Are you an actor or a real person?
So went the greeting at a recent commercial audition for [see non-disclosure agreement].
I hate commercial auditions. I'm not good at them. Partly I think from lack of practice, partly because I have trouble 'acting' my way through asinine questions like that.
The worst part is, I'm not really sure who it insults more. Actors or real people.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Slippery Slope?
Over the past few months there have been 12 attacks on women in Brooklyn. Specifically in and around the neighborhood of Park Slope. Where I live.
According to Wikipedia, "Park Slope is considered one of New York City's most desirable neighborhoods. In 2010, it was ranked number 1 in New York by New York Magazine citing its quality public schools, dining, nightlife, shopping, access to public transit, green space, quality housing, safety, and creative capital, among other aspects".
I have made a point of avoiding the growing anxiety. Not because I consider attacks on women walking to their homes to be trivial, but because I refuse to let someone make me feel scared to walk the streets. That's its own brand of attack. And one I can fight.
So, I have continued to go on my run around Prospect Park at dusk, which is coming earlier and earlier as the Autumn makes itself known. The newspaperman I live with doesn't like this one bit, but I tell him there are many other runners, and cyclists and skaters and parents walking their children. And now the occasional police van. And I'm fine.
Except last night on the hill near the end of the track I got a cramp, and had to take myself off to the side for a minute to stretch it out. And I wasn't fine. It was dark and I was creeped out. And as men approached on their runs, I tried to memorize their features, 'just in case'.
I was back running in a matter of seconds, and I made it home. (In record time). I decided to say nothing to the newspapermen; weary from a day spent poring over photos capturing the world at its worst.
Instead, we ate leftovers and headed out to a bar around the corner, to join friends for a Trivia night. It was an impromptu invitation, but, being the very definition of 'trivial', seemed like a a welcome distraction.
It was nice and low key. 6 teams playing for the glory of two free drinks a piece. 4 rounds. Round winners would receive shots. Tie-breakers decided by the time honored tradition of "Rock, Paper, Scissors".
Good clean fun.
Until one of the teams decided to name themselves, 'The Park Slope Rapists'.
The Trivia Master could barely bring herself to say their name as she announced the scores after Round 1 ("Current Affairs"), but decided not to make it an issue, beyond gritting her teeth and rolling her eyes every time she was forced to say it throughout the proceedings. Somehow made worse by the fact that they kept scoring very well.
At our table, between rounds, we mused over just how offensive it was, on the scale of 'Misguided to Misogynist'. I landed somewhere closer to the latter. As my friend Mag later pointed out, 'Would it have been okay if they called themselves the Park Slope Racists?'
They say success is the best revenge, and so we had ours by winning the night out from under our dubious competitors in a close but decisive finish. However my personal moment of triumph came when I was forced to face off with the Rapist's team captain in a game of Rock Paper Scissors to determine the winner of Round 3 ("X marks the spot").
In a best of three battle royale that lasted about 8 rounds, I finally beat him with a rock. My teammates leapt up in triumph. There were hugs and cheers and I impulsively exclaimed, 'Rapists never win!'
Except they're still pretty terrifying. So stop joking about it. Please.
Over the past few months there have been 12 attacks on women in Brooklyn. Specifically in and around the neighborhood of Park Slope. Where I live.
According to Wikipedia, "Park Slope is considered one of New York City's most desirable neighborhoods. In 2010, it was ranked number 1 in New York by New York Magazine citing its quality public schools, dining, nightlife, shopping, access to public transit, green space, quality housing, safety, and creative capital, among other aspects".
I have made a point of avoiding the growing anxiety. Not because I consider attacks on women walking to their homes to be trivial, but because I refuse to let someone make me feel scared to walk the streets. That's its own brand of attack. And one I can fight.
So, I have continued to go on my run around Prospect Park at dusk, which is coming earlier and earlier as the Autumn makes itself known. The newspaperman I live with doesn't like this one bit, but I tell him there are many other runners, and cyclists and skaters and parents walking their children. And now the occasional police van. And I'm fine.
Except last night on the hill near the end of the track I got a cramp, and had to take myself off to the side for a minute to stretch it out. And I wasn't fine. It was dark and I was creeped out. And as men approached on their runs, I tried to memorize their features, 'just in case'.
I was back running in a matter of seconds, and I made it home. (In record time). I decided to say nothing to the newspapermen; weary from a day spent poring over photos capturing the world at its worst.
Instead, we ate leftovers and headed out to a bar around the corner, to join friends for a Trivia night. It was an impromptu invitation, but, being the very definition of 'trivial', seemed like a a welcome distraction.
It was nice and low key. 6 teams playing for the glory of two free drinks a piece. 4 rounds. Round winners would receive shots. Tie-breakers decided by the time honored tradition of "Rock, Paper, Scissors".
Good clean fun.
Until one of the teams decided to name themselves, 'The Park Slope Rapists'.
The Trivia Master could barely bring herself to say their name as she announced the scores after Round 1 ("Current Affairs"), but decided not to make it an issue, beyond gritting her teeth and rolling her eyes every time she was forced to say it throughout the proceedings. Somehow made worse by the fact that they kept scoring very well.
At our table, between rounds, we mused over just how offensive it was, on the scale of 'Misguided to Misogynist'. I landed somewhere closer to the latter. As my friend Mag later pointed out, 'Would it have been okay if they called themselves the Park Slope Racists?'
They say success is the best revenge, and so we had ours by winning the night out from under our dubious competitors in a close but decisive finish. However my personal moment of triumph came when I was forced to face off with the Rapist's team captain in a game of Rock Paper Scissors to determine the winner of Round 3 ("X marks the spot").
In a best of three battle royale that lasted about 8 rounds, I finally beat him with a rock. My teammates leapt up in triumph. There were hugs and cheers and I impulsively exclaimed, 'Rapists never win!'
Except they're still pretty terrifying. So stop joking about it. Please.
Monday, April 18, 2011
April is the cruelest month.
So said T.S Eliot in The Wasteland. I'm not entirely sure what was his particular gripe was, but from where I sit, April 2011 has been the worst kind of seasonal tease, withholding Spring like a spoilt child. Too many times my Winter coat has gone optimistically into the closet, only to come right back out again to shield against the icy chill or the biting rain.
I've tried keeping in good spirtis, I've tried dressing inappropriately in the hope that she'd take pity. Pathetically, at the end of March, I even threw a 'first of the season' BBQ in our shady backyard, to try and summon the warm nights and balmy air in some sort of yuppie-pagan ritual. Still the rains and wind came at regular intervals.
This Saturday, in spite of grey skies and bitter wind, I defiantly (even jauntily) rode my bike one neighborhood over to celebrate a friend's birthday at a great little pub in Carroll Gardends called 'Jakewalk'. After which I had to abandon ship and return to Park Slope (1.1 miles away) in a car service, to avoid the epic thunderstorms.
Then on Sunday this happened.
Out of the sun, the air was still cool, but as I wandered around the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens more and more evidence of what promises to be the sweetest Spring I have ever known was bursting out, full of colour and fragance and romance.
And it occurred to me, that though this Winter has felt interminable in its slugglishness and while sometimes it feels like nothing will ever change, I can't help but smile at how far we've come in a few short months.
So said T.S Eliot in The Wasteland. I'm not entirely sure what was his particular gripe was, but from where I sit, April 2011 has been the worst kind of seasonal tease, withholding Spring like a spoilt child. Too many times my Winter coat has gone optimistically into the closet, only to come right back out again to shield against the icy chill or the biting rain.
I've tried keeping in good spirtis, I've tried dressing inappropriately in the hope that she'd take pity. Pathetically, at the end of March, I even threw a 'first of the season' BBQ in our shady backyard, to try and summon the warm nights and balmy air in some sort of yuppie-pagan ritual. Still the rains and wind came at regular intervals.
This Saturday, in spite of grey skies and bitter wind, I defiantly (even jauntily) rode my bike one neighborhood over to celebrate a friend's birthday at a great little pub in Carroll Gardends called 'Jakewalk'. After which I had to abandon ship and return to Park Slope (1.1 miles away) in a car service, to avoid the epic thunderstorms.
Then on Sunday this happened.
Out of the sun, the air was still cool, but as I wandered around the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens more and more evidence of what promises to be the sweetest Spring I have ever known was bursting out, full of colour and fragance and romance.
And it occurred to me, that though this Winter has felt interminable in its slugglishness and while sometimes it feels like nothing will ever change, I can't help but smile at how far we've come in a few short months.
Friday, April 15, 2011
In honour of my recently renovated blog
In 1945 Elizabeth Smart wrote a book about a passionate love affair called 'By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept'. During my undergraduate degree I carried it around in my bag for almost a year, but pathetically I never finished it. It's considered a masterpiece of the 'prose-poetry' genre, which to me seemed a bit like being a gold medallist in grass growing - sure, the result might be beautiful, but anything beyond a cursory appreciation felt a lot like hard work.
Also, for someone who'd made up her mind that she wanted to live in New York, there was a little too much weeping and a little too little Grand Central Station.
Grand Central endures as one of my most favourite places in the city. Every time I arrive feels like the first time; I'm a visitor all over again and I wish I lived in New York. Then I remember that, miraculously, I do.
In the past few weeks I've had time to read over this wayward blog, and I realised that for a bunch of ramblings collected under the heading New York Minutes, it's a little short on the New York.
So I changed the backdrop, to remind me of my own passionate love affair, and in honour of that, I present a random collection of Grand Central Minutes.
