in a constant cycle inevitably set a pattern of overexposure, chaos, beauty, loss and mixed messages in clues and remnants left behind. The beauty I see in a ghost-lit stage is a comfort of a charged space at rest. The strength and clarity of the single ghost light is a beacon. It is the starting point in a process-familiar, protective, and simple with an atmosphere of tools, fertilizer and risks to engage or avert.
It is this task of engagement that I set myself out to explore with Striding Lion in the creation of the Night Roars: Live Art Series and the development workshops that lead up to the evening of short, interdisciplinary performances. Simply put, Night Roars: Live Art Series is a cabaret in three acts, featuring new works in development by Striding Lion and artists within the community in an atmosphere infused by creative stations, interactive elements and visual art developed through the workshop process. The entire evening is interactive celebrating works-in-progress, the live art community, and the spirit of performance. The workshops, determined by discipline, are designed as a consistent forum for feedback, generation of different angles and ideas within a work in progress, and a haven in which to play, take risks and create in an accessible, secure and supportive environment.
This afternoon, I hosted the first workshop in a series devoted to Night Roars v.3 “House Party” entitled, “Building Home: mapping memory, history and objects.” As is every introductory workshop in a cycle, this one is based in generating material based on environments and public spaces. This workshop is divided into three sections:
The first section was spent in discussion and feedback of our individual proposed pieces for the upcoming Night Roars event, giving us all a collective understanding of the nature of the work to be developed, the questions that arise from both the creators and community, and considerations as to where these questions and tasks may lead.
The second section is task-oriented. The proposals for “House Party” are divided by the themes of home, security and chaos. I presented three definitions to the group(all pulled from Wikipedia):
A home is a place of residence or refuge comfort.[1] It is usually a place in which an individual or a family can rest and be able to store personal property. Most modern-day households contain sanitary facilities and a means of preparing food. Animals have their own homes as well, either living in the wild or in a domesticated environment. As an alternative to the definition of "home" as a physical locale, home may be perceived to have no physical definition--instead, home may relate instead to a mental or emotional state of refuge or comfort.
There are certain cultures in which members lack permanent homes, such as with nomadic people.
Security is the degree of protection against danger, loss, and criminals.
Chaos (derived from the Ancient Greek Χάος, Chaos) typically means a state lacking order or predictability. In ancient Greece, it first meant the initial state of the universe, and, by extension, space, darkness, or an abyss[1] (the antithetical concept was cosmos), but later uses of the term by philosophers varied over time. In modern English, the word is used in classical studies with the original meaning; in mathematics and science to refer to a very specific kind of unpredictability; and informally to mean a state of confusion.[2] In philosophy, and in popular culture, the word can occur with all three meanings.
With these definitions and the following tools and instructions, the group dispersed to explore neighborhood.
Tools to be used:
Stream of consciousness writing: For five minutes minimum, set your pen on your paper and write without letting your pen leave the paper. Allow yourself to just write, keeping no mind of format, disruption, change in direction to deter the writing. Just write.
Gesture/movement observation: putting the observation of gesture into your own body.
Sound/echoes: Listen to the sounds around you, and articulate them in your own voice or sounds you can make. Pay attention to echoes. Note them.
Personal perspective: infuses everything. If you have a piece in mind, identify the findings that are unexpected. If you are searching for a piece: identify the correlation(association) between what you find familiar versus what you find interesting.
Glean: take what you can from the atmosphere with what you have to collect-gestures, sounds, bits of conversations, objects, photographs
Using these tools:
walk until you are caught by something.(note-if you are not caught by something as ambiguous as “something,” walk along paths until they lead into a building or change of atmosphere.)
Attach yourself to a tool that attracts you. Use it. If one leads to another, use those, too. Use at least 3 tools
Find a way to subtly interact with/as a watcher(Don’t freak anyone out, just make a human connection of some sort)
Record this in some way, using tools as described.
Once everyone returned from their independent journey, we took to creating “maps” of our journeys using collage, shadow boxes and visual work. Fun stuff. Among the items brought back into the space were a few 1961 records of Hansel and Gretel, Disney’s Three Little Pigs, and some Vintage “Better Homes and Gardens/Ladies home Journal” magazines. We played the records, which were eerily creepy and familiar, boasting a Wolf Spanking Machine, and an evil Big, Bad Wolf who spoke only in German, advertisements for battery operated “personal massagers” and quizes from 1970 determining how tolerant women should be of extramarital affairs. Home, security, chaos…indeed. The collages built were interesting, chaotic and concise. A fun Sunday.
Past workshops include:
Title: Looking for love in all public spaces
Description: Writing exercises, observations, storytelling and interaction will be used to generate ideas and storylines as connective tissue by taking part in a scavenger hunt gleaning objects, emotions, tasks, interactions and development of relationships between people, architecture, objects and atmospheres to create uncover the love stories that take place all around us.
Location: Water Tower Place
Designed for: Artists of all disciplines seeking to generate material and transitions in new and developing work, overcoming creative blocks, and gleaning ideas and concepts from public arenas.
Led by Associate Artistic Director, Karen Louis. Karen has worked as a performer, teaching artist, costume designer and every other hat known to be worn with Striding Lion since 2002. She received a B.A.(Theatre) from the College of Wooster and an M.A.(Interdisciplinary Arts) from Columbia College. As a performer and teaching artist, she has also worked with The Women's Project and Productions(NYC), Playhouse on the Square(Memphis, TN), Healthworks Theatre(Chicago), and many other places along the way.
Title: Reinterpreting Fairy Tales-an exercise in music, movement and mythologies
Description: A selected fairy tale will be presented and expanded upon using music, movement exercises and clowning techniques.
Led by Company member, Dana Dardai. Dana Dardai has worked with the Neo-Futurists, Filament Theater,Stockyards Theater Project, New Leaf Theatre, and New Millennium. She is a teaching ensemble member of the Striding Lion InterArts Workshop and co-composed and performed on their album, "Birdsongs". She has also composed and directed music for "A.W.O.L" with the clown troupe Eleffant Foot. Dana studied the violin, voice and viola at the University of Evansville, clown with 500 clown and movement at Joel Hall and the Salt Creek Ballet.
Title: Visualizing Time
Description: Artists explore concepts of time, memory and mapping using movement, contact improvisation and text.
Led by Amanda Exley Lower - a modern dancer, choreographer, and the artistic director of Duende Dance Theater. A mom of two, she shares her passion for movement through performances, residencies, and classes.
Title:Necessary dialogues( Social Theatre/Theatre of the Oppressed)
Description: An exploration into building narrative and concepts of political thought through theatrical presentation. What is considered political? How is it articulated through the written word, body and performance? Where do these performances take place? What is the greater cultural meaning/evidence?
Title: Musical Duct Tape
Description: Designed to use sound, rhythm and songwriting techniques to explore deeper themes within presented work and further development of musical ideas.
Designed for: Those seeking to explore sound and music within their work and techniques in which to expand or instigate musical ideas.
Led by Christian Rogala, a Striding Lion Company Member for three years, an Honor Graduate at Berklee College of Music, Member of Fluid Minds: a Chicago based Rock Group. Also plays with many other musicians and styles of music.
Title: Characters, playing, speed-dating, Oh my! It’s a showcase showdown!
Description: Exploring the relationship between character identities, costuming, and engaging the audience, artists will play with character development, building, constructing and contorting costumes/props, and audience participation/engagement ideas to be used in the Night Roars event. Presentations will be set up in the schedule of appearance, games played, music continued, final thoughts and considerations.
Led by Karen Louis
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