To be an actress is to wonder...

For years, I preferred to call myself an “actor,” thinking the gender-differentiation a silly and inconsequential one. It was also an early (misguided?) attempt at feminism: “If BOYS can be actors, why can’t *I*??”  (This is the girl who used to play “Indiana Jones” with her little sister, mind you. In the starring role, of course.)

At age “over 30,” I have officially changed my mind.

Being an actress is kindof like hitting up the ladies’ room during intermission. You watch all those men just waltz on into their own appointed space, all leisurely-like, while you get the awkward and frustrating communal experience of BEING IN A LINE and feeling time slip away....

I recently read that 30-35% of theatre roles each season are female. That would be super-awesome if only 30-35% of the people pursuing acting were female. As it stands, we out-number the fellas.

This is not to say that it is “easy” for men to be actors...to be seen, to get roles. From what I can tell, even the known and hailed actors in my city still have to audition for most of the roles they get. Maybe they don’t have to go to that first audition, but they have to show up at callbacks and read for the part like everyone else. What I *am* saying is I feel most conscious of my FEMALEness when trolling casting notices and going to auditions.

To be an actress is to be told things like, “It would hurt more for us to lose HIM than to lose YOU.” (I have been told this. "Because HE would be harder to replace.")

To be an actress is to rejoice in that union contract going to you instead of him (in my most recent instance, it was because one of the HIMs happened to be non-union at the time. I thank him still).

To be an actress is to sigh over casting notices, and try not to think “Why does this town hate women?”

What I find most upsetting, though, is not the dearth of gigs for my stage soul-sistahs (too much?:), but this thought: Are there so few roles for us because THEY ARE NOT BEING WRITTEN? Why do even female writers gravitate towards a male perspective?

What’s wrong with MY story? I made a really great Indiana Jones....


**********


ADDENDUM:

In an awesome twist of things, I have been given the occasional dude-role. Mostly by directors who seek to balance--even in little ways--the discrepancy. I high-five these brave souls, and offer you a photo gallery of the times when my art has allowed me to turn its own favoritism on its head. Kindof.

The Little Prince

Puck

Macbeth's Malcolm

King Lear's Fool

Why do we do it?

Since finishing tour, I have upwards of 3 jobs at once, depending on the week. I assist at a school; I am workshopping & (soon) rehearsing a play; I have signed up with a temp agency. I’ve been auditioning. (4 jobs, then?) Still, to be perfectly honest, hubby and I are having to tap into savings to pay bills right now. We at least HAVE the money, yes, but there’s always something disheartening about moving it from nest-egg to we-need-to-buy-eggs.

Any time you happen to look up at the calendar and see no acting gigs on the horizon, you think, “That’s it. No more. I’m washed up at the tender age of <insert tender age here>.” You bring to auditions anything from a vague hint to an all-out stench of desperation--the last thing auditors want to see. And when you somehow do land a role? When the stars align and someone has perceived at least a bit of your talent and they need just your type for a project? You half-enjoy it. The other part of your brain can’t help but worry about the near-future...4 or 6 or 8 weeks from now, when this gig is done, but you still have NEEDS. You need to eat, and pay bills. So you take up a job-job again. But what about that other need? Your body wasn’t the only thing that was hungry.

I’ve heard it said that actors act because they “have to.” Eh. I spent two years of my professional acting life not acting, and I didn’t die. I even had some fun!, and reached a point when I felt quite content with my daily life. I think actors--theatre actors, at least--act because of a deep-seated belief that grew in us at some point.... We believe in something that has been either dying or dead for years. We believe that this out-dated mode of communication & entertainment has yet within it the power to enrich our lives and the lives of others through imaginative, ritualistic communal experience. From there, I guess, we fall into two camps. We either believe in the theatre’s Second Coming, or we believe that touching the relatively few lives it touches year by year is enough.

We don’t beg you to go see our shows because we have to. We get paid either way, and we’ll feel as fulfilled as we allow ourselves to feel. We beg you because we are missionaries. Because we believe whole-heartedly that you will get something out of this...be it a jolly good time, inspiration, catharsis or a revelation. We believe that your life will be just the tiniest bit lovelier/happier/more fun/more meaningful because of 2 hours spent in the dark with strangers as you are all given (and take part in) a story.

