There is certainly no monopoly out there on "right" choices in this line of work. Clearly it is more complicated than all of that. There is not so much a right choice as there are choices that work, don't work, or work better.
So often I run into young actors who think that comedy is about artificial choices. They talk about this mysterious thing called "timing" that no one really knows how to measure. Does "timing" require a one second pause? Two? Eighteen?
Young apprentices of American acting have complained that funny choices aren't necessarily "real" choices. I've watched as young actors study the great comedians for the first time, dissecting their choices and trying to place value on every movement, every vocal utterance. Nobody really waves their arms that way! People don't raise their voices that high during a conversation! Sure, it's funny, but it isn't real! It isn't natural!
Poppycock.
No choice is a funny choice unless it is a true choice.
Funny is not some magical thing that happens outside of the circumstances. The circumstances create the funny. How the characters respond to the stimulus is where funny happens.
Have you ever seen the episode of "All in the Family" where Michael breaks Archie's chair? It is a simple dilemma; goofy son-in-law breaks father-in-law's favorite chair. That, in and of itself, is not inherently funny until we decide to zoom in and focus on it. Archie loves that chair. He has spent decades cooling his heels in that chair. He hates Michael. Michael knows that if Archie finds his chair missing that Archie will be beyond angry. The family conspires to keep Archie in the dark. The circumstances build. When Archie returns home from work and the chair has not been delivered from the furniture repair shop we have no problem believing that Archie does not notice the chair is missing right away because Archie's tendency to be self-absorbed has already been well established. Edith drags him into the kitchen and Archie is suspicious. He accuses Edith, "Did you put new curtains up in there or something?" She replies, "Only about eight years ago." "Oh. That must be it then."
When Archie finally discovers that his beloved chair is missing he does seemingly uncharacteristic dances, waves his arms about theatrically and begins threatening every object in sight that might have any sentimental value to Edith. It isn't the physical actions in an of themselves that are funny. Try it. Start dancing around for no reason. I doubt anyone will find it funny. Indeed, they will only think it is strange. However, Archie's sarcasm and desperate tantrums are funny because his attachment, his NEED for his chair is so intense. We, as the audience, know that his chair is not vital to his survival as a human being but we can relate to things in our own lives that, if threatened, would make us barking mad. Carroll O'Connor has endowed this chair with such fierce meaning that we understand exactly why he is upset, even though it is irrational. It is the truth of his needs that is funny, not the hand waving or the dancing around. Find the truth of the moment and you will find the funny.
That's all fine and good, but where does that leave the actor in rehearsal? Isn't there a delicate balance that makes something funny? Yes. Indeed there is. Comedy is deadly serious. The stakes are always high and a good comedy writer knows this and chooses the circumstances accordingly. I used to crack wise about how one of my favorite dramas "Equus" by Peter Shaffer, a psychological drama about a psychiatrist treating a young boy who blinds six horses with a metal spike, would be a brilliant comedy if it were merely set on a carousel instead of a stable. You wouldn't have to change a word! Of course, I am being facetious but only to illustrate my point that the subject matter is always serious but the circumstances are just a bit absurd. Just like Archie's intense attachment to his favorite chair.
Timing should be none of your concern. If you are in the moment and building your circumstances appropriately, the timing should come naturally. I find that only young, "serious actors" complain about holding for laughs. Those who come at acting through comedy relish that little break to let themselves stew, raising the stakes and making things even funnier. It isn't about "holding" as if you were putting yourself on pause until the laughter dies down. It is about building. I move that we should replace the phrase "holding for laughs" with "building for laughs".
What it all boils down to is this- be present in the moment and be specific and hey, isn't that your job description in the first place?
Monday, October 30, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Coming Soon
In the coming weeks I will be adding new features to this site including interviews, content provided by other artists, more NYC resources, and, yes, ads.
The ads are a difficult choice, but I will need them to give me something to offer my contributors. I don't want this to be a site just about my struggles as an artist, although that will play a role in the construction of the site because I create on a very personal level. I promise to do my best not be too self involved here, but I AM an actor and that is not an easy task!
I appreciate your patronage and your patience as I figure out how this thing is going to look. If you are interested in contributing ideas or content, please drop me a line here. I will get back to you as soon as is humanly possible.
Thanks.
The ads are a difficult choice, but I will need them to give me something to offer my contributors. I don't want this to be a site just about my struggles as an artist, although that will play a role in the construction of the site because I create on a very personal level. I promise to do my best not be too self involved here, but I AM an actor and that is not an easy task!
I appreciate your patronage and your patience as I figure out how this thing is going to look. If you are interested in contributing ideas or content, please drop me a line here. I will get back to you as soon as is humanly possible.
Thanks.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Quitting
I am not a quitter. I don't quit. I've stuck out projects, jobs, and relationships that literally made me ill simply because I promised I would.
I'm a little blown away. I was watching a playwright's seminar on CUNY TV and I heard John Patrick Shanley say, "...I've always had the tremendous ability to quit."
Really?
Shanley aside, as this post is not about his work specificially, this has just flipped a switch in my brain. Maybe there are ocassions when it is appropriate to quit so that you may move on.
Really?
I'm not sure how I feel about that because my word is my bond. But what might have happened if I had left those aforementioned situations before they wore me down? What if I made choices that were entirely in my own self interest?
What if?
I'm a little blown away. I was watching a playwright's seminar on CUNY TV and I heard John Patrick Shanley say, "...I've always had the tremendous ability to quit."
Really?
Shanley aside, as this post is not about his work specificially, this has just flipped a switch in my brain. Maybe there are ocassions when it is appropriate to quit so that you may move on.
Really?
I'm not sure how I feel about that because my word is my bond. But what might have happened if I had left those aforementioned situations before they wore me down? What if I made choices that were entirely in my own self interest?
What if?
Thursday, October 26, 2006
See Me Naked
Clearly this is a cheap admission in the hopes of gaining readers, but the truth is you CAN see me naked.
You just have to go to London between November 10th and January 3rd in order to do so.
Yes, a few years ago I answered an ad and was chosen to pose nude for a photographer who then took my picture. His gallery show opens in London next month. My picture is just a small part of the show, but still. I'm a work of art! I will add a link to his site once it is up and running, but I must comment on how telling people I posed nude is way more fun than posing nude. And posing was a lot of fun.
I made the choice to answer the ad because I had been feeling pretty horrible about my post-baby body. It was a bit of a rebellion on my part. Screw you! I'm 180 pounds, I've got stretch marks and YES I AM a true redhead. Thanks for asking! Jeff and his crew were warm and supportive, not to mention appreciative. It felt good to have them oooh and ahhh over the polaroids they took to test the lighting . I know they were really ooohing and ahhhing over the gorgeously gritty lighting that made me look like a painting by a Dutch Master, but I'll take what I can get.
Jeff was very particular. He gave me very specific physical direction that felt awkward and tense, but to see the result you would think I had just fallen into that position like a deck of cards in a game of 52 pick up. As Jeff encouraged me to take a polaroid home with me, his crew proceeded to poke through the pictures, giving me advice about which image I should take home with me saying things like, "Your husband will go wild about this one. Look at you!". In true midwestern girl fashion I chose the throw away with the ill placed vacuum in the foreground and my face tilted away from the camera. I was more comfortable with my slack belly and exposed breasts than with my own face.
I enjoyed the experience. It was terribly liberating and I remember running into a friend from school that I had not seen in years just outside the building. I had a little secret that was written on my forehead. I know he knew something was up, but I also know there is no way he would have guess what I had just done.
Which is why this gallery show is a delicious surprise to me. I've been telling friends about the show and I get widely different reactions from people depending on how they know me. My actor friends are not surprised. After all, how many of them had seen me naked backstage or after a few drinks at the old nerd bar across from Circle in the Square? But my mommy friends are not quite sure how to take the news. You did that when? You got paid? That's not going to be seen in New York, is it? What about your son? Is he going to see you naked? Are you sure you weren't taken advantage of? Are you okay? My old high school friends aren't particularly surprised, but they do tend to be curious. Wow. Where can I see this now? What photographer should I Google?
Truthfully, I am just pleased to have been a part of something. I am proud that I did it and I hope that I'll get to see it here in NYC someday. If it does, I'll take all of you to see it.
You just have to go to London between November 10th and January 3rd in order to do so.
Yes, a few years ago I answered an ad and was chosen to pose nude for a photographer who then took my picture. His gallery show opens in London next month. My picture is just a small part of the show, but still. I'm a work of art! I will add a link to his site once it is up and running, but I must comment on how telling people I posed nude is way more fun than posing nude. And posing was a lot of fun.
