The Epic Tale of Twenty Minutes.

“You have no idea what I did today.” This is the thought that had me smirking to myself in the subway yesterday, a few hours after market-testing theatrics for toddlers.


Our little band of baby theatre collaborators (me, director-hubby, bass player and producer) met two days ago to workshop once again, this time with a full script and the intention to bring 15-20 minutes of material to a preschool the following morning. We worked for 6 hours in a yoga studio , deciding what parts we most wanted feedback on, and working those into one fluid little story.

For those of you who have not yet read about this project, or who need remindin’, my husband and I were asked by a great new local company to create a 30-minute “play” for 0-5 year olds...”play” being in quotations because the piece is non-verbal, interactive, and focuses more on a series of tiny discoveries than one big unravelling story. There is only one actor (in this incarnation, yours truly) and live music throughout (by a double-bass player, who uses his instrument to interact with both the audience and our little girl protagonist--the Hobbs to her Calvin, as hubby likes to say). We were asked to create an easily tourable play, so there is no set, and there are no lighting or sound effects (beyond what the musician and actor will create). Our protagonist has 3 stuffed buddies, a coupla seemingly-unspectacular everyday objects, and one huge imagination.

Until this week, I was REALLY NERVOUS about my ability to perform for such little littles. And with no words! Yoinks! But then I had an audition experience that pretty much used up all my fear for the week, so then I just found that I was truly curious as to how the kiddos would react, and confident that it would all be o.k. (i.e., I would not die or get tomatoed off the stage).


 **********
TANGENT: The harrowing audition experience? I got invited to audition for a big ole musical. One with dancin’ and beltin’ and stuff. I consider myself an “actor who sings,” not so much a musical theatre actor.... I was already nervous, but when I got there, there was a veritable SEA of lovely young ladies in dresses and high heels, with AMAZING voices. I literally thought I was hearing a recording until I realized that the audition room was right in front of me, and not at all soundproof. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, flight side up. I held off on handing my headshot to the moderator, thinking, “I should go. I should just go. I do not at all belong here.” Long story short, I didn’t belong there:), but that was o.k! I sang a raw but spirited alto rock song (which stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the awe-inspiring sopranos, some of whom had CHOREOGRAPHY. I just kicked off my shoes and danced in a little circle, like I do at home...), messed up the words in the middle, made some up instead (“I forgot the words to this part but I’m gonna keep goin’, oh man whatever! The only boy who could ever teach me...was the son of a preacher man!”), ended with the group of casting folk laughing and telling me that was entertaining!...before they told me they would not need to hear me read:) (i.e., you’ve been cut, dear). Moral of the story? I didn’t die! I was so nervous leading up to it that I was plotting ESCAPE, and yet I did it, and FAILED, but somehow I had a blast and didn’t feel a bit of shame at not even being asked to read (though eeeevvveeerrryyyooonnne else had been asked before me). It was, super-surprisingly, a great experience.
**********

 

REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM:

Our preschool performance space was a carpeted church hall. We put tape down to denote where the audience could sit, and where the stage began. As the kids arrived (about 40 of them, mostly 2-year-olds), the bass player and I were told to “do something” for pre-show (my husband loves that bit of direction. Heh. Thankfully, so do I). What commenced was thereafter referred to as a lazzi. (Also: lazzi!) Bass played, and I began by sitting against a wall near the kids, pretending to conduct him. This quickly became a game, where I would move only when he played. The game eventually brought me to my feet and then got me moving all around the stage, freezing when he stopped playing, moving again only when he started. I would, of course, try to get frozen in the most ridiculous of positions--bum-side up, or mid-tumble, etc. The kids LOVED this...as in, explosions of collective guffaw. Two little critics in the corner kept telling the others, “They’re funny! These two are funny!”

Brilliant Bass morphed this into another game when he suddenly made a knocking sound. What? Where did that come from? We spent some time with the knocking lazzi--him making the sound, me making guesses as to where it came from (behind this door? Up in the ceiling? Can I climb up this thing to get to the ceiling?). The kids, of course, were screaming their heads off and pointing at Bass, so I finally checked out the instrument...was there someone inside it?? The bass player--again brilliantly--turned this into something else entirely. He SHOWED ME how he was making the sound--showed me to make a fist, and then knockknockknock!, so the new game was finding all the different things *I* could knock on! (The door, the wall, the floor, my head.) From the time the giggles started, they didn’t stop. Hubby apparently got nervous that the tiny audience may like the pre-show more than the actual show! The musician and I disappeared for an already-necessary water break when the producer stepped up to give a brief welcome and introduction.