Things I have done at Grand Central Station
1. Sipped a cappucino, solo, at the coffee bar in the food court, while waiting for the train.
2. Had cocktails at the famed Oyster Bar, while waiting for the train.
3. Kissed a boy in the Grand Hall, while waiting for the train.
4. Chatted to the chefs at the Patisserie, while waiting for the train.
5. Stared in awe at the cathedral ceiling with a man named Gus, who I met on the train.
6. Had a secret conversation via the 'Whisper Wall', with the touring cast of Macbeth.
7. Boarded the train and ridden along the Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Shakespeare under a tent.
8. Boarded the train and ridden along the icy Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Dickens by the fire place.
9. Toasted my engagement over a glass of champagne at Campbell's Apartment.
10. Raised a glass at Cipriani Dolci in tribute to my friend and teacher, after learning of his death.
Things I have NEVER done at Grand Central Station
1. Sat down and wept.
In 1945 Elizabeth Smart wrote a book about a passionate love affair called 'By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept'. During my undergraduate degree I carried it around in my bag for almost a year, but pathetically I never finished it. It's considered a masterpiece of the 'prose-poetry' genre, which to me seemed a bit like being a gold medallist in grass growing - sure, the result might be beautiful, but anything beyond a cursory appreciation felt a lot like hard work.
Also, for someone who'd made up her mind that she wanted to live in New York, there was a little too much weeping and a little too little Grand Central Station.
Grand Central endures as one of my most favourite places in the city. Every time I arrive feels like the first time; I'm a visitor all over again and I wish I lived in New York. Then I remember that, miraculously, I do.
In the past few weeks I've had time to read over this wayward blog, and I realised that for a bunch of ramblings collected under the heading New York Minutes, it's a little short on the New York.
So I changed the backdrop, to remind me of my own passionate love affair, and in honour of that, I present a random collection of Grand Central Minutes.
Things I have done at Grand Central Station
1. Sipped a cappucino, solo, at the coffee bar in the food court, while waiting for the train.
2. Had cocktails at the famed Oyster Bar, while waiting for the train.
3. Kissed a boy in the Grand Hall, while waiting for the train.
4. Chatted to the chefs at the Patisserie, while waiting for the train.
5. Stared in awe at the cathedral ceiling with a man named Gus, who I met on the train.
6. Had a secret conversation via the 'Whisper Wall', with the touring cast of Macbeth.
7. Boarded the train and ridden along the Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Shakespeare under a tent.
8. Boarded the train and ridden along the icy Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Dickens by the fire place.
9. Toasted my engagement over a glass of champagne at Campbell's Apartment.
10. Raised a glass at Cipriani Dolci in tribute to my friend and teacher, after learning of his death.
Things I have NEVER done at Grand Central Station
1. Sat down and wept.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Making Strides - a sobering thought
We had a party at our place on New Year's Eve. Around 25 friends, eager to ring in the New Year, and with them enough winter coats to collapse our coat rack, taking a large chunk of the wall with it.
It was all highly festive, finishing in the late-early hours and leaving a lot of restoration to be dealt with the next day. Which didn't happen. Instead, we ordered pizza and watched romantic comedies, and finished off an open bottle of red wine. In this way, I consider January 1st to be a freebie; a hangover of 2010. (I mean this mostly literally.)
As of January 2nd, the remaining alcohol in our house has been put up on dry shelves and out of harms way, as we begin yet another month of sobriety. You may remember past attempts to do this caused much hand wringing and self pity, but this time I'm actually looking forward to it.
In the spirit of 2011's theme of 'Making Strides', I look forward to diving into the new year with some self-imposed clarity, and with fewer diversionary tactics.
I love wine. Good wine in particular, though it's not essential. There's nothing quite like the ritual of a glass of wine at the end of the day. But it's also a great way to let yourself off the hook. If a week becomes a bit hard, or if life's obstacles are piling too high, it's a great way to ceremoniously retreat from battle. And this year is all about leaping into the breach, not just once more, but with gusto. And about getting hooks back up on the wall. At least before the next party.
We had a party at our place on New Year's Eve. Around 25 friends, eager to ring in the New Year, and with them enough winter coats to collapse our coat rack, taking a large chunk of the wall with it.
It was all highly festive, finishing in the late-early hours and leaving a lot of restoration to be dealt with the next day. Which didn't happen. Instead, we ordered pizza and watched romantic comedies, and finished off an open bottle of red wine. In this way, I consider January 1st to be a freebie; a hangover of 2010. (I mean this mostly literally.)
As of January 2nd, the remaining alcohol in our house has been put up on dry shelves and out of harms way, as we begin yet another month of sobriety. You may remember past attempts to do this caused much hand wringing and self pity, but this time I'm actually looking forward to it.
In the spirit of 2011's theme of 'Making Strides', I look forward to diving into the new year with some self-imposed clarity, and with fewer diversionary tactics.
I love wine. Good wine in particular, though it's not essential. There's nothing quite like the ritual of a glass of wine at the end of the day. But it's also a great way to let yourself off the hook. If a week becomes a bit hard, or if life's obstacles are piling too high, it's a great way to ceremoniously retreat from battle. And this year is all about leaping into the breach, not just once more, but with gusto. And about getting hooks back up on the wall. At least before the next party.
Monday, December 27, 2010
The man with one leg
We spent Christmas in central New Jersey, at the home of a very dear couple and their four (almost suspiciously) well-adjusted children. After a delicious turkey dinner and more helpings of pie than is elegant, we settled back in their cosy rumpus room to review, over a snifter of bourbon, the year's highlights. It's something my parents like to do at the end of any holiday, or significant period of time; a kind of stocktake, or personal "top-ten".
On our host's list was the funeral of a dear friend of his from Yale. The funeral, while naturally sad, was an affecting reminder of the difference a resilient spirit can make in meeting life's challenges.
He told us his friend, Jim, was a 300-pound Ivy league footballer and handsome theater major, who one night in 1985, shortly after graduating, was struck down by a New York city bus. He was pronounced dead on arrival (they actually drew the chalk outline), but after 18 hours of surgery he stabilized, and awoke from his coma relatively in tact. Minus his left leg below the knee.
So, he worked and trained and transformed himself into an 150-pound iron-man triathlete, setting records and routinely finishing ahead of 80% of the able-bodied athletes.
Then, in 1993 while he was racing on a closed track triathalon in California, a marshal misjudged his speed and directed a van to cross the road. The van and Jim collided, sending him flying into a signpost. He broke his neck and was paralyzed.
The story goes on; he begins again, this time setting up a charity known as the 'Choose Living Foundation', and on and on, right up to being presented with an Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2005 ESPY's, by none other than Oprah Winfrey.
Last night it snowed. New York was hit by about 20 inches in less that 24 hours. A bone-fide, history-making blizzard. So my journalist husband insisted I join him and his camera out in the street, that I may experience history as it happened.
This is something of what that experience felt like:
We spent Christmas in central New Jersey, at the home of a very dear couple and their four (almost suspiciously) well-adjusted children. After a delicious turkey dinner and more helpings of pie than is elegant, we settled back in their cosy rumpus room to review, over a snifter of bourbon, the year's highlights. It's something my parents like to do at the end of any holiday, or significant period of time; a kind of stocktake, or personal "top-ten".
On our host's list was the funeral of a dear friend of his from Yale. The funeral, while naturally sad, was an affecting reminder of the difference a resilient spirit can make in meeting life's challenges.
He told us his friend, Jim, was a 300-pound Ivy league footballer and handsome theater major, who one night in 1985, shortly after graduating, was struck down by a New York city bus. He was pronounced dead on arrival (they actually drew the chalk outline), but after 18 hours of surgery he stabilized, and awoke from his coma relatively in tact. Minus his left leg below the knee.
So, he worked and trained and transformed himself into an 150-pound iron-man triathlete, setting records and routinely finishing ahead of 80% of the able-bodied athletes.
Then, in 1993 while he was racing on a closed track triathalon in California, a marshal misjudged his speed and directed a van to cross the road. The van and Jim collided, sending him flying into a signpost. He broke his neck and was paralyzed.
The story goes on; he begins again, this time setting up a charity known as the 'Choose Living Foundation', and on and on, right up to being presented with an Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2005 ESPY's, by none other than Oprah Winfrey.
...
Last night it snowed. New York was hit by about 20 inches in less that 24 hours. A bone-fide, history-making blizzard. So my journalist husband insisted I join him and his camera out in the street, that I may experience history as it happened.
This is something of what that experience felt like:
This morning I left the house around 7am. It was light, but no plows or pedestrians had carved a path. I was a pioneer, sometimes steeped in snow up to the thighs; certainly plenty found its way inside my rather useless gumboots (or wellies, or rainboots).
In a moment of grand delusion, I imagined myself to be just like a child living in a remote, third-world village, having to cross a rushing river to get to school. Except my river was soft and fluffy, and eventually deposited me into the subway, and directly into Manhattan, where the snowplows and the Starbucks were all up and running.
...
In all my New-Year-resolving and goal-setting, I have made a lot of noise about twenty-eleven being 'The Year of Making Strides', but when surviving the first snow fall of the season marks an epic victory, I can't help but wonder if some peoples' strides are more impressive than others.
Now, I know these encounters and life lessons have a way of wearing off, giving over to the neuroses and trivialities of the every-day. Yet, while I never expect to live life with the sort of true-grit and seismic impact of a Jim MacLaren, (or for that matter the boy our other Christmas host taught in Haiti over the summer, who crossed ACTUAL rivers as part of his three-hour journey to school), I wonder if in 2011, I might set the bar a bit higher for myself, and when I feel like I'm failing or limping through life, to imagine what it would be like to make strides with just one leg.
At the very least, it might lend a little more grace to the occasion.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Making up for lost blogs
It's Christmas time again. And for the first time, EVER, I'm spending the holiday in New York City.