I made the choice to answer the ad because I had been feeling pretty horrible about my post-baby body. It was a bit of a rebellion on my part. Screw you! I'm 180 pounds, I've got stretch marks and YES I AM a true redhead. Thanks for asking! Jeff and his crew were warm and supportive, not to mention appreciative. It felt good to have them oooh and ahhh over the polaroids they took to test the lighting . I know they were really ooohing and ahhhing over the gorgeously gritty lighting that made me look like a painting by a Dutch Master, but I'll take what I can get.
Jeff was very particular. He gave me very specific physical direction that felt awkward and tense, but to see the result you would think I had just fallen into that position like a deck of cards in a game of 52 pick up. As Jeff encouraged me to take a polaroid home with me, his crew proceeded to poke through the pictures, giving me advice about which image I should take home with me saying things like, "Your husband will go wild about this one. Look at you!". In true midwestern girl fashion I chose the throw away with the ill placed vacuum in the foreground and my face tilted away from the camera. I was more comfortable with my slack belly and exposed breasts than with my own face.
I enjoyed the experience. It was terribly liberating and I remember running into a friend from school that I had not seen in years just outside the building. I had a little secret that was written on my forehead. I know he knew something was up, but I also know there is no way he would have guess what I had just done.
Which is why this gallery show is a delicious surprise to me. I've been telling friends about the show and I get widely different reactions from people depending on how they know me. My actor friends are not surprised. After all, how many of them had seen me naked backstage or after a few drinks at the old nerd bar across from Circle in the Square? But my mommy friends are not quite sure how to take the news. You did that when? You got paid? That's not going to be seen in New York, is it? What about your son? Is he going to see you naked? Are you sure you weren't taken advantage of? Are you okay? My old high school friends aren't particularly surprised, but they do tend to be curious. Wow. Where can I see this now? What photographer should I Google?
Truthfully, I am just pleased to have been a part of something. I am proud that I did it and I hope that I'll get to see it here in NYC someday. If it does, I'll take all of you to see it.
Failure
A cruel and necessary part of the creative process is failure, complete, horrible, and humiliating failure.
And not just little failures like the day I misunderstood my teacher's instructions for an exercise and ran wildly onstage only to freeze and blurt out the first word that came to mind- quesadilla. I was really hungry. Little did I know we were supposed to be expressing our feelings about some larger, deeper concept like love, faith or hatred. I would have been safe if I would have screamed "Hungry!", but no. I had to shout out my lunch cravings instead.
As embarrassing as that was, it is still not the type of failure to which I am referring.
When you find yourself capable of estimating the value of another's work it then becomes obvious that others will be evaluating the value of yours. This is a double edged sword that I would be glad to be without. Unfortunately, my passion for the form does urge me to evaluate and learn from the work of others. But this obsession frequently gets in my way as I attempt to produce my own work.
In school, teachers will tell you that you should make at least 5 mistakes (or some other, arbitrary number) or you have no place in class. They try to make you comfortable with messing up so that you will be a brave actor, one who takes chances and learns from the constant stumbling. As a teacher, I completely agree. I love watching my pupils discover! What a wonderful thing to witness! As an artist, as a human being, I abhor imperfection in myself. I should KNOW better! I've been doing this for 15 years! How can I make such mistakes? I am quite patient with others, but not so much with myself.
This morning, as I dabbed my nose with tissues and sat in my self-pitying posture on the couch watching the clock tick closer and closer to the moment I should have been in my technique class, it occured to me that I shouldn't be in this particular class at all. Not because I don't need the instruction or the practice, but because there is little for me to fail at. I understand these concepts very well. I've been teaching these concepts. I need to be working on something more complex. I need to put myself in a position to practice failure.
It strikes me as a bit funny because I took this particular class as a way to pump up my confidence level and ease my way back in front of an audience. It turns out that what I really need to do is choose something really difficult and throw myself at it repeatedly until I get it right as opposed to the path of least resistance. Stupid path. That path has been talked about ad nauseum by every teacher I've ever encountered. I never believed that it was a good path to take and yet I've found myself travelling down it more times that I can count. It's a deceptive path and sometimes it looks a lot harder than it is. At least, that is what I tell myself.
So, today I will raise my tablespoon of Robitussin to those who recognize that it takes 20 "failures" to make that big success possible. As soon as I stop coughing up my lung- I'll give that a try myself.
And not just little failures like the day I misunderstood my teacher's instructions for an exercise and ran wildly onstage only to freeze and blurt out the first word that came to mind- quesadilla. I was really hungry. Little did I know we were supposed to be expressing our feelings about some larger, deeper concept like love, faith or hatred. I would have been safe if I would have screamed "Hungry!", but no. I had to shout out my lunch cravings instead.
As embarrassing as that was, it is still not the type of failure to which I am referring.
When you find yourself capable of estimating the value of another's work it then becomes obvious that others will be evaluating the value of yours. This is a double edged sword that I would be glad to be without. Unfortunately, my passion for the form does urge me to evaluate and learn from the work of others. But this obsession frequently gets in my way as I attempt to produce my own work.
In school, teachers will tell you that you should make at least 5 mistakes (or some other, arbitrary number) or you have no place in class. They try to make you comfortable with messing up so that you will be a brave actor, one who takes chances and learns from the constant stumbling. As a teacher, I completely agree. I love watching my pupils discover! What a wonderful thing to witness! As an artist, as a human being, I abhor imperfection in myself. I should KNOW better! I've been doing this for 15 years! How can I make such mistakes? I am quite patient with others, but not so much with myself.
This morning, as I dabbed my nose with tissues and sat in my self-pitying posture on the couch watching the clock tick closer and closer to the moment I should have been in my technique class, it occured to me that I shouldn't be in this particular class at all. Not because I don't need the instruction or the practice, but because there is little for me to fail at. I understand these concepts very well. I've been teaching these concepts. I need to be working on something more complex. I need to put myself in a position to practice failure.
It strikes me as a bit funny because I took this particular class as a way to pump up my confidence level and ease my way back in front of an audience. It turns out that what I really need to do is choose something really difficult and throw myself at it repeatedly until I get it right as opposed to the path of least resistance. Stupid path. That path has been talked about ad nauseum by every teacher I've ever encountered. I never believed that it was a good path to take and yet I've found myself travelling down it more times that I can count. It's a deceptive path and sometimes it looks a lot harder than it is. At least, that is what I tell myself.
So, today I will raise my tablespoon of Robitussin to those who recognize that it takes 20 "failures" to make that big success possible. As soon as I stop coughing up my lung- I'll give that a try myself.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Memories from the F Train
Mass transit in any city will offer many opportunities for its users to rub elbows with types you wouldn’t normally meet. From beggars and conmen to entertainers, loud talkers, nosy people, and freaks, New York transit promises more than a passing chance of having an exchange of some sort on the train. On a balmy spring night in 2000 I had an encounter on the subway that solidified for me the reasons I love this stinky old town.
Admittedly, it had been a long night of drinking and I should have returned home hours earlier. I had had my fill and then some. As is usual at that late hour, I had to wait much longer than I would have liked for the F train to Brooklyn. Seeing as I had only $1.00 and some change the possiblity of taking a cab was nil so I steadied myself and focused on the rats running around the tracks beneath the platform in order to avoid falling asleep on my feet.
When the F train finally arrived I found a nearly empty car. That’s not too unusual for a weeknight. With my bags secured upon my lap and my eyes starting to droop I heard a sound. It was a lovely sound coming from a young, black man seated katy korner to me. I can’t get it out of my head. He was of a medium height, medium build, and he wore a nondescript sweater. He carried nothing. No hat or cup or tin for donations. I could have sworn that he had been quietly seated on the train when I boarded at Rockefeller Center. Nonetheless, out of nowhere came this glorious, honey coated voice singing “Over the Rainbow”. The two sleeping bums and the necking couple paid no attention to his wistful performance. After singing he announced to the passengers that he wanted no money. He had moved here from Kentucky and this was his last night in New York. Disappointed about his experience here, he was heading back home. He explained how much he loved New York and was sad to leave, but his luck was down and money had run out. “I don’t want your money or your pity,” he said, “I just want to go home and truthfully be able to tell my friends that I sang in New York.” He then proceeded to sing all the way to Delancey Street. Not only did he have a beautiful voice but he had the heart to make his schmaltzy selections seem like no one else had ever or could ever have sung them before.