Granted, the church metaphor may be a bit...dramatic:). No, I do not pray to Theatre (or even its patron god). I have a personal philosophy/religion that is much bigger than my art. I do, however,  believe that good theatre (not necessarily theatre with a lot of resources, but theatre that is thoughtful) can bring a person closer to their highest self. This, I would do for free. It is only my wishful thinking that keeps me seeking theatre that pays. When that runs dry, I will do this for free. I will do this for free.

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.

Close Encounters of the 3rd [Grade] Kind

I love children. My favorite adults all healthily nurture their inner-children--they still allow the world to be new. It has worked out, then, that every play I've been in for the past 2 years has been aimed at our younger, wonder-filled selves.

I did not seek this particular line of work. Not at first. But it sought me, in the form of a New York City director/teacher/friend some years ago. She wanted to create an interactive storytelling experience for children that involved songs, stories and playground games from many cultures. She hand-picked about a dozen collaborative actors with diverse backgrounds. One of the lucky few chosen alongside me is now one of my bosses in another state. Also during those New York years, and thanks to that same wonderful director/teacher/friend, I found myself doing staged readings of new plays for young audiences. Both times I was cast, I got to work with the same incredible out-of-town director who would go on to hire me years later and states away, for such roles as Anne Frank. You see, I was unwittingly weaving myself a pattern. Or, Life/<insert belief here> was weaving one for me. Whatever the case, something began in my multidisciplinary college years, the threads of which I still see and create with a decade later.

I do not exclusively do children's theatre. I've delightedly romped about in Shakespearean comedies and tragedies, in experimental takes on classics, in brand new plays, in Ibsen, in Miller. I hope to visit these kinds of experiences again, many times. But my path has been child-friendly of late, and with that come very specific things to revel in.

The other day I performed in a theatre with a special practice for the visually-impaired. Just before the house opens, they invite these children to tour the set and props with an actor, so they can see things up close beforehand to have a context for specific moments in the show. The two fellas I had the hilarious pleasure of showing around were brothers, maybe 7 or 8 years old. Everything I indicated or brought to them was greeted with a "Wow!!" or "Coool!!" To just hear them, you would've thought they were playing a video game, or watching a 3-D movie. The "dying" art of theatre was, at this moment and for these 2 boys, THE MOST AWESOME THING.

They were incredibly curious. They wanted to touch everything. One of them noticed the hole in the back of a giant stuffed animal and shouted, "Whoa!! It's a puppet!! How does it work?" When I showed them another puppet, telling them he thought he was the star of the show, one of the brothers excitedly grabbed the little guy from me and turned his head to a fellow puppet, saying, "Hey! This show is all about me! I am the star!" The boys proceeded to make a whole comedic scene together. (We all start off as artists. And hams.)

Mom was there with them, snapping pictures of every encounter. During the show, the family was seated front row center. I caught happy glimpses of them now and again, but our stage manager seated off-right had a perfect view. And you know what she saw? Mom watching her 2 little boys watch the show, all smiles and shared laughter.

I was going to tie this all up with a neat moral or somesuch, but I think I'll just leave you to picture that scene. Pretty good, yeah? Yeah.

When you have another few minutes to worthily spend, dear Reader, here is another beauty-filled scene for picturin'.

Hooray for the teachers, funders, artists and parents who give children the arts (& thank you, thank you, thank you for letting me play a part, however small).

congratulations & can we please not talk about it?

I think this blog has been a pretty positive place so far. I like that. I don't come here to vent or complain. I have been using this as a space to share what it's really like to do-what-I-do, and as a way for me to keep perspective about what-I-do.

A healthy perspective attempts to take in *every* aspect of a thing--easy and difficult, smooth and rough.

Well then, here is something rather crummy (difficult. rough.) about my job. Sometimes, the only offers you get viciously & irrevocably overlap.

I've only had this happen twice in 6 years, but ohhh it hurts when it happens. I have been lucky many times, and had overlapping gigs with incredibly gracious companies that were willing to work with each other's schedules and "share me" :). Yes, this feels amazing. It's hard work, but you feel lucky and appreciated.

However, I was recently offered an overseas opportunity that directly conflicted with a gig I already had. The company who offered first was understanding, and made me feel like I could have backed out if I wanted (these gigs are not until the spring). So I had a decision to make.