And then...the play officially began! We had about 18 minutes of material for these funny tots. They appreciated anything that was silly, and they really took to the interaction as long as it was clear (we could tell when they knew exactly what I was asking of them, and when they were a little less sure). They loved the stuffed buddies, and had a surprising reverence for buddy-naptime, when one by one I brought each of my little friends out to them before tucking them into “bed.” One buddy wanted to be pet, one buddy wanted to shake hands. Even the kid that had been screaming his head off at me--more on that soon!--got quiet and gently reached out when I brought a buddy over.

One HUGE thing we learned was: for-the-love-of-all-things-holy, if your play involves opening boxes, do NOT leave ANYTHING at ALL box-like on the stage unless it is to be opened!! Oh MAN, kids love opening boxes! And to them, that it was you DO with a box! As soon as I encountered one, they yelled “Open it, open it!!” Partway through the piece, one of my 2 little critics noticed a cabinet in the corner that was covered with a sheet. This was not a prop of ours, simply an oversight. It hadn’t occurred to any of us adults that that could be seen as a box, or even part of the play (foolish grown-ups!). This little boy got FIXATED on it. He even crossed the sacred tape-line into my stage area to stand before me pointing at it, yelling, “Open THAT box! Open THAT box!!” Husband thought that if we were getting heckled, at least it was out of sheer investment in the show! :) This child was hilarious. He was not to be disuaded. I finally even went over to the cabinet, peered in and tried to dismiss it as no fun, but he wasn’t buying it. I didn’t get him back (read: he kept shouting) until I brought the stuffed buddy his way. Then the buddies and I all disappeared into a big box for naptime, and I could hear the kids start to ask what was happening, and tell each other we were sleeping, when...out popped one of the buddies! Shrieks and giggles! Then...out popped another buddy! Someone SCREAMED at this--delighted scream, not terrified scream:) (working with children, you learn the difference!)--and then that became the official response for this sequence: The Scream. I was cracking up, crunched down in my box. Inbetween buddies popping out, you could FEEL the kids waiting...someone afterwards told me that they were literally perched, waiting to scream. Then BAM! A buddy! And “AAAAHHHHH!!!!” in one great voice. Even when we popped out all together for bows, they screamed.

 And thusly was the seal broken, and ideas born on paper months ago and put on their feet in exclusive yoga-centric spaces were brought before the most easily-readable audience imaginable.

And I didn’t die.
And I didn’t get tomatoed.
And I can’t wait to do it again.

"what's it all about, eh?" part two...

Maybe this could be said of any profession, but I feel it quite profoundly as an actress: there are constant questions of Identity and Balance.

A week ago, I performed for the very last time a role that has been part of my life in some way for a year and a half (from the time I got the script, through rehearsals and into two separate national tours). I miss it already. I was bodily tired -- could definitely have used a small break from my little character's incredibly athletic nature -- but I was not mentally or emotionally through with her. Not in the least. I hope I don't sound crazy when I say this feels a bit like saying good-bye to a friend who is moving very far away.

For all that time, I was the woman playing this character. "Oh, you're an actress! What are you in right now?" "Well, --!"  Easy-peasy. I am not entirely bereft of theatre work now, mind you. I have a play coming up, auditions coming up, teaching opportunities. But the answer to the question is a bit convoluted now. I was this one specific thing -- an actor doing one specific job -- and now I am not.

Perhaps the strangest part is feeling like I can't talk about it anymore. While I was doing it, people wanted to know about it. I discussed my job literally with people all over America, kids and adults alike. It seems like people are only allowed to casually converse about the present ("What do you do?" not "What DID you do?"), which can be difficult for free-lance artists because the Big Picture of our job is such a patchwork thing. If you ask me what I do and I answer, "Well, I am currently a between-gigs actress, training to teach, but I just got off a national tour and in the past I have been The Little Prince, Lady Macbeth, Puck, Cordelia, Matt Damon, a Brechtian whore--" you're probably going to gulp your drink and find a kind excuse to duck away. (For some reason, I have you approaching me in a bar. I hope that's o.k. You may choose the decor.) Because that seems pathetic, right? Me giving you my resume? But that's what I want to say! Why? Because all these things feel like a part of me. EXCEPT when I am in a show. Then, I find that I am completely content to just answer "I am currently <blah>." The characters that we get to play? They tell us a bit about ourselves, either right there in the casting, or as we delve into them during rehearsals. Me telling you that I am playing a cat or a toddler or a stoat feels like this fantastic & ridiculous truth I can own for a time.

I guess it just always feels strange to be done with that truth. Many "firings," many "hirings." The Balance comes in your fragile actor brain holding all of this -- the people you have been, the people you will yet be, the person you are at heart -- and always trying to SEE it.

This is your challenge too, non-actor. What you've been, what you'll be, what you always are. All of this together. We are worlds.