“I sang in New York.” What a dream. So many of us secretly harbor such dreams and in my mind he fulfilled it. (As a side note, I did insist that he take my last dollar so he could tell his friends that he got paid to sing in New York.) What is even more amazing to me is the number of people fulfilling that same dream for spare change under the streets of the city every day. The performers run the gamut from classical musicians, dance and conceptual performance pieces, acrobats, soapbox preachers, and a myriad of singers and musicians celebrating the sounds of their cultural heritage. Even the panhandlers and conmen toting carts of cheap batteries and plastic toys from Taiwan have their own entertainment value, however annoying and tiresome they can be at times. Living and travelling in New York can be like spending your day in one of the dirtiest and yet most sublime circuses on Earth. Dreams and nightmares are on display here twenty-four hours a day. At any given moment, you can participate in any number of them, just by being there to bear witness.
Admittedly, it had been a long night of drinking and I should have returned home hours earlier. I had had my fill and then some. As is usual at that late hour, I had to wait much longer than I would have liked for the F train to Brooklyn. Seeing as I had only $1.00 and some change the possiblity of taking a cab was nil so I steadied myself and focused on the rats running around the tracks beneath the platform in order to avoid falling asleep on my feet.
When the F train finally arrived I found a nearly empty car. That’s not too unusual for a weeknight. With my bags secured upon my lap and my eyes starting to droop I heard a sound. It was a lovely sound coming from a young, black man seated katy korner to me. I can’t get it out of my head. He was of a medium height, medium build, and he wore a nondescript sweater. He carried nothing. No hat or cup or tin for donations. I could have sworn that he had been quietly seated on the train when I boarded at Rockefeller Center. Nonetheless, out of nowhere came this glorious, honey coated voice singing “Over the Rainbow”. The two sleeping bums and the necking couple paid no attention to his wistful performance. After singing he announced to the passengers that he wanted no money. He had moved here from Kentucky and this was his last night in New York. Disappointed about his experience here, he was heading back home. He explained how much he loved New York and was sad to leave, but his luck was down and money had run out. “I don’t want your money or your pity,” he said, “I just want to go home and truthfully be able to tell my friends that I sang in New York.” He then proceeded to sing all the way to Delancey Street. Not only did he have a beautiful voice but he had the heart to make his schmaltzy selections seem like no one else had ever or could ever have sung them before.
“I sang in New York.” What a dream. So many of us secretly harbor such dreams and in my mind he fulfilled it. (As a side note, I did insist that he take my last dollar so he could tell his friends that he got paid to sing in New York.) What is even more amazing to me is the number of people fulfilling that same dream for spare change under the streets of the city every day. The performers run the gamut from classical musicians, dance and conceptual performance pieces, acrobats, soapbox preachers, and a myriad of singers and musicians celebrating the sounds of their cultural heritage. Even the panhandlers and conmen toting carts of cheap batteries and plastic toys from Taiwan have their own entertainment value, however annoying and tiresome they can be at times. Living and travelling in New York can be like spending your day in one of the dirtiest and yet most sublime circuses on Earth. Dreams and nightmares are on display here twenty-four hours a day. At any given moment, you can participate in any number of them, just by being there to bear witness.
Monday, October 23, 2006
The State of American Adulthood
American adulthood is dead. There are no more "grown ups", just tall people with jobs. All around me I hear friends and relatives in their 30's and 40's saying, "I just don't feel like an adult. What does an adult feel like anyway? What does an adult look like? What would it take for me to know that I had finally reached a point of mental and physical maturity? Did my parents ever feel this way?
Last night I sat down to watch one of my favorite films; Otto Preminger's Anatomy of a Murder. This is such a solid film with a stellar cast, James Stewart, George C. Scott, Arthur O'Connell, Eve Arden, Lee Remick, and Ben Gazzara. As I was getting swept up into this picture with its seamless interactions and shockingly frank dialogue I couldn't help but notice how the subject matter was handled. I made some off handed comment about it to my husband who offered up a straight forward and cutting response.
"Well, this film was made by adults for adults."
Zing. A light went on and so many pieces came together in my head. Laying them out for you in this blog post will be a challenge, but I feel I must.
In order to give my thoughts some shape, I must attempt to capture a bit of the film for those of you unlucky enough to have missed it. (I do hope you'll see it if you haven't already- or better yet, see it again if you already have!) The story surrounds the murder trial of one Lt. Mannion, played by Ben Gazzara with acrobatic stillness, who has already admitted to the crime. The central question (you know how I love questions!) of the film revolves around personal responsibility and the validity of "temporary insanity" or "irresistible impulse", as it is referred to in the film. It seems that Mannion shot bartender Barney Quill after Mr. Quill raped his alluring wife, played deftly by a sweet faced Lee Remick. As down and out country lawyer, Paul Biegler (James Stewart) and the District Attorney (George C, Scott) jockey for position in the courtroom, Mannion's motive and responsibility come sharply into question. Preminger does his best to maintain objectivity, although his sympathies surely rest with Biegler or he would not have cast such an affable fellow as James Stewart.
I'd like to pause for a moment to rhapsodize about the incredible talents of James Stewart. I know many have pegged him as the It's a Wonderful Life guy and consider his style rather hokey. I urge you to look again. Beyond his characteristic stutter and lanky sweetness is a keen intellect and a well developed dark side. As much as you might like George Bailey, if you look closely you'll see he's a bitter, cynical man. His considerable charm makes him watchable, but he is angry and deeply wounded. Stewart walks the tightrope so delicately that he invites you to like him, even when he says and does awful things. This is such a valuable skill for an actor. It is disarming and provides many surprises for the audience. His performance as Paul Biegler is no different. Stewart plays a passionate, persistent and highly opportunistic lawyer in Anatomy of a Murder. There is a cynical edge to his portrayal that is unsettling and very complex. Watch his eyes. They are the human equivalent of the ticker at the bottom of the screen on CNN. Sometimes the ticker gives out frightening information.
Now I can return to my discussion on American adulthood. You see, what is most striking to me about this film is its stunning, unHollywood discussion of facts. There is very frank dialogue, especially for 1959 audiences, of rape, murder, motivation and panties. To be sure, there is humor, a sophisticated wit that permeates the dialogue and even THAT is acknowledged in the text. When the word "panties" is introduced, Preminger lets his audience snicker and when the judge confers with the attorneys about how they should refer to them George C. Scott says something about there being a French word for them but that "...it might be slightly suggestive". To which the judge replies, "Most French words are." The audience has a good laugh and then the judge admonishes us and reminds us that there is nothing funny about a pair of panties that factor in to the death of one man and the possible incarceration of another.
Throughout the film the discussion is stark and without embellishment. Today I can imagine the word "rape" being punctuated by dramatic music or by a hyperactive delivery as if the word does not carry enough weight on its own. Today, if anything serious is going to be discussed at all, the storytellers feel the need to spell it out for us, to talk down to us like we are children who cannot possibly understand the depth of the situation. Instead of encouraging us to think about any particular topic, they tell us what to think and how to go about thinking it. They try to shock us and then make some stupid declaration to the tune of, "We aren't doing this to shock you, but merely present you with the facts so that you may decide for yourself." Bullshit. Anytime someone says they aren't trying to shock you, they clearly ARE trying to shock you. And they sure as hell aren't trying to lay out all the facts, if they did then nothing would be all that shocking in the first place because you would then have all the facts to explain the shock away.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I do not feel like an adult. I haven't been addressed as one. That is definitely in the interest of the status quo. If they can keep us sniggering about fart jokes and groin injuries, then maybe they don't have to make anyone accountable for crimes against humanity. Just sell us the next whoopie cushion and we'll shrug our shoulders about Darfur. What can we do about it? We're just a bunch of stupid kids.
There is a time and a place for infantile humor. We all think its funny. But that's all anyone is selling us right now. For a while, I'd like to be treated like an adult with a functioning intellect. There has got to be some other adults out there.
Somewhere.
Last night I sat down to watch one of my favorite films; Otto Preminger's Anatomy of a Murder. This is such a solid film with a stellar cast, James Stewart, George C. Scott, Arthur O'Connell, Eve Arden, Lee Remick, and Ben Gazzara. As I was getting swept up into this picture with its seamless interactions and shockingly frank dialogue I couldn't help but notice how the subject matter was handled. I made some off handed comment about it to my husband who offered up a straight forward and cutting response.
"Well, this film was made by adults for adults."
Zing. A light went on and so many pieces came together in my head. Laying them out for you in this blog post will be a challenge, but I feel I must.
In order to give my thoughts some shape, I must attempt to capture a bit of the film for those of you unlucky enough to have missed it. (I do hope you'll see it if you haven't already- or better yet, see it again if you already have!) The story surrounds the murder trial of one Lt. Mannion, played by Ben Gazzara with acrobatic stillness, who has already admitted to the crime. The central question (you know how I love questions!) of the film revolves around personal responsibility and the validity of "temporary insanity" or "irresistible impulse", as it is referred to in the film. It seems that Mannion shot bartender Barney Quill after Mr. Quill raped his alluring wife, played deftly by a sweet faced Lee Remick. As down and out country lawyer, Paul Biegler (James Stewart) and the District Attorney (George C, Scott) jockey for position in the courtroom, Mannion's motive and responsibility come sharply into question. Preminger does his best to maintain objectivity, although his sympathies surely rest with Biegler or he would not have cast such an affable fellow as James Stewart.
I'd like to pause for a moment to rhapsodize about the incredible talents of James Stewart. I know many have pegged him as the It's a Wonderful Life guy and consider his style rather hokey. I urge you to look again. Beyond his characteristic stutter and lanky sweetness is a keen intellect and a well developed dark side. As much as you might like George Bailey, if you look closely you'll see he's a bitter, cynical man. His considerable charm makes him watchable, but he is angry and deeply wounded. Stewart walks the tightrope so delicately that he invites you to like him, even when he says and does awful things. This is such a valuable skill for an actor. It is disarming and provides many surprises for the audience. His performance as Paul Biegler is no different. Stewart plays a passionate, persistent and highly opportunistic lawyer in Anatomy of a Murder. There is a cynical edge to his portrayal that is unsettling and very complex. Watch his eyes. They are the human equivalent of the ticker at the bottom of the screen on CNN. Sometimes the ticker gives out frightening information.
Now I can return to my discussion on American adulthood. You see, what is most striking to me about this film is its stunning, unHollywood discussion of facts. There is very frank dialogue, especially for 1959 audiences, of rape, murder, motivation and panties. To be sure, there is humor, a sophisticated wit that permeates the dialogue and even THAT is acknowledged in the text. When the word "panties" is introduced, Preminger lets his audience snicker and when the judge confers with the attorneys about how they should refer to them George C. Scott says something about there being a French word for them but that "...it might be slightly suggestive". To which the judge replies, "Most French words are." The audience has a good laugh and then the judge admonishes us and reminds us that there is nothing funny about a pair of panties that factor in to the death of one man and the possible incarceration of another.
Throughout the film the discussion is stark and without embellishment. Today I can imagine the word "rape" being punctuated by dramatic music or by a hyperactive delivery as if the word does not carry enough weight on its own. Today, if anything serious is going to be discussed at all, the storytellers feel the need to spell it out for us, to talk down to us like we are children who cannot possibly understand the depth of the situation. Instead of encouraging us to think about any particular topic, they tell us what to think and how to go about thinking it. They try to shock us and then make some stupid declaration to the tune of, "We aren't doing this to shock you, but merely present you with the facts so that you may decide for yourself." Bullshit. Anytime someone says they aren't trying to shock you, they clearly ARE trying to shock you. And they sure as hell aren't trying to lay out all the facts, if they did then nothing would be all that shocking in the first place because you would then have all the facts to explain the shock away.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I do not feel like an adult. I haven't been addressed as one. That is definitely in the interest of the status quo. If they can keep us sniggering about fart jokes and groin injuries, then maybe they don't have to make anyone accountable for crimes against humanity. Just sell us the next whoopie cushion and we'll shrug our shoulders about Darfur. What can we do about it? We're just a bunch of stupid kids.
There is a time and a place for infantile humor. We all think its funny. But that's all anyone is selling us right now. For a while, I'd like to be treated like an adult with a functioning intellect. There has got to be some other adults out there.
Somewhere.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Man of the Year
I have a lot of respect for Robin Williams' talent, even though I don't much care for the films he chooses to do. Even frantic, talented people can have rather pedestrian tastes. "Man of the Year" is the latest case in point.
A popular political comedian decides to throw his hat into the Presidential ring, a company wins a bid to develop the program that will "simplfy" the American voting process, and a diligent computer programmer discovers a glitch in the new software that results in the aforementioned comedian's immenent presidency. You would think this would be enough to give momentum to the story. You would think Robin Williams, Laura Linney and Christopher Walken would be able to move even a crappy script forward. Christopher Walken makes a lot of crap, but he's always fascinating, right? Well, this is a notable exception. Somehow Barry Levinson waved a magic wand and made not only the conflict dull- but Robin Williams sedate and, well, unfunny. Williams, Linney and Walken are all highly credible in their performances, but something vital is missing. It was almost as if Levinson had set up the circumstances and asked the performers to just live by them and then systematically edited out all the interesting parts leaving only shot after shot of campaign caravans and presidential motorcades. Enough with the driving already!
This film has all the self important fingerprints of a Hollywood agenda film. There was once a time when an agenda film actually said what it meant without all the back peddaling and kow towing. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Meet John Doe, Sullivan's Travels- these are all important, and highly watchable films. Unfortunately, I will be filing this one next to obnoxious, poorly constructed tripe like Bulworth and The Contender. Don't get me started.
First of all, there are extreme efforts taken to not point fingers at anyone. In the film, the glitch is a mistake and no one intended to thwart the election, but it clearly needed to be covered up to save the company's financial future. The sitting president is a Democrat, just to keep people from thinking this little film about voter fraud bears any similarity to any persons living or dead. Yeah. They fooled me. Second, Robin Williams' angry comedian performance feels restrained while poor Lewis Black's tirades are set free only when there is some other more pressing piece of business to distract us from what he is saying. Levinson missed every potential interesting moment by about a mile.
Oh, wait, there is one exception. Laura Linney's character, Eleanor, returns home after a confrontation with her boss's lawyer and then hears an odd noise. This was properly suspenseful. I knocked my soda over when the hired goon finally attacked her. She should have been dead, but like every other punch in this film Levinson pulled it. He was so intent on not making this a mystery that he completely avoided a series of interesting, revealing moments in favor of a two hour diatribe about the importance of being involved regardless of the inevitablility of human error. It seems to me that what this film really advocates is the status quo.
The film opens up with Christopher Walken telling the story to somebody of how this all transpired. I had hoped that, maybe, just maybe, Williams' character had been killed for exposing the truth about the system. Nah. That doesn't happen. Nobody dies. Nobody's life is ruined. In the end everyone goes back to their lives and Williams and Linney play out their prerequisite romance. This film has absolutely nothing to say and takes about two hours to say it.
Well, the popcorn was delicious.
A popular political comedian decides to throw his hat into the Presidential ring, a company wins a bid to develop the program that will "simplfy" the American voting process, and a diligent computer programmer discovers a glitch in the new software that results in the aforementioned comedian's immenent presidency. You would think this would be enough to give momentum to the story. You would think Robin Williams, Laura Linney and Christopher Walken would be able to move even a crappy script forward. Christopher Walken makes a lot of crap, but he's always fascinating, right? Well, this is a notable exception. Somehow Barry Levinson waved a magic wand and made not only the conflict dull- but Robin Williams sedate and, well, unfunny. Williams, Linney and Walken are all highly credible in their performances, but something vital is missing. It was almost as if Levinson had set up the circumstances and asked the performers to just live by them and then systematically edited out all the interesting parts leaving only shot after shot of campaign caravans and presidential motorcades. Enough with the driving already!
This film has all the self important fingerprints of a Hollywood agenda film. There was once a time when an agenda film actually said what it meant without all the back peddaling and kow towing. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Meet John Doe, Sullivan's Travels- these are all important, and highly watchable films. Unfortunately, I will be filing this one next to obnoxious, poorly constructed tripe like Bulworth and The Contender. Don't get me started.
First of all, there are extreme efforts taken to not point fingers at anyone. In the film, the glitch is a mistake and no one intended to thwart the election, but it clearly needed to be covered up to save the company's financial future. The sitting president is a Democrat, just to keep people from thinking this little film about voter fraud bears any similarity to any persons living or dead. Yeah. They fooled me. Second, Robin Williams' angry comedian performance feels restrained while poor Lewis Black's tirades are set free only when there is some other more pressing piece of business to distract us from what he is saying. Levinson missed every potential interesting moment by about a mile.
Oh, wait, there is one exception. Laura Linney's character, Eleanor, returns home after a confrontation with her boss's lawyer and then hears an odd noise. This was properly suspenseful. I knocked my soda over when the hired goon finally attacked her. She should have been dead, but like every other punch in this film Levinson pulled it. He was so intent on not making this a mystery that he completely avoided a series of interesting, revealing moments in favor of a two hour diatribe about the importance of being involved regardless of the inevitablility of human error. It seems to me that what this film really advocates is the status quo.