See Figure A.


Fig. A:

Overseas gig:     2 weeks or so.
                           Company I already have a relationship with.
                           Show I love.
                           Overseas = awesome.


Local gig:           4-6 weeks
                           Company I am forming a relationship with.
                           Show I love.
                           Working with my husband = awesome.


...I am a Libra. You see what a problem this is.

Not included in this fascinating chart is the fact that I said "yes" to the local gig first. I don't *think* I have ever backed out of a show because of another offer...I know that this is done, and if the first company is given enough notice and the second company is just offering something better for you, this is an acceptable thing. But I have not felt compelled to do that yet. And while I was tempted by the alluring promise of international adventure (you must imagine that phrase yelled out with an echo), I was not, in the end, compelled to do it this time, either.

Of course, in a perfect world, I would magically get to do both! Especially since I have no jobs on the horizon after spring. When you freelance, it just feels wrong (difficult. rough.) to turn down work. But sometimes, them's the breaks.

So I am staying home, and makin' theatre for the littlest of littles ("A person's a person, no matter how small!"). And I stand by my choice. (Any "Sex and the City" fans? "I choose my choice! I choose my choice!") I am excited and humbled by this opportunity.

But I am also surprised by a childish truth:

I do not want to hear anything further about the Gig I Left Behind.

nothin'. just writin' a novel.

So, apparently November is National Novel Writing Month. Hm! This is an internet initiative to champion creative writing--to urge the bookworms who periodically sigh at the thought of penning their own stories "one day" to JUST DO IT. The goal is not to have an awesome, print-worthy work at the end of the month, but rather to have actually made yourself write 50,000 words. Because? You will feel amazing! Because maybe you'll have learned something about goals, or how you work best, or what your voice might really be like under all those layers of emulation & fear. Because maybe you'll have some neat ideas or characters come out. Because maybe you'll have the start of something.

My dear friend & neighbor, Marcy, is the one who told me about "NaNoWriMo." Marcy has a way of telling me about things that makes me reply, "Let's do it!"

As mentioned, the goal is 50,000 words between November 1st and November 30th. This breaks down into 1,666-1,667 words per day. Marcy is BLOGGING her novel (which, she says, is turning into a series of essays on motherhood. Anyone who is either a mom and/or a person who enjoys laughter should check her out). My new friend & co-tourer, Brittany Baratz, is writing her confessions of a Jewish-American Princess: "JapYap." My friends are a riot. Me? 1,667 words/day sounded awful to me:), so I suggested that hubby & I tag-team a novel. And because he's that kind of dude, he was totally up for it.

We have been writing our novel together-from-afar since November 1st. I was literally planning on winging it, but hubby found story inspiration on a jog just before the start date. I loved his idea, so on Day 1 we both began spinning scenes around his idea. We called each other that night, and read aloud what we had written. Our voices were compleeetely different. But in a great way! So we decided to keep going down this path...each writing separately (at least 834 words/day), and sharing what we'd written by day's end so we can stay connected.

He is writing home life, contemporary voices, the heart of the story. I am writing the surrounding-life, ancient voices, the veins coming off of the heart.

We are 10 days in. It has been lovely to be surprised and impressed by my partner. It was exciting to begin writing on November 1st and realize that I had a story inside me, if only I forced my inner-critic to skip town for a while (30 days to be precise). As I am still on tour, my bits of the novel have been written in a couple different states already. I write in the van, in hotel rooms, in hotel lobbies, in coffeehouses, in bookstores. I write alone or with Brittany (me with my fish notebook, writing longhand, she typing away on a magenta laptop).

The last few days have been difficult (already!). We still have a healthy word-count, and are on track to have our 50,000 words before December, but furthering my story has been getting harder and harder. Guess that makes sense. At first, you can just throw all sorts of things at the page! But then, after a while, you feel the pressure to make a shape....

What we'll have at the end of all this might be a glorious mess with, at best, a tale to tell at cocktail parties. But it feels really good to be doing something I love *every* day, ESPECIALLY when it's hard. It feels really good to be making another something with my husband, to bond via bookish cheerleading with my fellow actor, to hop onto Twitter and realize that we are part of a worldwide community of crazy book-loving people who want to try their hand at creation. 

And sometimes, there are moments like this: