One of the really good things that came out of my whole bus debacle experience, was that sense of apart-ness I felt. It gave me new insight into my solo piece, and I might do a little re-write, or I might just change the arc of it in performance. The feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider and trying to copy the behavior around you, to blend in, to hide within it. The idea works with how it's already written. The original meaning for me was hearing your own truth amidst the loud voices that constantly cast judgment in your head, the ones so ingrained you don't even necessarily know where they came from, that act like rock solid truths, though they are not. Just someone else's ideas, hopes, and fears, that were never really meant to be yours, but got trapped inside you for a while. The things you have to wrestle free and release.
Every time you think you're done with these things, there is more. So much to let go.
I have a habit of dismantling (which at times, is remarkably painful, and irreversible.)
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Wednesday
The sky is blue, mostly clear, a silvery light, yellow leaves stubbornly hanging on to the one horse chestnut, like a gown: distractingly lovely. Just missed getting caught in the final deluge of the storm last night, ducked into a restaurant to kill time, and when I looked out the window, the sky was wringing itself out. By the time I left, the clouds were already clearing, all washed clean, sparkling stars and a quarter of a moon shining as I trudged my way up Queen Anne. The world is a beautiful place.
My physical therapist gave me the contact for a hip specialist. Fingers crossed that it's a cartilage tear (in the joint); even if that requires surgery, it beats the alternatives.
Opportunities have opened up like a flood gate. Don't even know how much they conflict, but I'm trying to making myself leap before I give it too much thought and make up excuses not to do them. Had a conversation with a director about directing, he asked if I was going for acting as an excuse to not do the directing, but I think if I pursued directing, it would be the opposite; when I was in college I kept doing more and more tech work (it's complicated) instead of pursuing acting when that's what I loved. And I was competent (in the back-of-house work), but maybe a little jealous, and maybe it kept me involved in the scene when I wasn't ready to perform, or maybe I was making excuses. Trying not to do that a second time. (Years ago, when I took an awful job to pay back my tuition, the man interviewing me said something about "not selling yourself short." And I took the job, though it wasn't the one I really wanted, perhaps I didn't feel I would get the other (dishwashing vs. waiting, for the record); I didn't stay there long, but man, his words stick with me.)
My hope is that we can all share a world where we have the basics, enough security to pursue our dreams. I wish harm on no one.
My physical therapist gave me the contact for a hip specialist. Fingers crossed that it's a cartilage tear (in the joint); even if that requires surgery, it beats the alternatives.
Opportunities have opened up like a flood gate. Don't even know how much they conflict, but I'm trying to making myself leap before I give it too much thought and make up excuses not to do them. Had a conversation with a director about directing, he asked if I was going for acting as an excuse to not do the directing, but I think if I pursued directing, it would be the opposite; when I was in college I kept doing more and more tech work (it's complicated) instead of pursuing acting when that's what I loved. And I was competent (in the back-of-house work), but maybe a little jealous, and maybe it kept me involved in the scene when I wasn't ready to perform, or maybe I was making excuses. Trying not to do that a second time. (Years ago, when I took an awful job to pay back my tuition, the man interviewing me said something about "not selling yourself short." And I took the job, though it wasn't the one I really wanted, perhaps I didn't feel I would get the other (dishwashing vs. waiting, for the record); I didn't stay there long, but man, his words stick with me.)
My hope is that we can all share a world where we have the basics, enough security to pursue our dreams. I wish harm on no one.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Back Home
Tried to make it to a show tonight, there was a pick-up point, and the show itself is in a secret location, really wanted to go. First bus was slow, and we were late getting downtown, so missed my transfer (a seven minute window, and we didn't make the window.) Transferred onto a different bus and asked the bus driver if he went to that stop, he said, "yes," but in the end, misunderstood where I had wanted to go, and I asked at one point if I'd missed the stop, but he thought I wanted to go to a stop on Harbor Island (apparently), at which point I looked out and said I wasn't getting off there, and asked if he went anywhere where there would be people around (it was underneath the freeway on Harbor Island. No.) He dropped me off in W. Seattle, where upon I ran up the block in the street to catch a bus coming back toward town, but by the time we got to the first stop, I was already too late. I did leave with enough time to get there.
The whole thing left me feeling frazzled and slightly traumatized (can't explain that, but that's how I felt: on the bus, on the bus back downtown, waiting, and all the way home; can't explain it, like experiencing something that makes you feel separate, and you have to "fake" normal? Don't know how to explain it. Not pleasant.) Maybe it was a combination of missing the show, low blood sugar, maybe hormones, I don't know. Starting to feel normal. See I have a call on my phone that I missed because (of course) I realized I didn't have it when I was running for the first bus, and didn't have time to go back and get it. Crap.