Yes it's cold. Yes I'm away from family. And yes, it's amazingly beautiful.
Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center
My mother and sister were in town the first week of December, as a preemptive festive strike.
We discount-designer shopped at Century 21, we got $22 mani/pedi's, we drank wine in a hotel rooftop bar overlooking the Manhattan skyline, we saw Bernadette Peters and Elaine Stritch do their (rather remarkable) thing in 'A Little Night Music' on Broadway and we decorated my first, ever, live American Christmas Tree.
They were also here to see me perform in one of the two 'Christmas Carol' adaptations that kept me gainfully employed throughout the month of December, up at Boscobel in Garrison (home to the Shakespeare Festival during the summer).
The second performance was in the city at the beautifully refurbished Morgan Library on Madison Avenue, with Dominic Chianese (or Uncle Junior for any "Sopranos" fans) in the lead. It turns out the library owns Dicken's original manuscript, and produced a new 'chamber' version of the classic by composer Ray Leslee. The evening went over very well, and I'm now on the Morgan Library's radar as someone who can produce an authentic British accent for all their upcoming Jane Austin and Emily Bronte readings. :-)
Until such time, 'twill have to be enough to enjoy the season and not worry too much about what's next.
So for now, good food, good nog,
and worst case scenario,
more time to blog.
Merry Christmas... from Dr. Seuss, apparently.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Boxers v Pants
At an impromptu welcome back BBQ on Monday night (Labor Day) our host Patrick filled us in on some of the success he's having with his blog. It's sports related... (I want to say football) and he's connected to something called a 'blog network', and even attends sports related events replete with 'media pass'... suffice to say he's operating on a slightly different level from me.
He's even starting to earn a paycheck; not enough to live on (yet), but certainly a nice bonus.
Patrick tells us that his boss in the blogosphere has just quit his regular job, and now works from home, all day... blogging.
"Livin' the dream," says Patrick.
Dan grunts, knowingly.
"Is that the dream?" I ask, innocently enough.
"Are you kidding?! Getting to sit at home all day in your boxer shorts!?"
Dan just nods, with his eyes closed, as if the mere mention of such a possibility is almost too much bliss to handle.
Patrick's question is clearly rhetorical, so I don't answer it. But it makes for an interesting distinction.
I usually hesitate to speak for all women, but I like to imagine that for most of us 'the dream' is usually represented in our imaginations by the donning of things, be it a red carpet gown, or scrubs, legal robes, or even just great sunglasses.
And if our dreams turn to the kind of self-employment that involves working out of one's living room, it's probably because we imagine being able to make our own hours, and fit our work around families and friends, or some greater artistic pursuit that doesn't yet pay the bills.
Whereas it turns out that for men, the great obstacle of life to be overcome... is pants.
At an impromptu welcome back BBQ on Monday night (Labor Day) our host Patrick filled us in on some of the success he's having with his blog. It's sports related... (I want to say football) and he's connected to something called a 'blog network', and even attends sports related events replete with 'media pass'... suffice to say he's operating on a slightly different level from me.
He's even starting to earn a paycheck; not enough to live on (yet), but certainly a nice bonus.
Patrick tells us that his boss in the blogosphere has just quit his regular job, and now works from home, all day... blogging.
"Livin' the dream," says Patrick.
Dan grunts, knowingly.
"Is that the dream?" I ask, innocently enough.
"Are you kidding?! Getting to sit at home all day in your boxer shorts!?"
Dan just nods, with his eyes closed, as if the mere mention of such a possibility is almost too much bliss to handle.
Patrick's question is clearly rhetorical, so I don't answer it. But it makes for an interesting distinction.
I usually hesitate to speak for all women, but I like to imagine that for most of us 'the dream' is usually represented in our imaginations by the donning of things, be it a red carpet gown, or scrubs, legal robes, or even just great sunglasses.
And if our dreams turn to the kind of self-employment that involves working out of one's living room, it's probably because we imagine being able to make our own hours, and fit our work around families and friends, or some greater artistic pursuit that doesn't yet pay the bills.
Whereas it turns out that for men, the great obstacle of life to be overcome... is pants.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Let every man be master of his timesheet.
Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.
On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)
Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.
Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.
Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.
Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.
There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.
Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.
And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.
And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?
Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.
The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.
Ah well, one more day.
Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.
Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.
On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)
Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.
Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.
Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.
Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.
There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.
Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.
And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.
And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?
Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.
The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.
Ah well, one more day.
Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
I act therefore I am....
Backyard on the first day of spring. Beautiful.
There have been other days that might have considered themselves the first, but then it rained again, or snowed again, or snowed and rained again. Today it feels like Spring means it this time.
I'm stealing an hour before I go in to the theater to continue with Tech Rehearsals for Limonade Tous les Jours by Charles L. Mee. Our first performance will be just two days from now. In the cell theater, Chelsea, New York, New York.
Yesterday I found out that The Times (translated for non-NYC dwellers as 'The New York Times') will come to review it. This is about as big a deal as it gets for theater folks in New York. Regardless of whether they like it or hate it (and sometimes they really hate it), the point is, you're on the page. You exist. A really famous paper says so. Of course, it would be great if they thought you didn't completely suck at existing, but at this stage of the game, that's just icing on the cake.
I'm having a stellar year. And since the weather matches my mood, I thought I'd update this poor, neglected blog, which I've kept limping along for four years now.
It began in January, when I flew off to Hilton Head Island, SC to perform the role of Gabriella in 'Boeing, Boeing'. Hilton Head is a resort destination, where a beach meets a bunch of golf courses. Not surprisingly the airline formerly known as 'Hooters Air' used to fly direct to Hilton Head, before they became defunct. During the winter months it's quite subdued, but still very pretty, and the perfect way to kick off the year with a six-week contract. Having explored the wilds of New York City a few times now, Mum and Dad even opted to time their annual visit in with the job, and so I had two weeks of living in the same neighborhood as my parents... something I haven't done for 15 years now.
We managed to fit a lot in; a lovely trolley ride around Savannah, a long drive to beautiful Charleston to see where the civil war began (at Dad's insistence), dinners and brunches, and of course, the play. (Which, by-the-by sold-out and extended). But I think my favourite moment was popping home, starving, between a matinee and evening performance, coming through the door to smell mum's pork chops in plum sauce waiting on the table. Amazing.
The week I arrived back in New York I hit the ground running, with two auditions, training prep for my new job teaching Shakespeare Workshops in schools, my first ever 'Neutral American Speech' student, and rehearsals for Limonade.
Since the end of February that has been my routine. And now here we are about to open.
There are, of course, infinite stories (and hours) between those two sentences. So much doubt, and anxiety, and stress, and a lost voice, and a wonderful trip to Paris courtesy of my incredible brother Brendan, and a million meetings about budgets, and fundraising, and ticket sales, and how to bring it all together.
But now here we are. The show will go on. As for the rest, who knows?
Just Yesterday I put my sister Cynthia and seven year old niece Ana in a car for Newark Airport, after 9 days of having them stay two doors up from us in a bed and breakfast in Park Slope. Again, we fit a lot in. Theater and museums and discount designer shopping. And again, my two favourite moments were feeling Ana squeeze my hand tightly as she sat in the chair waiting oh-so-anxiously to get her ears pierced, and then, having Cynthia in the room, when I received the call from the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival to say I'd be playing Cressida (of Troilus and Cressida) in the upcoming Summer Season at Boscobel, should I choose to accept.
Which of course, I did. Immediately.
We hugged in the living room as Dan ran out to get champagne to toast the fact that I now know where my paycheck is coming from right through September. But so much more than that, it's a fantastic part, in a really great play, with a company that feels like home.
No one should ask for more than that.
So all is pretty wonderful from the vantage point of this little backyard in Park Slope. And it's best to capture it now. Because in six months I could be unemployed, and uninspired, and badly reviewed in the New York Times... Twice!
Or it could be something else entirely. Who knows?
Meanwhile, here's some much more eloquent musings on the beauty of theater, and more than that, being able to exist in the moment - courtesy of the lovely Dan.
http://www.ted.com/talks/patsy_rodenburg_why_i_do_theater.html
Backyard on the first day of spring. Beautiful.
There have been other days that might have considered themselves the first, but then it rained again, or snowed again, or snowed and rained again. Today it feels like Spring means it this time.
I'm stealing an hour before I go in to the theater to continue with Tech Rehearsals for Limonade Tous les Jours by Charles L. Mee. Our first performance will be just two days from now. In the cell theater, Chelsea, New York, New York.
Yesterday I found out that The Times (translated for non-NYC dwellers as 'The New York Times') will come to review it. This is about as big a deal as it gets for theater folks in New York. Regardless of whether they like it or hate it (and sometimes they really hate it), the point is, you're on the page. You exist. A really famous paper says so. Of course, it would be great if they thought you didn't completely suck at existing, but at this stage of the game, that's just icing on the cake.
I'm having a stellar year. And since the weather matches my mood, I thought I'd update this poor, neglected blog, which I've kept limping along for four years now.
It began in January, when I flew off to Hilton Head Island, SC to perform the role of Gabriella in 'Boeing, Boeing'. Hilton Head is a resort destination, where a beach meets a bunch of golf courses. Not surprisingly the airline formerly known as 'Hooters Air' used to fly direct to Hilton Head, before they became defunct. During the winter months it's quite subdued, but still very pretty, and the perfect way to kick off the year with a six-week contract. Having explored the wilds of New York City a few times now, Mum and Dad even opted to time their annual visit in with the job, and so I had two weeks of living in the same neighborhood as my parents... something I haven't done for 15 years now.
We managed to fit a lot in; a lovely trolley ride around Savannah, a long drive to beautiful Charleston to see where the civil war began (at Dad's insistence), dinners and brunches, and of course, the play. (Which, by-the-by sold-out and extended). But I think my favourite moment was popping home, starving, between a matinee and evening performance, coming through the door to smell mum's pork chops in plum sauce waiting on the table. Amazing.
The week I arrived back in New York I hit the ground running, with two auditions, training prep for my new job teaching Shakespeare Workshops in schools, my first ever 'Neutral American Speech' student, and rehearsals for Limonade.
Since the end of February that has been my routine. And now here we are about to open.
There are, of course, infinite stories (and hours) between those two sentences. So much doubt, and anxiety, and stress, and a lost voice, and a wonderful trip to Paris courtesy of my incredible brother Brendan, and a million meetings about budgets, and fundraising, and ticket sales, and how to bring it all together.
But now here we are. The show will go on. As for the rest, who knows?
Just Yesterday I put my sister Cynthia and seven year old niece Ana in a car for Newark Airport, after 9 days of having them stay two doors up from us in a bed and breakfast in Park Slope. Again, we fit a lot in. Theater and museums and discount designer shopping. And again, my two favourite moments were feeling Ana squeeze my hand tightly as she sat in the chair waiting oh-so-anxiously to get her ears pierced, and then, having Cynthia in the room, when I received the call from the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival to say I'd be playing Cressida (of Troilus and Cressida) in the upcoming Summer Season at Boscobel, should I choose to accept.
Which of course, I did. Immediately.
We hugged in the living room as Dan ran out to get champagne to toast the fact that I now know where my paycheck is coming from right through September. But so much more than that, it's a fantastic part, in a really great play, with a company that feels like home.
No one should ask for more than that.
So all is pretty wonderful from the vantage point of this little backyard in Park Slope. And it's best to capture it now. Because in six months I could be unemployed, and uninspired, and badly reviewed in the New York Times... Twice!
Or it could be something else entirely. Who knows?
Meanwhile, here's some much more eloquent musings on the beauty of theater, and more than that, being able to exist in the moment - courtesy of the lovely Dan.
http://www.ted.com/talks/patsy_rodenburg_why_i_do_theater.html
Monday, September 21, 2009
Withdrawal...
I spoke to Australia early this morning. It was late at night there, but mum was still up, and ready for her 'fix'. (She often employs the parlance of the common junkie when referring to her children, which should perhaps be disconcerting, but is also kind of awesome.)
I myself had been jonesing for some contact with Australia; (hyperlink for mum's benefit... not sure she's that advanced yet) an unexpected bi-product and perhaps overreaction to the receipt of my 'Greencard' or, Permanent Resident's card.
That word, permanent, has been thrown around quite a bit since getting married and applying for legal residence in the United States, and since finishing my last job, exactly three whole weeks ago, I've had a bit too much time on my hands to think about what it means.
So, it is always nice to be saved from the plughole of my own brain with an uplifting chat to mum, and to hear tale of the latest from way down under.
She tells me a story about my seven year old niece, Anastasia, who came to lunch at her grandmother's house today. In her pajamas. Evidently she 'couldn't be bothered getting dressed', due to a 'big weekend with the cousins'.
Most unfortunately mum didn't have a picture, but I'm rather fond of the one in my head. I love the idea of my goddaughter, too spent to change out of her flannels, casually throwing on some sneakers and a coat, heading off to high tea with the grand matriach. I'm still trying to decide whether this makes her rockstar, or a welfare mother.
I'm not good at not working. Or rather, not being paid by someone else to do something. Every time I have a break from it I suffer from severe withdrawal, in every sense; I crave work, and I react by disappearing into a big black hole... this time in Brooklyn.
Later in the evening, as I'm crashing from the mum-high, the phone rings and it's my most lovely friend from grad school, David. Recently moved back to Pittsburgh (or as Sienna Miller affectionately dubbed it 'Shitsburgh') so he could live rent free and reassess the world. As I bemoan my lack of employment, he reminds me, 'it could be worse, you could have my job'.
David recently started work at a call center for a cable company. It's not telemarketing, but it's only one rung above. He gets paid about $19,000 pa, and he won't receive any sick leave or vaction pay for twelve months.
He tells me a story about a recent conference with one of the bosses, where David felt the need to ask the question about what he should do if he needs to visit the bathroom outside of his one allocated lunch break (45 mins) and two allocated ten minute breaks. His manager replied, 'I don't like to answer that question'.
I listen and then laugh at my poor, compliant friend, thinking his boss doesn't want to answer because it will embarrass him. ('What do you think you do? You get up and go! We're all grown ups here'.)
In fact, it turns out that what his manager doesn't like to say is that technically, 'employees are not allowed to get up from their desks, EXCEPT during those allocated breaks, and if absences of more than two minutes are logged by their computers, employees will be docked.'
I say, 'QUIT! QUIT NOW!!'
'I can't', David says, 'Not before Wednesday. Wednesday is Mudcup Day, every employee gets a free chocolate pudding.
I tell him to start a blog. You can't make that stuff up.
The truth is, I'm not unemployed. I'm self employed. I have plenty of work to do. Lots of self promotion and hustling and nose-to-the-grinding... but my manager is a lot less rigid than David's. I can go to the bathroom whenever I choose. And I can drink bourbon while I'm there if I want.
If history is anything to go by, rehabilition is inevitable. Something will come up. A big hand will reach into the black hole and pull me out. I'll be back on top, and wondering what all the fuss was about. And hopefully in fewer than twelve steps.
Meanwhile, I might take a leaf out of Ana's book, and enjoy the pajamas while I can.
I spoke to Australia early this morning. It was late at night there, but mum was still up, and ready for her 'fix'. (She often employs the parlance of the common junkie when referring to her children, which should perhaps be disconcerting, but is also kind of awesome.)
I myself had been jonesing for some contact with Australia; (hyperlink for mum's benefit... not sure she's that advanced yet) an unexpected bi-product and perhaps overreaction to the receipt of my 'Greencard' or, Permanent Resident's card.
That word, permanent, has been thrown around quite a bit since getting married and applying for legal residence in the United States, and since finishing my last job, exactly three whole weeks ago, I've had a bit too much time on my hands to think about what it means.
So, it is always nice to be saved from the plughole of my own brain with an uplifting chat to mum, and to hear tale of the latest from way down under.
She tells me a story about my seven year old niece, Anastasia, who came to lunch at her grandmother's house today. In her pajamas. Evidently she 'couldn't be bothered getting dressed', due to a 'big weekend with the cousins'.
Most unfortunately mum didn't have a picture, but I'm rather fond of the one in my head. I love the idea of my goddaughter, too spent to change out of her flannels, casually throwing on some sneakers and a coat, heading off to high tea with the grand matriach. I'm still trying to decide whether this makes her rockstar, or a welfare mother.
I'm not good at not working. Or rather, not being paid by someone else to do something. Every time I have a break from it I suffer from severe withdrawal, in every sense; I crave work, and I react by disappearing into a big black hole... this time in Brooklyn.
Later in the evening, as I'm crashing from the mum-high, the phone rings and it's my most lovely friend from grad school, David. Recently moved back to Pittsburgh (or as Sienna Miller affectionately dubbed it 'Shitsburgh') so he could live rent free and reassess the world. As I bemoan my lack of employment, he reminds me, 'it could be worse, you could have my job'.
David recently started work at a call center for a cable company. It's not telemarketing, but it's only one rung above. He gets paid about $19,000 pa, and he won't receive any sick leave or vaction pay for twelve months.
He tells me a story about a recent conference with one of the bosses, where David felt the need to ask the question about what he should do if he needs to visit the bathroom outside of his one allocated lunch break (45 mins) and two allocated ten minute breaks. His manager replied, 'I don't like to answer that question'.
I listen and then laugh at my poor, compliant friend, thinking his boss doesn't want to answer because it will embarrass him. ('What do you think you do? You get up and go! We're all grown ups here'.)
In fact, it turns out that what his manager doesn't like to say is that technically, 'employees are not allowed to get up from their desks, EXCEPT during those allocated breaks, and if absences of more than two minutes are logged by their computers, employees will be docked.'
I say, 'QUIT! QUIT NOW!!'
'I can't', David says, 'Not before Wednesday. Wednesday is Mudcup Day, every employee gets a free chocolate pudding.
I tell him to start a blog. You can't make that stuff up.
The truth is, I'm not unemployed. I'm self employed. I have plenty of work to do. Lots of self promotion and hustling and nose-to-the-grinding... but my manager is a lot less rigid than David's. I can go to the bathroom whenever I choose. And I can drink bourbon while I'm there if I want.
If history is anything to go by, rehabilition is inevitable. Something will come up. A big hand will reach into the black hole and pull me out. I'll be back on top, and wondering what all the fuss was about. And hopefully in fewer than twelve steps.
Meanwhile, I might take a leaf out of Ana's book, and enjoy the pajamas while I can.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A word about assholes... (sorry mum)
About six years ago, in a time of my life before digital cameras, I travelled around Mexico for five weeks. One of the stops on the journey was Chichen Itza, a pre-columbian archeological site built by the Mayans.
The place is amazing. So amazing it's recently been named one of the 'NEW' Seven Wonders of the World.
The centerpiece of this ancient village is 'El Castillo', which is incredible for a number of freaky mathematical and astrological reasons that Wikipedia can tell you about, but suffice to say, it's also just kind of unreal to behold:
When I first saw Chichen Itza however, I got to do more than look, I got to climb the EXTREMELY steep steps of El Castillo, and look out over the breathtaking Mayan city. Also, thanks to archaeologists, you could venture inside a doorway at the base of the north staircase, which leads to a tunnel, from which one can climb the steps of the earlier version of El Castillo, inside the current one, up to the room on the top where you can see King Kukulcan's Jaguar throne. Carved of stone and painted red with jade spots, it's believed to have been a gift from Guatalmalans, who would have come to Chichen Itza for trade, though how they transported the large, heavy statue, remains a Stonehenge-style mystery.