The film opens up with Christopher Walken telling the story to somebody of how this all transpired. I had hoped that, maybe, just maybe, Williams' character had been killed for exposing the truth about the system. Nah. That doesn't happen. Nobody dies. Nobody's life is ruined. In the end everyone goes back to their lives and Williams and Linney play out their prerequisite romance. This film has absolutely nothing to say and takes about two hours to say it.
Well, the popcorn was delicious.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Committing to the Action
The shpiel I've been peddling all over town has to do with acting as life skills. Oh do I talk a good game. I'm not a con artist. I believe what I am saying. I'm just not so great at practicing it all the time. I remember on a few occassions my mother shaking her head at people we knew who did not (or could not) practice what they preached. She would cluck her tongue and mumble, "The cobbler's kids have no shoes."
Sometimes I don't even have socks!
A couple of months ago I found myself waiting for a bus at 2:00 in the morning. As I waited I found myself privvy to a drunk and dial by a young man also waiting at my stop.
"Why do fuckin' play me, bitch? No! You got no right to pull that bullshit on me. I don't care what you have to say anymore, ho!"
And so on and so forth.
I'll admit, I got sucked into the phone call. It was hard not to. After all, I had tipped back a few that night as well. What stuck out in my mind is how this conversation seemed so familiar to me. At one point in my life I had assumed that this is what love looked like. I figured that I would find myself hitched with a man who loved me enough to punch his hand through walls and scream at me in public. I knew that I would scream back and we'd be a dueling couple. Somehow, I escaped that world. As I listened to this telephone conversation I realized how I had escaped.
It wasn't the fact that I found myself involved in the theatre and was surrounded by more sensitive people. It was the discipline. After all, the skills that an actor learns are integral to a good life. A skilled actor listens, not just to verbal cues but to physical and internal cues as well. A good actor can quickly interpret sensory input and make conscious CHOICES about what to do next. Living in the moment allows for maximum flexibility and ecourages self trust and self control. As a result, I am pretty good at reading others. I have diffused situations that may have escalated to the point of disrespect and I have done a good job of weeding those people out of my life. No one in my life speaks to me that way. They wouldn't dare.
This realization created a firestorm of activity in my brain. I started talking to people about these life skills and how they've changed my life. I am on board! This is amazing! This alone is reason enough to continue my study. Of course, it is a life long study and I still have a long way to go.
Although I have made choices that have lead to a solid marriage in which disagreements can be had without demeaning the other person there are other life choices I have yet to commit to. For example, I resist making definite choices in my career. I fear that any choice I make will lock me into one place forever. Yet, making no choice at all ALSO locks me into one place forever. I have yet to commit to anything professionally.
I've got some preparations to make, but 2007 is going to be a banner year. I'm kicking it off with a show and I think I am going to commit to teaching. There are hassles to teaching that frighten me, but this is the time for me to get over it. I've tackled the listening and receiving bit. Now it is time to commit to the action. Make a choice. Any choice. Just commit and move forward.
Then we'll see about the next life skill.
Sometimes I don't even have socks!
A couple of months ago I found myself waiting for a bus at 2:00 in the morning. As I waited I found myself privvy to a drunk and dial by a young man also waiting at my stop.
"Why do fuckin' play me, bitch? No! You got no right to pull that bullshit on me. I don't care what you have to say anymore, ho!"
And so on and so forth.
I'll admit, I got sucked into the phone call. It was hard not to. After all, I had tipped back a few that night as well. What stuck out in my mind is how this conversation seemed so familiar to me. At one point in my life I had assumed that this is what love looked like. I figured that I would find myself hitched with a man who loved me enough to punch his hand through walls and scream at me in public. I knew that I would scream back and we'd be a dueling couple. Somehow, I escaped that world. As I listened to this telephone conversation I realized how I had escaped.
It wasn't the fact that I found myself involved in the theatre and was surrounded by more sensitive people. It was the discipline. After all, the skills that an actor learns are integral to a good life. A skilled actor listens, not just to verbal cues but to physical and internal cues as well. A good actor can quickly interpret sensory input and make conscious CHOICES about what to do next. Living in the moment allows for maximum flexibility and ecourages self trust and self control. As a result, I am pretty good at reading others. I have diffused situations that may have escalated to the point of disrespect and I have done a good job of weeding those people out of my life. No one in my life speaks to me that way. They wouldn't dare.
This realization created a firestorm of activity in my brain. I started talking to people about these life skills and how they've changed my life. I am on board! This is amazing! This alone is reason enough to continue my study. Of course, it is a life long study and I still have a long way to go.
Although I have made choices that have lead to a solid marriage in which disagreements can be had without demeaning the other person there are other life choices I have yet to commit to. For example, I resist making definite choices in my career. I fear that any choice I make will lock me into one place forever. Yet, making no choice at all ALSO locks me into one place forever. I have yet to commit to anything professionally.
I've got some preparations to make, but 2007 is going to be a banner year. I'm kicking it off with a show and I think I am going to commit to teaching. There are hassles to teaching that frighten me, but this is the time for me to get over it. I've tackled the listening and receiving bit. Now it is time to commit to the action. Make a choice. Any choice. Just commit and move forward.
Then we'll see about the next life skill.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Methodology
Tomorrow I have a job interview for an after school program for high school students. I've been attacking some strategies for presenting the art form to teens. I've been given fair warning- treat them as absolute beginners. Don't get too exciting or experimental. They won't follow you.
Perhaps not. But as I rifle around in my bag of tricks I find myself wondering how anyone can commit to a particular mode of artistic thought. For example, how does one do JUST Meisner? Or Michael Chekhov's psychological gesture? Or Adler? Strassberg? Or follow ANY of the myriad of great teachers our craft has known while ignoring all the others? To me, this seems preposterous. Maybe it is the Sagittarius in me. Look! Shiny new thought! Pretty! Oh look, horsey!
I am fairly random and I have circular logic. Eventually I do come back to where I started, but I always come back a little different from the way I started out.
I've taken a taste of a lot of different "methods" and I couldn't decide amongst them if you put a gun to my head. When it comes to explorations and exercises I never throw anything away. I've learned that if I don't understand a certain principle, exercise or what have you it doesn't mean it isn't worthwhile. It simply means I don't fully understand the applications yet. I have patience with myself. I usually figure it out and I usually figure it out right when I need it.
And yet young actors can be so attached to their gurus that all else is absolute crap. What a mistake. As actors, I believe we should be receptive. After all, damn near anything can be justified. That's our job. I remember a seminar in which Harvey Keitel got up in a student's face and said, "Who told you you can't use your imagination? Huh? Who told you that?" It was Harvey Keitel, so that was a bit intimidating. And funny. Really, really funny. Of course we should use our imaginations. We should work outside in and inside out. We should adopt methods that allow us to be our most flexible and fill our bag of tricks with as many tools as we can find. Improvisation is as important as sense memory. Sense memory is as important as text analysis. The leg bone's connected to the knee bone.
Of course, I've spilled out all of these ideas and rearranged them and tinkered here and there to provide an outline of some ideas that I know will get blown apart the second I meet these kids and find out where they are REALLY coming from. My personal tragedy in the matter is just how excited I am about all the neat things I could do and teh little time I actually have. Oh! A little neutral mask here! A little Spolin there with a dash of sense memory and a pinch of personalization! This stew I am making may very well be completely inedible.
Or it could be a banquet.
Only time will tell.
Perhaps not. But as I rifle around in my bag of tricks I find myself wondering how anyone can commit to a particular mode of artistic thought. For example, how does one do JUST Meisner? Or Michael Chekhov's psychological gesture? Or Adler? Strassberg? Or follow ANY of the myriad of great teachers our craft has known while ignoring all the others? To me, this seems preposterous. Maybe it is the Sagittarius in me. Look! Shiny new thought! Pretty! Oh look, horsey!
I am fairly random and I have circular logic. Eventually I do come back to where I started, but I always come back a little different from the way I started out.
I've taken a taste of a lot of different "methods" and I couldn't decide amongst them if you put a gun to my head. When it comes to explorations and exercises I never throw anything away. I've learned that if I don't understand a certain principle, exercise or what have you it doesn't mean it isn't worthwhile. It simply means I don't fully understand the applications yet. I have patience with myself. I usually figure it out and I usually figure it out right when I need it.