The whole thing left me feeling frazzled and slightly traumatized (can't explain that, but that's how I felt: on the bus, on the bus back downtown, waiting, and all the way home; can't explain it, like experiencing something that makes you feel separate, and you have to "fake" normal? Don't know how to explain it. Not pleasant.) Maybe it was a combination of missing the show, low blood sugar, maybe hormones, I don't know. Starting to feel normal. See I have a call on my phone that I missed because (of course) I realized I didn't have it when I was running for the first bus, and didn't have time to go back and get it. Crap.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Art and Water
Running my jacket through the dryer for the second time (first time I finally broke down and washed the thing, since it was already soaked through) and happily finally able to remove my socks after they got soaked through four hours ago, apparently, my boots are in no way waterproof. And I guess I'm probably not going to make it to a show I wanted to see. Ugh. Been very wet out today.
Went to the Henry to do an activation, but the other two people scheduled were late, and had to run off to a class at 2 pm, so I just facilitated them doing an activation, then waited around to see if one of the staff would work with me on one later on. (We didn't. Most of the pieces take four people to activate, a couple take two, and one takes nine.) But in the intervening time, had a good talk about the architecture of the building with the same man that had handed me the dart on a previous outing ("Half the Air in the Given Space"), and joined a gallery talk about drawing. Then talked briefly with two of the exhibit/curation staff about perception. I mentioned the play "Molly Sweeney" by Brian Friel, which had recently played in town, about a woman who went blind very early in life, and then as an adult is convinced into having a surgery to regain sight, and the consequences/repercussions of that. One of them mentioned hearing a similar story about someone who'd been deaf and had been given an operation to hear, and had then asked to have it reversed because they couldn't deal with all the stimuli.
Last week, we did the activations at the Chapel space in the Good Shepherd Center in Wallingford. (It used to be a home for "wayward" girls, and now is a community space, with offices, the chapel performance space, and a few apartments.) There was a noticeable difference between the gallery opening and the chapel activations. In the Henry, (well, there'd been alcohol, too) there was a lot of greeting and chatting going on between people, and while they might have been paying attention, they weren't focused on the activations. (Although, when one of the pieces went from a wide distance between the activators, to just a few feet, the crowd grew in numbers, and they got closer, and quieter, even though in the latter, all you could see were the backs of the activators.) In the Chapel space, there was almost complete silence and reverence for about half an hour; a certain sacredness in the way the activators handled the cloth and laid it out before putting it on; a stillness (mental, as well as physical) in the active time with the sculpture. I was definitely more focused, though that was also in part that I knew what to expect.
In the panel discussion after, the artist mentioned that the activators are in a sense, their own audience, they don't need anyone else to witness the act. He also talked about how no one knew what to do with his work in Europe back in the 60's, there wasn't a language to talk about it (which is an interesting concept in itself.) It wasn't until he came to New York that his work was shown, and still today, he considers his contemporaries (in the type of sculpture he does) to be artists working today, and this is 50 years later.
My pen wasn't working too well at the time, so my notes are sketchy, but there was the idea that he has always drawn, and used drawings to document the activations rather than photographs. That drawing could capture something of the inner workings of the participants in a way that photographs could not. To catch the spirit of it. Also, that the material/drawing are the bones of the work, but the activators are needed to be the flesh of it, to make them fully realized (though they exist in two forms: in storage, and activated.)
I want to write more about perception in relation to "Molly Sweeney," have wanted to since I saw it, but want to read it first. So, not yet.
Went to the Henry to do an activation, but the other two people scheduled were late, and had to run off to a class at 2 pm, so I just facilitated them doing an activation, then waited around to see if one of the staff would work with me on one later on. (We didn't. Most of the pieces take four people to activate, a couple take two, and one takes nine.) But in the intervening time, had a good talk about the architecture of the building with the same man that had handed me the dart on a previous outing ("Half the Air in the Given Space"), and joined a gallery talk about drawing. Then talked briefly with two of the exhibit/curation staff about perception. I mentioned the play "Molly Sweeney" by Brian Friel, which had recently played in town, about a woman who went blind very early in life, and then as an adult is convinced into having a surgery to regain sight, and the consequences/repercussions of that. One of them mentioned hearing a similar story about someone who'd been deaf and had been given an operation to hear, and had then asked to have it reversed because they couldn't deal with all the stimuli.
Last week, we did the activations at the Chapel space in the Good Shepherd Center in Wallingford. (It used to be a home for "wayward" girls, and now is a community space, with offices, the chapel performance space, and a few apartments.) There was a noticeable difference between the gallery opening and the chapel activations. In the Henry, (well, there'd been alcohol, too) there was a lot of greeting and chatting going on between people, and while they might have been paying attention, they weren't focused on the activations. (Although, when one of the pieces went from a wide distance between the activators, to just a few feet, the crowd grew in numbers, and they got closer, and quieter, even though in the latter, all you could see were the backs of the activators.) In the Chapel space, there was almost complete silence and reverence for about half an hour; a certain sacredness in the way the activators handled the cloth and laid it out before putting it on; a stillness (mental, as well as physical) in the active time with the sculpture. I was definitely more focused, though that was also in part that I knew what to expect.