The journey inside the chamber is not for the faint-hearted, and more than one turned back. The passage is narrower than an economy seat on an aeroplane, oxygen is scant, and the walls are damp with condensation from all the breath and sweat. That said, it remains one of the most thrilling things I've ever experienced, sitting right there, just where they found it, just as the Mayans left it.
In an album somewhere I have photos of me dangling precariously from the one, thick rope hanging down the side of the temple, kindly provided to assist in the climb. And I have photos of the unimpeded, breathtaking (and well-earned) view from the top. I don't have photos of the Jaguar, because flashes were not allowed, and in case you can't see where this is going, I'm not an asshole.
This year, in July, Dan and I got married and then honeymooned on the Yucatan peninsula. I couldn't wait to show him Chichen Itza - he being a far bigger history nerd than... well, just about anybody.
This was Dan's experience of El Castillo:
If you look very closely behind him, you'll see that the climbing rope has been replaced by an extremely thin, sad little museum style string all around the base. And there's no more climbing, or vista beholding.
The door that leads to the tunnel that leads to the steps that lead to the jaguar, is also barred. Presumably forever.
Why?
Because of assholes.
Because of asshole travellers who couldn't stop themselves from taking photos of, and damaging the ancient jaguar throne. Apparently some grand, head asshole even stole the jade eyes and the teeth.
And the climbing is allowed no more because of travellers who were (to be more polite about it than our guide) relieving themselves at the top of the temple. That's plural. MULTIPLE people saw fit to use the top of this 1500 year old temple as a toilet. So now, naturally, nobody is allowed up there.
Now, instead of standing where the Mayans did and saying, 'THIS IS SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL!', we can stand at a safe distance, and say instead, 'that looks to be extremely cool'. And what is so extremely irritating to me is that it's not because the Mexicans have suddenly developed a consciousness of public liability issues (the prevailing culture for most tourist attractions still seems to be, 'don't be stupid about it, and you won't end up dead'), but because of a handful of idiots (probably a rather large handful), who in my opinion, have no business calling themselves travellers. And whose passports we should probably revoke.
And while it might be impressive to one day dig out an olde-worldy photo album, and show my grandchildren pictures of their crinkly, old Granny climbing an ancient temple, it REALLY frustrates me that I'll have to use the phrase, 'back before you weren't allowed to climb it anymore'.
And so I use the word ASSHOLE. Liberally. And again, with apologies to my mother, who taught me to know better.
About six years ago, in a time of my life before digital cameras, I travelled around Mexico for five weeks. One of the stops on the journey was Chichen Itza, a pre-columbian archeological site built by the Mayans.
The place is amazing. So amazing it's recently been named one of the 'NEW' Seven Wonders of the World.
The centerpiece of this ancient village is 'El Castillo', which is incredible for a number of freaky mathematical and astrological reasons that Wikipedia can tell you about, but suffice to say, it's also just kind of unreal to behold:
When I first saw Chichen Itza however, I got to do more than look, I got to climb the EXTREMELY steep steps of El Castillo, and look out over the breathtaking Mayan city. Also, thanks to archaeologists, you could venture inside a doorway at the base of the north staircase, which leads to a tunnel, from which one can climb the steps of the earlier version of El Castillo, inside the current one, up to the room on the top where you can see King Kukulcan's Jaguar throne. Carved of stone and painted red with jade spots, it's believed to have been a gift from Guatalmalans, who would have come to Chichen Itza for trade, though how they transported the large, heavy statue, remains a Stonehenge-style mystery.
The journey inside the chamber is not for the faint-hearted, and more than one turned back. The passage is narrower than an economy seat on an aeroplane, oxygen is scant, and the walls are damp with condensation from all the breath and sweat. That said, it remains one of the most thrilling things I've ever experienced, sitting right there, just where they found it, just as the Mayans left it.
In an album somewhere I have photos of me dangling precariously from the one, thick rope hanging down the side of the temple, kindly provided to assist in the climb. And I have photos of the unimpeded, breathtaking (and well-earned) view from the top. I don't have photos of the Jaguar, because flashes were not allowed, and in case you can't see where this is going, I'm not an asshole.
This year, in July, Dan and I got married and then honeymooned on the Yucatan peninsula. I couldn't wait to show him Chichen Itza - he being a far bigger history nerd than... well, just about anybody.
This was Dan's experience of El Castillo:
If you look very closely behind him, you'll see that the climbing rope has been replaced by an extremely thin, sad little museum style string all around the base. And there's no more climbing, or vista beholding.
The door that leads to the tunnel that leads to the steps that lead to the jaguar, is also barred. Presumably forever.
Why?
Because of assholes.
Because of asshole travellers who couldn't stop themselves from taking photos of, and damaging the ancient jaguar throne. Apparently some grand, head asshole even stole the jade eyes and the teeth.
And the climbing is allowed no more because of travellers who were (to be more polite about it than our guide) relieving themselves at the top of the temple. That's plural. MULTIPLE people saw fit to use the top of this 1500 year old temple as a toilet. So now, naturally, nobody is allowed up there.
Now, instead of standing where the Mayans did and saying, 'THIS IS SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL!', we can stand at a safe distance, and say instead, 'that looks to be extremely cool'. And what is so extremely irritating to me is that it's not because the Mexicans have suddenly developed a consciousness of public liability issues (the prevailing culture for most tourist attractions still seems to be, 'don't be stupid about it, and you won't end up dead'), but because of a handful of idiots (probably a rather large handful), who in my opinion, have no business calling themselves travellers. And whose passports we should probably revoke.
And while it might be impressive to one day dig out an olde-worldy photo album, and show my grandchildren pictures of their crinkly, old Granny climbing an ancient temple, it REALLY frustrates me that I'll have to use the phrase, 'back before you weren't allowed to climb it anymore'.
And so I use the word ASSHOLE. Liberally. And again, with apologies to my mother, who taught me to know better.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
The Odd Life
As I sit on the porch of 'The Actor House' in Essex, Connecticut - just over a year since last I wrote - I realise that most of these so called 'New York Minutes' are tales of anywhere but. Probably because when I'm out of town, I'm working, and acting work actually takes up far less time and energy than the art of looking for acting work.
So I begin again. In my defense, the following things also kept me from blogging the past year:
One engagement
Three engagement parties
One trip to Kentucky
One move to Brooklyn
One trip to Australia
One trip to Hawaii
One three-month tour of Macbeth
One green card application
One more trip to Australia
One wedding in Mexico
One Honeymoon in same...
And now I'm here. At the Ivoryton Playhouse. Playing Cecily Pigeon in Neil Simon's 'The Odd Couple'. I left for Connecticut two days after Dan and I returned from our honeymoon, leaving behind a barely unpacked apartment and a very understanding husband. For those of you who don't really remember the movie, Cecily Pigeon is one of the British sisters who lives upstairs. In fact the character description in the audition breakdown read "silly British woman"... and so it is.
Here is a picture of my new, makeshift family.
I want to talk about a few of them, however I know how often the poorly constructed anonymity of this blog is exposed, so I will preface by saying how lovely a group they are; how easy it has been to work with everyone, and how I hope if they ever come across references to themselves here, they will forgive me.
First up, Laura Beth. She's the other bewigged lady, standing next to me in the orange shirt. (I'm in the pale blue). Originally from Knoxville, Tennessee she's thirty-three, newly engaged and going to appear in Julie Taymor's 'Spiderman' on Broadway at the end of the year. Suffice to say, life is pretty good for LB. She also makes a fabulous cocktail she calls a 'Hamptontini'. We have been keeping each other entertained during the long periods of downtime with daily trips to the gym (complimentary membership), incessant talk of weddings, horrible reality programming on TLC and of course, aforementioned cocktails.
Back left corner is Tony. He's playing Oscar. The messy one or 'Walter Matthau' for those playing at home. Brooklyn born and bred he now lives in South Jersey with his wife and very pretty sixteen year old daughter. Abd his in-laws, who evidently don't understand his life at all. Tony does more TV/Film than theater, and would admit this has been quite a workout for him. He likes to complain, but mostly for entertainment value. Actually, I think he's a big softie. He drops Laura Beth and I off at the train station in Stamford on days off so we can go back to the city. And he also took us to Mohegan Sun (the casino on the Indian Reservation), where he taught us to play Craps. Not very well unfortnuately. I lost my allotted $40 very quickly.
Just down from Tony, on the left edge, is Brian. Brian is a former Chicago actor, who took some time off to take a turn supporting his wife and three daughters when they moved to be near her family here in Connecticut. He's an excellent actor, but most distinctive about him is how much he loves his wife. He told us matter of factly that the secret is to marry your best friend. I met his wife last night at the opening night party and relayed his comment. She said when she says it, she has an addendum, "He's my best friend, who I still have a crush on"... somehow they manage to pull this off without being nauseating.
In front of Brian is M. (Yep, just M.) M lives in the house with Laura Beth and I, as well as the technical director and props charge, Cat and Rachel. (Front right). In contrast to Brian, M's marriage fell apart largely due to the fact that she didn't or couldn't understand his need to act. This is over simplified of course. Because the need to act is easy to support in principle. The long out-of-town stints, the large gaps between jobs, the sometimes paltry paychecks, these can be far more difficult to reconcile. He has two young boys who will come to visit us here for a few days towards the end of the run. Though I don't have the actual data, I believe Brian to be the exception that makes M's rule. The theater destroys more relationships that it creates. But it seems to me a very, very big sacrifice.
M gives LB and I use of his car, and makes us cocktails when we've run out of vodka. He is exceeding kind. Last night his mother came to see the show. Afterward she gave him a huge bear hug and told him how good he was. We all sat up talking about the night over drinks til 3am.
Back right is Mike. I don't know a lot about Mike yet, except that he's extremely cordial, he lives locally and he has a pool. With three long weeks left in August, it's good to know.
In the middle, next to me, is Bruce. Bruce plays Felix, the neat one or Jack Lemon. Bruce is a pro. He does theater and he does it a lot. He doesn't know how to drive, but he has his bike with him at all times and rides around town. Tony describes him as a 'pixie', because he has so much energy and shows no signs of tiring at the end of the long show. Bruce, like Felix, is allergic to lots of things. He doesn't have a cell phone, and I believe he only occasionally checks email on his dial-up connection at home. He is perhaps an anachronism, and in some ways very private. But mostly just sweet, and giving, and always right on cue.
Finally, Al. Al is in front of Mike and behind Laura Beth. Al is 59, retired, drives a Lexus, has two houses in Connecticut and an apartment on the Upper East Side. Al obviously made some money in his former 'business' career, and now dabbles in real estate, and recently started to explore the idea of acting. He is just about the sweetest most humble man I've ever met.
After the first preview on Wednesday afternoon, downstairs as we all hugged and congratulated each other, Al looked at me with his eyes wide and bright, and his cheeks flushed as he announced almost breathlessly, "That was my first performance of the first play I have ever done. Ever!" I hugged him again and congratulated him again. Then he said, "And I lived!"
I know he meant, "I survived", but for a perfect second I thought he was saying that for the first time in fifty-nine years he really "lived".
Because when it's good, that's what it feels like. This very strange, almost bohemian ritual, of packing up, coming out of town, moving into a well worn house with a bunch of strangers. Working together, playing together, creating a new vocabulary, pulling each other through the hard bits, pouring each other drinks after the good bits, keeping each other sane, keeping each other fit and fed, or even keeping out of each others' way. It's an odd way to live, but at least there's no question that it's living.
As a side note, in all my free time up here I've been revisiting the amazing Slings and Arrows It's a Canadian series that takes you back stage at a Shakespeare Festival in Canada. It's like a love sonnet to the theater. It's also incredibly funny. I don't think you have to be into theater to enjoy it, but if you happen to be in the theater you can't not.
As I sit on the porch of 'The Actor House' in Essex, Connecticut - just over a year since last I wrote - I realise that most of these so called 'New York Minutes' are tales of anywhere but. Probably because when I'm out of town, I'm working, and acting work actually takes up far less time and energy than the art of looking for acting work.
So I begin again. In my defense, the following things also kept me from blogging the past year:
One engagement
Three engagement parties
One trip to Kentucky
One move to Brooklyn
One trip to Australia
One trip to Hawaii
One three-month tour of Macbeth
One green card application
One more trip to Australia
One wedding in Mexico
One Honeymoon in same...
And now I'm here. At the Ivoryton Playhouse. Playing Cecily Pigeon in Neil Simon's 'The Odd Couple'. I left for Connecticut two days after Dan and I returned from our honeymoon, leaving behind a barely unpacked apartment and a very understanding husband. For those of you who don't really remember the movie, Cecily Pigeon is one of the British sisters who lives upstairs. In fact the character description in the audition breakdown read "silly British woman"... and so it is.
Here is a picture of my new, makeshift family.
I want to talk about a few of them, however I know how often the poorly constructed anonymity of this blog is exposed, so I will preface by saying how lovely a group they are; how easy it has been to work with everyone, and how I hope if they ever come across references to themselves here, they will forgive me.
First up, Laura Beth. She's the other bewigged lady, standing next to me in the orange shirt. (I'm in the pale blue). Originally from Knoxville, Tennessee she's thirty-three, newly engaged and going to appear in Julie Taymor's 'Spiderman' on Broadway at the end of the year. Suffice to say, life is pretty good for LB. She also makes a fabulous cocktail she calls a 'Hamptontini'. We have been keeping each other entertained during the long periods of downtime with daily trips to the gym (complimentary membership), incessant talk of weddings, horrible reality programming on TLC and of course, aforementioned cocktails.
Back left corner is Tony. He's playing Oscar. The messy one or 'Walter Matthau' for those playing at home. Brooklyn born and bred he now lives in South Jersey with his wife and very pretty sixteen year old daughter. Abd his in-laws, who evidently don't understand his life at all. Tony does more TV/Film than theater, and would admit this has been quite a workout for him. He likes to complain, but mostly for entertainment value. Actually, I think he's a big softie. He drops Laura Beth and I off at the train station in Stamford on days off so we can go back to the city. And he also took us to Mohegan Sun (the casino on the Indian Reservation), where he taught us to play Craps. Not very well unfortnuately. I lost my allotted $40 very quickly.
Just down from Tony, on the left edge, is Brian. Brian is a former Chicago actor, who took some time off to take a turn supporting his wife and three daughters when they moved to be near her family here in Connecticut. He's an excellent actor, but most distinctive about him is how much he loves his wife. He told us matter of factly that the secret is to marry your best friend. I met his wife last night at the opening night party and relayed his comment. She said when she says it, she has an addendum, "He's my best friend, who I still have a crush on"... somehow they manage to pull this off without being nauseating.
In front of Brian is M. (Yep, just M.) M lives in the house with Laura Beth and I, as well as the technical director and props charge, Cat and Rachel. (Front right). In contrast to Brian, M's marriage fell apart largely due to the fact that she didn't or couldn't understand his need to act. This is over simplified of course. Because the need to act is easy to support in principle. The long out-of-town stints, the large gaps between jobs, the sometimes paltry paychecks, these can be far more difficult to reconcile. He has two young boys who will come to visit us here for a few days towards the end of the run. Though I don't have the actual data, I believe Brian to be the exception that makes M's rule. The theater destroys more relationships that it creates. But it seems to me a very, very big sacrifice.
M gives LB and I use of his car, and makes us cocktails when we've run out of vodka. He is exceeding kind. Last night his mother came to see the show. Afterward she gave him a huge bear hug and told him how good he was. We all sat up talking about the night over drinks til 3am.
Back right is Mike. I don't know a lot about Mike yet, except that he's extremely cordial, he lives locally and he has a pool. With three long weeks left in August, it's good to know.
In the middle, next to me, is Bruce. Bruce plays Felix, the neat one or Jack Lemon. Bruce is a pro. He does theater and he does it a lot. He doesn't know how to drive, but he has his bike with him at all times and rides around town. Tony describes him as a 'pixie', because he has so much energy and shows no signs of tiring at the end of the long show. Bruce, like Felix, is allergic to lots of things. He doesn't have a cell phone, and I believe he only occasionally checks email on his dial-up connection at home. He is perhaps an anachronism, and in some ways very private. But mostly just sweet, and giving, and always right on cue.
Finally, Al. Al is in front of Mike and behind Laura Beth. Al is 59, retired, drives a Lexus, has two houses in Connecticut and an apartment on the Upper East Side. Al obviously made some money in his former 'business' career, and now dabbles in real estate, and recently started to explore the idea of acting. He is just about the sweetest most humble man I've ever met.
After the first preview on Wednesday afternoon, downstairs as we all hugged and congratulated each other, Al looked at me with his eyes wide and bright, and his cheeks flushed as he announced almost breathlessly, "That was my first performance of the first play I have ever done. Ever!" I hugged him again and congratulated him again. Then he said, "And I lived!"
I know he meant, "I survived", but for a perfect second I thought he was saying that for the first time in fifty-nine years he really "lived".
Because when it's good, that's what it feels like. This very strange, almost bohemian ritual, of packing up, coming out of town, moving into a well worn house with a bunch of strangers. Working together, playing together, creating a new vocabulary, pulling each other through the hard bits, pouring each other drinks after the good bits, keeping each other sane, keeping each other fit and fed, or even keeping out of each others' way. It's an odd way to live, but at least there's no question that it's living.
As a side note, in all my free time up here I've been revisiting the amazing Slings and Arrows It's a Canadian series that takes you back stage at a Shakespeare Festival in Canada. It's like a love sonnet to the theater. It's also incredibly funny. I don't think you have to be into theater to enjoy it, but if you happen to be in the theater you can't not.
Friday, August 01, 2008
SIX FLAGS: New Awesome
The thing about being an actor is that more often than not it describes something one can't help but be, like an Australian, or a schizophrenic... rather than something other people might actually pay you to do. So that when you find you are in the rare position of being involved in the commerce of acting, and turning up to a theatre (or tent) six days out of seven to act, for money, you feel obligated to an almost religious practice of gratitude. To say often, and with a huge smile on your face, that you are lucky, and privileged and so excited to be able to do the thing you love to do.
All that is true. But it’s also a job and just as for any lawyer or teacher or ice-cream truck driver who works a full time week, it’s exhausting.
And so I did something I don’t often do. I took a day off.
‘Six Flags: New England” land of the roller coaster and the water slide and the over priced arcade game. In short, land of awesome.
I can’t really remember the last time I went to a bona fide theme park. There was Disneyland in 1995, and Dreamworld on the Gold Coast sometime around 2000, but I think that’s it. I’d nearly completely forgotten how much pure, unadulterated fun they are. How much fun it is for the biggest stresses of the day to involve choosing between the ‘Mind Eraser and Batman’ (let’s do both!), and trying to remove the abject horror from your face just long enough for the photo on the descent of the award winning ‘Superman’ roller coaster.