And yet young actors can be so attached to their gurus that all else is absolute crap. What a mistake. As actors, I believe we should be receptive. After all, damn near anything can be justified. That's our job. I remember a seminar in which Harvey Keitel got up in a student's face and said, "Who told you you can't use your imagination? Huh? Who told you that?" It was Harvey Keitel, so that was a bit intimidating. And funny. Really, really funny. Of course we should use our imaginations. We should work outside in and inside out. We should adopt methods that allow us to be our most flexible and fill our bag of tricks with as many tools as we can find. Improvisation is as important as sense memory. Sense memory is as important as text analysis. The leg bone's connected to the knee bone.
Of course, I've spilled out all of these ideas and rearranged them and tinkered here and there to provide an outline of some ideas that I know will get blown apart the second I meet these kids and find out where they are REALLY coming from. My personal tragedy in the matter is just how excited I am about all the neat things I could do and teh little time I actually have. Oh! A little neutral mask here! A little Spolin there with a dash of sense memory and a pinch of personalization! This stew I am making may very well be completely inedible.
Or it could be a banquet.
Only time will tell.
Monday, October 16, 2006
CBGB Dies Quietly- Comparitively Speaking
I am torn.
It seems that everything I connect with happened before "my time". Any chance to be involved with it now would be an ugly sham. Everything that was and still is, is now somehow diluted. Bastardized. Killed and brought back to life to roam the earth as a mere shadow of itself toting business cards, t-shirts and trucker hats. Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine.
Another era that died a long time ago gave its last gasp last night as CBGB closed its doors for good. I won't miss it. Not really. What I miss about it was what happened there 30 years ago, not what has happened in recent history. What leaves a bad taste in my mouth is the fact that it will probably be turned into a Starbucks. A filthy, dark, messy shrine to punk will be paved over with chai lattes, rock hard scones and musical selections hand picked by Cheryl Crow. In some ways, it just doesn't seem right.
Now, I don't know for a FACT that it will be a Starbucks, specifically. But I am certain it will be turned over to some high end something or other that is determined to raise the property values in the neighborhood. Kick out the junkies, the artists, the down and outs. We just don't want to SEE them. Well, as much as it makes me sad to see people being self destructive they are a part of the fabric of this city. They are a reason to be in the city. They remind us that we are human and that we are not the squeaky clean, plush carpet, white couch facade we hide behind. We're messy. We fall apart. We feel deeply. And sometimes, just sometimes, our pain can't be whitewashed, dressed up, or shabby chic'ed away.
I struggle to keep my inner Holden Caufield at bay. Everything is for sale and yet nothing has much worth. The bigger something gets, the more diluted its product, service or message becomes. When I first heard "Teenage Wasteland" I was blown away. I had never heard anything like it. Now that it is being used to sell product, it has lost its bite to me. It seems the advertiser did not listen to the lyrics. It seems like no one does anymore. And when Bob Dylan is pitching women's underwear you can't help but get the impression that everyone has given up and handed their lives over to the machine. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well make a few bucks, right?
Where is the balance? I believe my work is worth something. I believe I deserve to live in this city and raise my son and eat. I see people posting on craigslist all the time, railing about how working for free is bad and you should always get paid and yet... and yet I've never been thrilled about the work I've done for money. The most worthwhile things in my career have been the things I've done without regard for money. I try to come to some conclusion about where money should be in my life and I have yet to come up with any answers. Part of me believes that I should just ignore it. It is none of my concern. Then the rest of me screams in absolute terror- are you mad?
CBGB had to die. The need for it is long gone. The need to create and to express with abandon has left this city. Now no one wants to get off their ass unless it's to meet Spielberg or cash a check. Oh- there's Holden again. Down boy, down.
Maybe Patti Smith can help me, me and my Holden Caufield. This is from today's New York Times article;
"Kids, they'll find some other club," Ms. Smith insisted during her set. "You just got a place, just some crappy place, that nobody wants, and you got one guy who believes in you, and you just do your thing. And anybody can do that, anywhere in the world, any time."
After her set was over and the club had partly cleared out, Ms. Smith returned to the stage for a silent postcript. As fans held up outstretched hands, Ms. Smith reached into a bag and handed out little black pins. They read, "What remains is future."
Man, I wish I had one of those pins.
It seems that everything I connect with happened before "my time". Any chance to be involved with it now would be an ugly sham. Everything that was and still is, is now somehow diluted. Bastardized. Killed and brought back to life to roam the earth as a mere shadow of itself toting business cards, t-shirts and trucker hats. Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine.
Another era that died a long time ago gave its last gasp last night as CBGB closed its doors for good. I won't miss it. Not really. What I miss about it was what happened there 30 years ago, not what has happened in recent history. What leaves a bad taste in my mouth is the fact that it will probably be turned into a Starbucks. A filthy, dark, messy shrine to punk will be paved over with chai lattes, rock hard scones and musical selections hand picked by Cheryl Crow. In some ways, it just doesn't seem right.
Now, I don't know for a FACT that it will be a Starbucks, specifically. But I am certain it will be turned over to some high end something or other that is determined to raise the property values in the neighborhood. Kick out the junkies, the artists, the down and outs. We just don't want to SEE them. Well, as much as it makes me sad to see people being self destructive they are a part of the fabric of this city. They are a reason to be in the city. They remind us that we are human and that we are not the squeaky clean, plush carpet, white couch facade we hide behind. We're messy. We fall apart. We feel deeply. And sometimes, just sometimes, our pain can't be whitewashed, dressed up, or shabby chic'ed away.
I struggle to keep my inner Holden Caufield at bay. Everything is for sale and yet nothing has much worth. The bigger something gets, the more diluted its product, service or message becomes. When I first heard "Teenage Wasteland" I was blown away. I had never heard anything like it. Now that it is being used to sell product, it has lost its bite to me. It seems the advertiser did not listen to the lyrics. It seems like no one does anymore. And when Bob Dylan is pitching women's underwear you can't help but get the impression that everyone has given up and handed their lives over to the machine. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well make a few bucks, right?
Where is the balance? I believe my work is worth something. I believe I deserve to live in this city and raise my son and eat. I see people posting on craigslist all the time, railing about how working for free is bad and you should always get paid and yet... and yet I've never been thrilled about the work I've done for money. The most worthwhile things in my career have been the things I've done without regard for money. I try to come to some conclusion about where money should be in my life and I have yet to come up with any answers. Part of me believes that I should just ignore it. It is none of my concern. Then the rest of me screams in absolute terror- are you mad?
CBGB had to die. The need for it is long gone. The need to create and to express with abandon has left this city. Now no one wants to get off their ass unless it's to meet Spielberg or cash a check. Oh- there's Holden again. Down boy, down.
Maybe Patti Smith can help me, me and my Holden Caufield. This is from today's New York Times article;
"Kids, they'll find some other club," Ms. Smith insisted during her set. "You just got a place, just some crappy place, that nobody wants, and you got one guy who believes in you, and you just do your thing. And anybody can do that, anywhere in the world, any time."
After her set was over and the club had partly cleared out, Ms. Smith returned to the stage for a silent postcript. As fans held up outstretched hands, Ms. Smith reached into a bag and handed out little black pins. They read, "What remains is future."
Man, I wish I had one of those pins.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Fear
For a very short while in my twneties I studied Anne Bogart's Viewpoints. As with any method of working, the methodology is always colored by the teacher who teaches it. I enjoyed my brief study, but lo these many years later I retained one key sentence.
The source of all creation is terror.
I'm sure I am paraphrasing and paraphrasing it horribly. I am most likely mangling the concept and missing the major point of her work. I know that I could simply walk to my bookshelf and look it up properly, but in a way I really don't want to. Because, I am holding on to this sentence as a life preserver. I am hoping that it is true because, if it is true, I am bound to be in the thick of the most creative period in my life to date.
Although it isn't the terror that is causing this bout of creative energy in my life. It seems more a biproduct than a cause. The more I create or committ to create, the more terrified I am. What if I can't balance my creative life and my family life? What if I have to choose between the two- again? What if I get rejected? Can I handle it? Will I be like Ed Wood, toiling faithfully in a form for which I've no real aptitude? Or will I be like countless others who quit because they hit 30 and no longer cared for the stuggle?
To be sure, heading back into performing in my 30's is a bit more frightening than it was after my acting hiatus between 18 and 21. After all, I was 21 and pretty cute. Now I'm 31, still cute, but I feel a bit worn and cuteness does not truly become me any longer. If I don't know what to do with myself, how can I expect anyone else to utilize my skills?
Not to mention that this giant chip on my shoulder has never served me in the business. I am not a product. I cannot be bought or sold. Every time that I have ever worked on something in which I had less than 100% faith, I felt miserable. I felt sick. Now, 100% faith does not necessarily mean that I believed the work WAS good. It is that I believed it COULD be good. There's a difference. It was the difference between feeling my worth and feeling used. I may be a little too proud-too arrogant- for this kind of work. And yet, here I am.
I am in the midst of some pre-production efforts for my first stage appearance in 5 years. The nuerotic episodes are worse now than they were for my last "comeback". Mostly because my circumstances have gotten, understandably, more complex. I feel like I am gambling with my family's future as opposed to the gambling I did then with my fledgling romantic relationship. My husband, (then boyfriend) supported me then and he supports me now but my fear clouds my self confidence. Fear clouds my ability to BE supported. My teachers always warned me to work smart, not hard. Well, unfortunately I do not value that which comes easily to me. I may have to tear myself apart to make this one stick.
But I would not allow this from any of my students. I would not allow this from any of my friends. This is NOT the way to approach a new step in one's creative career. So I must learn to fight the fear. I must accept it and disspell it. The first step in this process is to acknowledge the fear. To give it a name and deny it access to my soul. Then I need to provide myself with evidence of my own ability and build myself up again.
My fear is failure.
Now on to step two.
The source of all creation is terror.
I'm sure I am paraphrasing and paraphrasing it horribly. I am most likely mangling the concept and missing the major point of her work. I know that I could simply walk to my bookshelf and look it up properly, but in a way I really don't want to. Because, I am holding on to this sentence as a life preserver. I am hoping that it is true because, if it is true, I am bound to be in the thick of the most creative period in my life to date.
Although it isn't the terror that is causing this bout of creative energy in my life. It seems more a biproduct than a cause. The more I create or committ to create, the more terrified I am. What if I can't balance my creative life and my family life? What if I have to choose between the two- again? What if I get rejected? Can I handle it? Will I be like Ed Wood, toiling faithfully in a form for which I've no real aptitude? Or will I be like countless others who quit because they hit 30 and no longer cared for the stuggle?
To be sure, heading back into performing in my 30's is a bit more frightening than it was after my acting hiatus between 18 and 21. After all, I was 21 and pretty cute. Now I'm 31, still cute, but I feel a bit worn and cuteness does not truly become me any longer. If I don't know what to do with myself, how can I expect anyone else to utilize my skills?
Not to mention that this giant chip on my shoulder has never served me in the business. I am not a product. I cannot be bought or sold. Every time that I have ever worked on something in which I had less than 100% faith, I felt miserable. I felt sick. Now, 100% faith does not necessarily mean that I believed the work WAS good. It is that I believed it COULD be good. There's a difference. It was the difference between feeling my worth and feeling used. I may be a little too proud-too arrogant- for this kind of work. And yet, here I am.
I am in the midst of some pre-production efforts for my first stage appearance in 5 years. The nuerotic episodes are worse now than they were for my last "comeback". Mostly because my circumstances have gotten, understandably, more complex. I feel like I am gambling with my family's future as opposed to the gambling I did then with my fledgling romantic relationship. My husband, (then boyfriend) supported me then and he supports me now but my fear clouds my self confidence. Fear clouds my ability to BE supported. My teachers always warned me to work smart, not hard. Well, unfortunately I do not value that which comes easily to me. I may have to tear myself apart to make this one stick.
But I would not allow this from any of my students. I would not allow this from any of my friends. This is NOT the way to approach a new step in one's creative career. So I must learn to fight the fear. I must accept it and disspell it. The first step in this process is to acknowledge the fear. To give it a name and deny it access to my soul. Then I need to provide myself with evidence of my own ability and build myself up again.
My fear is failure.
Now on to step two.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Radical Moderation
My Brother has often referred to himself as a Radical Moderate, although he's really a Libertarian in Republican clothing. But that is neither here nor there. What is of importance in this post is just how much I like the phrase Radical Moderate. There's a movement that has never happened in the history of man. Maybe it's time. Maybe I'm crazy for thinking anyone would follow that banner.
You can spin yarns of Utopian societies and the ultimate freedom of mankind but I'm pretty cynical about all of that. I do not believe that "freedom" is the natural state of man. Why do I think that? Because so few of us actually choose it. We think we want it, but when faced with actual freedom most of us choose the opposite. Because freedom offers great opportunities, but those opportunities often come at a price that most of us are unwilling to pay. The price is often fear and uncertainty. Most people would choose the evil they know over the joy they don't know. As a species we tend to cling to the predictable while only the most adventurous and self destructive among us dabble in the unknown. And even then, most of us take a guide who has been there before.
For example, how many of us stay in jobs that are unfulfilled, that control our choices and dictate our daily lives? Some of us stay to provide our lives with structure. Some of us stay because we enjoy the money. Some of us stay because the alternative is just too frightening. Will we be able to afford our homes? Will we be able to pay our bills? Will we be able to feed ourselves and our families? Some of us stay in relationships that demean us. Some of us sit idly by while others make decisions about our communities and our government. Some of us just accept things as they are because we cannot conceive of an alternative. We willingly choose servitude, because in servitude we get to spread out responsibility. We get to delegate ownership of problems to someone else. The natural state of man is to seek safety and true freedom is not safe.
This may sound completely depressing, but I find it quite liberating. I am not saying that freedom is unattainable therefore we must give in to the machine. In fact, I am advocating the opposite. I believe that, within form there is freedom. At least within a creative sense. We need to fully understand the rules and the structures before we can break them and change perception. That is how it has always been done. That is how great movements always WILL be done.
I believe in the power of art to transform. I believe in the power of art to communicate. But I also believe that, in a polarized society like the one we have today, so called political art is so divisive that it only ends up preaching to the choir. I once read an article about a director who advocated the idea that only showing one side of any issue (the liberal side) is okay because the poor, downtrodden liberals need an outlet through which they can lick their collective wounds. To that I say BULLSHIT.
No. No. No, no no no no and NO.
If you believe in something, I believe you need to struggle to challenge that belief. Art should be on the front lines of the struggle to challenge not just our audience but ourselves. See the other side. Dig into it. Understand it. Be a part of it. Empathize with it. Are you worried you'll be swayed? That you'll change your position? Well. Then maybe you should. Then you will learn. You will grow. That is important for you as an artist, as a human being and it is vital for your audience. I know it is hard, but you must forever try not to have the answers. Art should be about questions not agendas. Express yourself. Express your personal feelings and beliefs, but never stop challenging them. Never. Be uncertain. Walk proudly beneath a banner that proclaims "I JUST DON'T KNOW"! If you really want to change the world then you need to communicate effectively in a way that does not invalidate those who experience the world differently than you.
This does not mean you should not offend or shock anyone. It means that you should do so judiciously. There is no law of God or Man that states "Thou Shalt Not Be Offended"! But this should come from an honest and questioning position, not as a form of attack. Because, quite honestly, who the hell are you to tell people what to think? Just like, who the hell am I to advocate public questioning? No one. Clearly, I am no one.
Maybe it isn't moderation that I am seeking. Maybe I am looking for Radical Understanding. You may be searching for something else. Perhaps my viewpoint doesn't necessarily apply to you. But what if it does?
It never hurts to ask.
You can spin yarns of Utopian societies and the ultimate freedom of mankind but I'm pretty cynical about all of that. I do not believe that "freedom" is the natural state of man. Why do I think that? Because so few of us actually choose it. We think we want it, but when faced with actual freedom most of us choose the opposite. Because freedom offers great opportunities, but those opportunities often come at a price that most of us are unwilling to pay. The price is often fear and uncertainty. Most people would choose the evil they know over the joy they don't know. As a species we tend to cling to the predictable while only the most adventurous and self destructive among us dabble in the unknown. And even then, most of us take a guide who has been there before.
For example, how many of us stay in jobs that are unfulfilled, that control our choices and dictate our daily lives? Some of us stay to provide our lives with structure. Some of us stay because we enjoy the money. Some of us stay because the alternative is just too frightening. Will we be able to afford our homes? Will we be able to pay our bills? Will we be able to feed ourselves and our families? Some of us stay in relationships that demean us. Some of us sit idly by while others make decisions about our communities and our government. Some of us just accept things as they are because we cannot conceive of an alternative. We willingly choose servitude, because in servitude we get to spread out responsibility. We get to delegate ownership of problems to someone else. The natural state of man is to seek safety and true freedom is not safe.