In the panel discussion after, the artist mentioned that the activators are in a sense, their own audience, they don't need anyone else to witness the act. He also talked about how no one knew what to do with his work in Europe back in the 60's, there wasn't a language to talk about it (which is an interesting concept in itself.) It wasn't until he came to New York that his work was shown, and still today, he considers his contemporaries (in the type of sculpture he does) to be artists working today, and this is 50 years later.
My pen wasn't working too well at the time, so my notes are sketchy, but there was the idea that he has always drawn, and used drawings to document the activations rather than photographs. That drawing could capture something of the inner workings of the participants in a way that photographs could not. To catch the spirit of it. Also, that the material/drawing are the bones of the work, but the activators are needed to be the flesh of it, to make them fully realized (though they exist in two forms: in storage, and activated.)
I want to write more about perception in relation to "Molly Sweeney," have wanted to since I saw it, but want to read it first. So, not yet.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Go See This
The autumn colors linger into November, deepening into reds and oranges not usually seen, a nice contrast with the morning showers. Now the sun has come out, and the gray is lifting.
On Tuesday, I saw "Mr. Burns, a post-electric play," by AnneWashburn/Michael Friedman, dir. by John Langs, at ACT. It was $20-ticket night, the house was full. I don't want to review it here, only to say that it's worth seeing. It's exciting work, provocative, not as in titillation, but in that it fills my head with ideas, (and I'm trying to write about that, not where I want to be with it yet), and even if some people commented that it was hard to follow, I found it to be the type of theatre that thrills me (the whole big concept of the thing.)
The basic story is Act I, survivors of a nuclear catastrophe gather around a campfire and piece together the re-telling of the Simpson's episode called "Cape Fear," a story involving the movie "Cape Fear" as well as "Night of the Hunter." There is a ritual also of whenever someone new comes along of naming names to see who is alive.
Act II, same characters, seven years later. In some sorta' town or city, making "movies" of scenes in order to survive. A nice dance/song mash-up, routine here.
Act III, seventy-five years later, a musical/re-enactment of story, as it's evolved by that point. I'm gonna say that last one is open to interpretation as to what's going on, exactly, there might be a specific, but I don't want to know it, it's more interesting to wrestle with what exactly is happening, more fertile ground for thought and exploration. (What happens to stories as they are passed down over time through oral traditions? What gains and loses significance depending on the teller or the audience? Or what drives the need to repeat the story? What do we do with it? How does it shape our culture or our identity? What do we accept as unassailable "truth" over time, where did it come from? Are we willing to seek the source or do we blindly accept the way things are assuming they were always that way? How do societies change or advance over time? Who controls the message?)
A fantastic cast: Anne Allgood, Christine Marie Brown, Andrew Lee Creech, Erik Gratton, Claudine Mboligikpelani Nako, Bhama Roget, Adam Standley, and Robertson Witmer. An especially fine job of physical acting by Standley (Mr. Burns), Mboligikpelani Nako (Itchy), and Creech (Scratchy) as the heinous "bad guys" in Act III. So good.
On Tuesday, I saw "Mr. Burns, a post-electric play," by AnneWashburn/Michael Friedman, dir. by John Langs, at ACT. It was $20-ticket night, the house was full. I don't want to review it here, only to say that it's worth seeing. It's exciting work, provocative, not as in titillation, but in that it fills my head with ideas, (and I'm trying to write about that, not where I want to be with it yet), and even if some people commented that it was hard to follow, I found it to be the type of theatre that thrills me (the whole big concept of the thing.)
The basic story is Act I, survivors of a nuclear catastrophe gather around a campfire and piece together the re-telling of the Simpson's episode called "Cape Fear," a story involving the movie "Cape Fear" as well as "Night of the Hunter." There is a ritual also of whenever someone new comes along of naming names to see who is alive.
Act II, same characters, seven years later. In some sorta' town or city, making "movies" of scenes in order to survive. A nice dance/song mash-up, routine here.
Act III, seventy-five years later, a musical/re-enactment of story, as it's evolved by that point. I'm gonna say that last one is open to interpretation as to what's going on, exactly, there might be a specific, but I don't want to know it, it's more interesting to wrestle with what exactly is happening, more fertile ground for thought and exploration. (What happens to stories as they are passed down over time through oral traditions? What gains and loses significance depending on the teller or the audience? Or what drives the need to repeat the story? What do we do with it? How does it shape our culture or our identity? What do we accept as unassailable "truth" over time, where did it come from? Are we willing to seek the source or do we blindly accept the way things are assuming they were always that way? How do societies change or advance over time? Who controls the message?)
A fantastic cast: Anne Allgood, Christine Marie Brown, Andrew Lee Creech, Erik Gratton, Claudine Mboligikpelani Nako, Bhama Roget, Adam Standley, and Robertson Witmer. An especially fine job of physical acting by Standley (Mr. Burns), Mboligikpelani Nako (Itchy), and Creech (Scratchy) as the heinous "bad guys" in Act III. So good.
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