Not to mention the fun and utter humiliation of being drowned by the 'Blizzard'... a white water rapids ride where you are at the mercy of where the spinning raft lands... in this case, with me directly under the waterfall... twice.
Mostly though, how much fun it is to spend a day yelling and squealing and laughing, instead of networking, budgeting, rehearsing, auditioning, or strategically planning my next move. I feel as if I’ve unclogged something.
Last night I slept. And I slept well.
The thing about being an actor is that more often than not it describes something one can't help but be, like an Australian, or a schizophrenic... rather than something other people might actually pay you to do. So that when you find you are in the rare position of being involved in the commerce of acting, and turning up to a theatre (or tent) six days out of seven to act, for money, you feel obligated to an almost religious practice of gratitude. To say often, and with a huge smile on your face, that you are lucky, and privileged and so excited to be able to do the thing you love to do.
All that is true. But it’s also a job and just as for any lawyer or teacher or ice-cream truck driver who works a full time week, it’s exhausting.
And so I did something I don’t often do. I took a day off.
‘Six Flags: New England” land of the roller coaster and the water slide and the over priced arcade game. In short, land of awesome.
I can’t really remember the last time I went to a bona fide theme park. There was Disneyland in 1995, and Dreamworld on the Gold Coast sometime around 2000, but I think that’s it. I’d nearly completely forgotten how much pure, unadulterated fun they are. How much fun it is for the biggest stresses of the day to involve choosing between the ‘Mind Eraser and Batman’ (let’s do both!), and trying to remove the abject horror from your face just long enough for the photo on the descent of the award winning ‘Superman’ roller coaster.
Not to mention the fun and utter humiliation of being drowned by the 'Blizzard'... a white water rapids ride where you are at the mercy of where the spinning raft lands... in this case, with me directly under the waterfall... twice.
Mostly though, how much fun it is to spend a day yelling and squealing and laughing, instead of networking, budgeting, rehearsing, auditioning, or strategically planning my next move. I feel as if I’ve unclogged something.
Last night I slept. And I slept well.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A thousand words...
I have been lazy, or absent, or maybe just scared off by the fact that on the very first day of rehearsals, for my very first New York professional gig, the Artistic Director announced that he had "really liked that photo of me in my bikini." (So much for semi-anonymous blogging.)
So here it is, my laziest update ever, or perhaps we could call it a tribute to Dan's exciting new job as a photo editor at Wall Street's favourite journal...
After three years, I graduated with an MFA from Manhattan's New School for Drama. Here I am with one of my most lovely classmates, also my scene partner in the agent showcase.
At the same time, Dan 'met the parents' and gained official security clearance for forthcoming Christmas/New Year travel to Australia.
Then, Mum and Dad met Dan's mother Betty-Jo. No major international incidents occurred, despite much time voluntarily spent together in high pressure tourist situations, including the Circle Line Tour (pictured), the Staten Island Ferry and a long, hot walk over the Brooklyn Bridge (both pictured below).
Once all parental units departed, quick check revealed relationship still in tact. (Author acknowledges this is a completely unnecessary picture in terms of story telling... I just really like the hat.)
Next came the trip up to the lovely estate in the Hudson Valley for the opening of the festival. Pics below depict opening of Twelfth Night, in which I have a bigger part, and therefore a fancier opening night dress.
In short, life (in the pictures) is grand.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Low Level Panic
There's a play by that title, written by a woman named Claire McIntyre. I once did a monologue from it, which I can hardly remember now, except for the first line; Sometimes I come home, go upstairs, take off all my clothes, climb under the sheets and masturbate.
Or something like that.
There's actually no correlation between the play and the subject for today's post, except that every so often I like to pretend this blog has something to do with acting or the theatre, and that the title of that play happens to perfectly describe the relatively mastabatory state of self-induced anxiety in which I find myself languishing.
The end is nigh. I know I've been saying that forever, but now it's really, really nigh. As nigh as it's ever been. And I'm sure everything will be fine - unless one night I lose perspective in the wee hours, and jump off the nighest bridge.
Actually, my general state of anxiety is at such a constant buzz I hardly notice it anymore. The list has been the same for the past three months. Hell, for the past three years.
Finish all coursework.
Build strong auditioning portfolio.
Learn all my lines for showcase.
Find a way to be so fabulous in three minutes that the best agent in New York wants to sign me.
Sublet apartment so can afford to go and earn regional wages upstate for three months.
And finally...
Find mum and dad alternative New York accomodation, since heretofore reliable and charming Broadway Inn on 46th Street, where I know Otto the porter will take care of them, is showing possible signs of having closed down. (Hints include a disconnected phone, re-directed website and boarded up doors and windows).
Since most hotels that might otherwise meet my parents standards of cleanliness and spaciousness seem to be quoting prices in the $500-$600 range, and since my parents have their own list of demands and quirks (including, but not limited to, my mother's strict standards about her cups of tea, involving ideal temperature, strength, milk quantity, and importantly, what she is prepared to pay) it feels like it might be time to venture out and find them an apartment of their very own.
Fortunately there's a little tool called www.craigslist.org, where you can pretty much find anything your heart desires, from a couch, to a live-in-nanny to a one- night-stand. All I need on this occasion however, is a vacation rental, preferably on the Upper West Side, which I figure with its brownstones and its homogenous ye olde worldy charm is about Mama and Papa's pace.
With a little hunting, digging and refined searching, it seems like I might have found it; a delightful duplex, available my exact dates, belonging to a Canadian performance artist with impeccable taste, a king size bed, two big screen TVs and (drum roll....) a roof deck! (Summer cocktails anyone?)
Now, New York real estate is not for the light hearted. You get to step in, do one quick walk around, sniff for bad energy, try to impress upon the owner/broker that you won't break or steal stuff. Then you probably have about three hours to decide whether or not you want it. Three hours that don't coincide with daytime in Melbourne.
So I try to stretch it out. I go to class, I turn off my phone. I avoid the broker for a little while. But sure enough, the message comes as soon as my phone's back on. A professional courtesy from Jon, telling me a bunch of much mythologised 'Harvard Boys' want the very same apartment. And they want it for the whole summer. Now he will honour my 'first dibs', but I need to come up with the deposit. Now.
So I find myself in the heart of Times Square, in a non-airconditioned Ben and Jerry's, sticking to the plastic furniture, clinging to $300 cash, willing mum to wake up and tell me I'm doing the right thing.
Just before Jon arrives my phone rings again, it's a very sleepy mum. I whip through the details. She hmmms and has... and eventually tells me she guesses I know best.
I come home later that night, elated, dying to get on Skype and send the pictures through. "Look at the TV... Look at the bed.... Look at the roofdeck!"
"Is that bed king size? It doesn't look king size..."
"Yes mum, trust me, it's king size".
And then,
"Oh..."
"What?"
"Well, I thought it would be two bedroom".
I choose to take this as a sign of love and desire for me to be around as often as possible, rather than any sort of slight on my clearly impeccable apartment hunting skills. Hopefully, once she sees it in person she'll be sold.
In the same vein, let's hope her in-person assessment of the now not-so-new man in my life is less exacting. Past experience suggests it's a slim shot. Certainly, between now and their imminent arrival, the only thing left to do is to work on his tea-making skills.
There's a play by that title, written by a woman named Claire McIntyre. I once did a monologue from it, which I can hardly remember now, except for the first line; Sometimes I come home, go upstairs, take off all my clothes, climb under the sheets and masturbate.
Or something like that.
There's actually no correlation between the play and the subject for today's post, except that every so often I like to pretend this blog has something to do with acting or the theatre, and that the title of that play happens to perfectly describe the relatively mastabatory state of self-induced anxiety in which I find myself languishing.
The end is nigh. I know I've been saying that forever, but now it's really, really nigh. As nigh as it's ever been. And I'm sure everything will be fine - unless one night I lose perspective in the wee hours, and jump off the nighest bridge.
Actually, my general state of anxiety is at such a constant buzz I hardly notice it anymore. The list has been the same for the past three months. Hell, for the past three years.
Finish all coursework.
Build strong auditioning portfolio.
Learn all my lines for showcase.
Find a way to be so fabulous in three minutes that the best agent in New York wants to sign me.
Sublet apartment so can afford to go and earn regional wages upstate for three months.
And finally...
Find mum and dad alternative New York accomodation, since heretofore reliable and charming Broadway Inn on 46th Street, where I know Otto the porter will take care of them, is showing possible signs of having closed down. (Hints include a disconnected phone, re-directed website and boarded up doors and windows).
Since most hotels that might otherwise meet my parents standards of cleanliness and spaciousness seem to be quoting prices in the $500-$600 range, and since my parents have their own list of demands and quirks (including, but not limited to, my mother's strict standards about her cups of tea, involving ideal temperature, strength, milk quantity, and importantly, what she is prepared to pay) it feels like it might be time to venture out and find them an apartment of their very own.
Fortunately there's a little tool called www.craigslist.org, where you can pretty much find anything your heart desires, from a couch, to a live-in-nanny to a one- night-stand. All I need on this occasion however, is a vacation rental, preferably on the Upper West Side, which I figure with its brownstones and its homogenous ye olde worldy charm is about Mama and Papa's pace.
With a little hunting, digging and refined searching, it seems like I might have found it; a delightful duplex, available my exact dates, belonging to a Canadian performance artist with impeccable taste, a king size bed, two big screen TVs and (drum roll....) a roof deck! (Summer cocktails anyone?)
Now, New York real estate is not for the light hearted. You get to step in, do one quick walk around, sniff for bad energy, try to impress upon the owner/broker that you won't break or steal stuff. Then you probably have about three hours to decide whether or not you want it. Three hours that don't coincide with daytime in Melbourne.
So I try to stretch it out. I go to class, I turn off my phone. I avoid the broker for a little while. But sure enough, the message comes as soon as my phone's back on. A professional courtesy from Jon, telling me a bunch of much mythologised 'Harvard Boys' want the very same apartment. And they want it for the whole summer. Now he will honour my 'first dibs', but I need to come up with the deposit. Now.
So I find myself in the heart of Times Square, in a non-airconditioned Ben and Jerry's, sticking to the plastic furniture, clinging to $300 cash, willing mum to wake up and tell me I'm doing the right thing.
Just before Jon arrives my phone rings again, it's a very sleepy mum. I whip through the details. She hmmms and has... and eventually tells me she guesses I know best.
I come home later that night, elated, dying to get on Skype and send the pictures through. "Look at the TV... Look at the bed.... Look at the roofdeck!"
"Is that bed king size? It doesn't look king size..."
"Yes mum, trust me, it's king size".
And then,
"Oh..."
"What?"
"Well, I thought it would be two bedroom".
I choose to take this as a sign of love and desire for me to be around as often as possible, rather than any sort of slight on my clearly impeccable apartment hunting skills. Hopefully, once she sees it in person she'll be sold.
In the same vein, let's hope her in-person assessment of the now not-so-new man in my life is less exacting. Past experience suggests it's a slim shot. Certainly, between now and their imminent arrival, the only thing left to do is to work on his tea-making skills.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
REMUNERATION... WITH A VIEW
This is where I'll be spending my summer.
That is, this is where I'm getting paid to spend my summer!!!!!!!
Yes - the mandatory post-graduation waitressing job has been put off for at least four months, since my first audition for work post school was successful.
I've been employed by the Hudson Valley Shakespeare festival (www.hvshakespeare.org) to be part of their professional company for the summer rep season, which includes 'Cymbeline, Twelfth Night and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)'
'Twas a three part audition, the final stage of which was filmed by PBS for a documentary they are doing on the festival from auditions through to opening night. (I only agreed on the condition that I could sign the release AFTER the audition - in case of a worst case scenario crash and burn).
Beginning April 29, we rehearse in the city until June, then we'll be shuttled to accomodations in the Valley, where we'll live for the three months of the festival. Presumably while being followed around by PBS cameras.
Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect. Right now, I don't even know what parts I'll be playing. But I do know I'll be getting paid to act. And I do know I won't have to be in Manhattan during the stinkiest parts of the summer.
However if I do happen to miss Manhattan's unique hot-weather aroma, the Hudson Valley is only one hour upstate of the city and therefore an easy train ride back to the gorgeous Grand Central Station.
Between now and then there's two more productions, agent showcase, graduation and a much anticipated visit from mum and dad to get through. But it certainly feels like lucky first step into (or at least a scenic way to delay the reality of) life outside of grad school.
This is where I'll be spending my summer.
That is, this is where I'm getting paid to spend my summer!!!!!!!
Yes - the mandatory post-graduation waitressing job has been put off for at least four months, since my first audition for work post school was successful.
I've been employed by the Hudson Valley Shakespeare festival (www.hvshakespeare.org) to be part of their professional company for the summer rep season, which includes 'Cymbeline, Twelfth Night and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)'
'Twas a three part audition, the final stage of which was filmed by PBS for a documentary they are doing on the festival from auditions through to opening night. (I only agreed on the condition that I could sign the release AFTER the audition - in case of a worst case scenario crash and burn).
Beginning April 29, we rehearse in the city until June, then we'll be shuttled to accomodations in the Valley, where we'll live for the three months of the festival. Presumably while being followed around by PBS cameras.
Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect. Right now, I don't even know what parts I'll be playing. But I do know I'll be getting paid to act. And I do know I won't have to be in Manhattan during the stinkiest parts of the summer.
However if I do happen to miss Manhattan's unique hot-weather aroma, the Hudson Valley is only one hour upstate of the city and therefore an easy train ride back to the gorgeous Grand Central Station.
Between now and then there's two more productions, agent showcase, graduation and a much anticipated visit from mum and dad to get through. But it certainly feels like lucky first step into (or at least a scenic way to delay the reality of) life outside of grad school.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
"I am Google-able, therefore I am."
I'll admit it, within the modern dating landscape, I am highly dubious of anyone with no Internet profile. If a Google search for a prospective suitor turns up nothing, he immediately becomes a suspect individual. In fact, I may begin to seriously question his very existence. And I don't think I'm the only one. Anecdotal evidence garnered around a bar table at least, seems to suggest that "googling" prospective dates is not only no longer something to be ashamed of, it is recommended and standard dating procedure.
Perhaps paradoxically (perhaps not), I'm extremely nervous about exposing myself on the Internet. Unavoidable though it would seem to be. Initially, I even went to great pains to make this blog completely anonymous, which didn't stop the chair of the Playwriting department at school (who just happens to be Sarah Jessica Parker's brother) from coming across it. Highly embarrassing given the thinly-veiled origins of the site.
However, as graduation looms and my attempts to enter 'the industry' become imminent, the current man in my life (who judging by his passion for all things cyber-connected may be a founding investor in Google) is keen to help build my professional profile via the establishment of a 'web presence'. I guess the theory is, if you can't beat them, at least control the information.
Thus the counter on my newly imposed 'Google Desktop' tells me that I have 61 days to complete 'Project Over-Exposure', which includes my own website, facebook, flickr, myspace, youtube, wikipedia and any number of related groups through which I may 'aggressively market myself via the web'.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I can't help but cling to the notion that retaining a bit of mystique adds to an actor's allure, and ultimately to her effectiveness. I buy Helen Mirren, and I buy Emma Thompson, and I buy Jodie Foster as pretty much anything they choose to play. I don't buy Lindsay Lohan as anything but Lindsay Lohan... and to be frank, I'm not lining up to buy much of that.
Now, I realise that a bit of savvy self-promotion is a far cry from setting yourself up to be snapped panty-less upon arrival to an LA nightclub, or from getting arrested while driving home hammered afterwards, so I will comply and be very grateful of the assistance. But if I have my way, we will construct the dark sunglasses and floppy cap e-version of myself, rather than the Paris-Hilton-sex-tape version. That, I CAN control.
I'll admit it, within the modern dating landscape, I am highly dubious of anyone with no Internet profile. If a Google search for a prospective suitor turns up nothing, he immediately becomes a suspect individual. In fact, I may begin to seriously question his very existence. And I don't think I'm the only one. Anecdotal evidence garnered around a bar table at least, seems to suggest that "googling" prospective dates is not only no longer something to be ashamed of, it is recommended and standard dating procedure.
Perhaps paradoxically (perhaps not), I'm extremely nervous about exposing myself on the Internet. Unavoidable though it would seem to be. Initially, I even went to great pains to make this blog completely anonymous, which didn't stop the chair of the Playwriting department at school (who just happens to be Sarah Jessica Parker's brother) from coming across it. Highly embarrassing given the thinly-veiled origins of the site.
However, as graduation looms and my attempts to enter 'the industry' become imminent, the current man in my life (who judging by his passion for all things cyber-connected may be a founding investor in Google) is keen to help build my professional profile via the establishment of a 'web presence'. I guess the theory is, if you can't beat them, at least control the information.
Thus the counter on my newly imposed 'Google Desktop' tells me that I have 61 days to complete 'Project Over-Exposure', which includes my own website, facebook, flickr, myspace, youtube, wikipedia and any number of related groups through which I may 'aggressively market myself via the web'.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I can't help but cling to the notion that retaining a bit of mystique adds to an actor's allure, and ultimately to her effectiveness. I buy Helen Mirren, and I buy Emma Thompson, and I buy Jodie Foster as pretty much anything they choose to play. I don't buy Lindsay Lohan as anything but Lindsay Lohan... and to be frank, I'm not lining up to buy much of that.
Now, I realise that a bit of savvy self-promotion is a far cry from setting yourself up to be snapped panty-less upon arrival to an LA nightclub, or from getting arrested while driving home hammered afterwards, so I will comply and be very grateful of the assistance. But if I have my way, we will construct the dark sunglasses and floppy cap e-version of myself, rather than the Paris-Hilton-sex-tape version. That, I CAN control.
PUBLIC RELATIONS - CHAPTER ONE
In the first week of February, I sent the following headshot, accompanied by what I hope was a pithy, non-crazy cover letter to approximately seventy agents and casting directors.
It's supposed to be my 'I'm a serious actor' shot.
As of today I have been contacted by a total of zero agents and/or casting directors.
Just before school began in August, I went to lunch with the Chair of the school's directing program. Sitting across the table at the Bus Stop Cafe in the West Village, she told me the story of a well-known graduate of the program; how two months before she was cast in the role for which she would ulitmately be 'Tony-nominated' she'd been crumpled in a heap on the Chair's living room floor weeping and feeling completely lost.
I have pre-booked my appointment on said floor for approximately two weeks after graduation. Just in case.
In the first week of February, I sent the following headshot, accompanied by what I hope was a pithy, non-crazy cover letter to approximately seventy agents and casting directors.
It's supposed to be my 'I'm a serious actor' shot.
As of today I have been contacted by a total of zero agents and/or casting directors.
Just before school began in August, I went to lunch with the Chair of the school's directing program. Sitting across the table at the Bus Stop Cafe in the West Village, she told me the story of a well-known graduate of the program; how two months before she was cast in the role for which she would ulitmately be 'Tony-nominated' she'd been crumpled in a heap on the Chair's living room floor weeping and feeling completely lost.
I have pre-booked my appointment on said floor for approximately two weeks after graduation. Just in case.
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