This may sound completely depressing, but I find it quite liberating. I am not saying that freedom is unattainable therefore we must give in to the machine. In fact, I am advocating the opposite. I believe that, within form there is freedom. At least within a creative sense. We need to fully understand the rules and the structures before we can break them and change perception. That is how it has always been done. That is how great movements always WILL be done.
I believe in the power of art to transform. I believe in the power of art to communicate. But I also believe that, in a polarized society like the one we have today, so called political art is so divisive that it only ends up preaching to the choir. I once read an article about a director who advocated the idea that only showing one side of any issue (the liberal side) is okay because the poor, downtrodden liberals need an outlet through which they can lick their collective wounds. To that I say BULLSHIT.
No. No. No, no no no no and NO.
If you believe in something, I believe you need to struggle to challenge that belief. Art should be on the front lines of the struggle to challenge not just our audience but ourselves. See the other side. Dig into it. Understand it. Be a part of it. Empathize with it. Are you worried you'll be swayed? That you'll change your position? Well. Then maybe you should. Then you will learn. You will grow. That is important for you as an artist, as a human being and it is vital for your audience. I know it is hard, but you must forever try not to have the answers. Art should be about questions not agendas. Express yourself. Express your personal feelings and beliefs, but never stop challenging them. Never. Be uncertain. Walk proudly beneath a banner that proclaims "I JUST DON'T KNOW"! If you really want to change the world then you need to communicate effectively in a way that does not invalidate those who experience the world differently than you.
This does not mean you should not offend or shock anyone. It means that you should do so judiciously. There is no law of God or Man that states "Thou Shalt Not Be Offended"! But this should come from an honest and questioning position, not as a form of attack. Because, quite honestly, who the hell are you to tell people what to think? Just like, who the hell am I to advocate public questioning? No one. Clearly, I am no one.
Maybe it isn't moderation that I am seeking. Maybe I am looking for Radical Understanding. You may be searching for something else. Perhaps my viewpoint doesn't necessarily apply to you. But what if it does?
It never hurts to ask.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Soap Opera v. Truth: Circumstances and You
Here's a problem that stops me cold in my tracks every time.
Right now I am doing battle with circumstances in the play that I am writing. This happens to me to a certain degree with just about any project I take on and it seems to get worse the more personal the project.
In the midst of writing my new play it dawns on me why the patriach makes such a stink about his grown, single daughter's choice to have a child alone. Will, the patriarch, is so monsterously self centered that it makes a certain amount of sense for him to tell her, "You may not have liked your father, but at least you had one. He's going to hate you for what you've done to him!" However, it just stuck with me that there has to be something more about Will that neither his children (nor his writer) knows.
In the circumstances, Will has been a shoddy husband and father. He has been depressed, abusive and unfaithful throughout his marriage. As he begins to decline (due to Alzheimers) he seeks a spot of redemption from his family before it is too late. His family does not like him too much, with the exception of his ever faithful wife, Rita, who cares for him above and beyond the call of duty. What has been bothering me is that, throughout the text, the adult children treat their father as the man he once was, not the man he has become. They have sainted their mother, and due to the given circumstances they seem correct in their assumptions. However, there needs to be something more. Something more challenging in his past to explain his filandering and abuse of a good woman as well as her desperate attempts to be the good woman she is expected to be. Then it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Will isn't Rhonda's (the eldest child and aforementioned single mother) biological father. It would make sense, wouldn't it? Think about it. It would explain his venom in accusing Rhonda of not providing for her newborn son what he had bent over backward to provide for her - a father. It would absolve him (in his own mind, anyway) of 40 years of wrong doing because he did a "good" thing. It would explain some (not all) of Rita's patience with Will's past behavior and give a strong motivation to continue to care for him. He has made her pay for her indescretion during their 40 years of marriage. Over and over and over again. Clearly, Will has other issues, other circumstances that play in to his destructive choices, but I can't help but think this might be the path to take. there is even a good scene to reveal this information so that it doesn't feel like a formal reveal. Rather, it would be layered on top of another event which would make that information a bit more earth shattering than if it had been discovered through some more straight forward narrative device.
So, what's my problem then?
There is a bit of a "joke" that some theater people share about how close Chekhov's work is to a soap opera. I love Chekhov. He's a big influence on my writing. I understand the comparison and it even makes sense. It's true. However, what makes Chekhov better that a soap is his incredible wit, his use of language, his masterful juggling of circumstances, and his rather gentle hand with exposition. By "gentle hand with exposition" I mean that he does not beat you over the head with information. He says it once and then expands upon it. Or even better, he IMPLIES it once and then expands upon it! My weakness as a writer is that I don't expand as much as I would like and I almost never imply. I don't have the kind of faith in my audience that Chekhov has. I'm struggling to bury some of the things that I know about my characters and make it a part of their language instead of what they say. It's not what they say, it's HOW they say it. This takes tons of practice.
I'm concerned that this tweaking of circumstances will take me to soap opera land. However, I recognize that it isn't the circumstances that make soap opera, it's the use of dialogue and narrative structure that turn circumstances from good drama to schmaltz. This takes practice and faith in your own ability as a dramatist. Therein lies the struggle.
Speaking of "the givens", as I like to call the given circumstances, I recently saw "Little Miss Sunshine". Actually, I saw it twice which is rare for me with a theatrical release. At any rate, I was really taken with the building of circumstances in that film. It could have easily turned into soap opera or farce, but it didn't. (Okay, there's nothing wrong with farce. Farce is actually pretty cool, but here I mean farce in a negative way.) Part of the reason I went to see it twice was to see just where that tightrope walk really was. Allow, for a moment, my brief, inexpert dissection.
The exposition in the film was fun and well laid out, albeit fairly conventional. This is not a bad thing. The narrative was simple and logical, giving the audience everything we needed to know about these characters to make this impending road trip have weight and and urgency. Each character (with the notable exception of Mom and to a lesser extent Grandpa) has a dream or emotional goal at the beginning of the film. It is clear that these characters are in precarious places in their individual lives. Some of the characters have already been chipped away at. Frank, the uncle, has just attempted suicide after losing his career and experiencing an unrequited love affair. Grandpa was kicked out of his nursing home because he was snorting heroin. The kids, Dwayne and Olive, are both hopeful (to a certain extent) that they will reach their goals in life- if they can just make it to adulthood. Dad is clearly a loser who thinks he's a winner. Mom just really, really wants to keep her family from falling apart. As events unfold each of them loses something dear to them. Each of their dreams are completely shattered and then they find each other.
The way the circumstances were constructed allowed the audience to take a completely looney ride without question. After all the dreams, save young Olive's dream of competing in the Little Miss Sunshine pageant, had been stripped away it begins to make perfect sense why the family decides to steal a body and stick it in the trunk of their car. It makes perfect sense why a normal, red blooded, American family would support their seven year old stripping. It's outlandish, but is constructed in a way that makes it TRUE. Their choices are somewhat addled, but the givens are strong enough to make it seem that these crazy choices are the best and only choices to make at that particular point in time.
For instance, there is a point in the film where the entire family dances. After they get into it, they dance with abandon. It is an great release, but it brings me to tears even to think about it. This seemingly joyous and rebellious dancing was filled with terrible pain and sadness. I think I was the only one who cried instead of laughing, but for me it profoundly expressed where this family was in the arc of the story. It expressed their coming together under bizarre and painful circumstances, and it did it without saying a word. I love that shit.
I've been watching circumstances unfold in films, plays, politics, and my daily life ever since I became acutely aware of how circumstances affected people. I have built and knocked down and rebuilt the circumstances in my own life several times to try and better understand myself. The funny thing is, once you have a circumstance enter your life you have that piece of the puzzle with you forever. It may not always be in the forefront of your mind, but it still affects you in some way. The puzzle that is a human being just keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger. In order to find truth as a writer or as an actor, regardless of genre, we must discover those circumstances and put them in their proper place, give them appropriate weight. In my first play, "Pull", Dan steals a doorknob from the faculty lounge at her school. Why a doorknob? Why not a seat back or a pencil sharpener? It turns out that, at a pivotal moment in her sexual devlopment she found herself locked in a basement with a boy who coerced her into a sexual act. Stealing a doorknob was like stealing her self possession, her power back. Of course, later in the play this very doorknob is used against her and I expect she will need years and years of therapy to come to terms with that, but that's a whole other story.
Maybe what I am trying to convince myself is that circumstances are not the problem. Layering and building circumstances would be the appropriate and interesting thing to do. As with a painting it isn't the existence of blue or red or purple that make a painting vital but how blue, red and purple are used in relation to one another.
All right. Now I think I've got it.
Right now I am doing battle with circumstances in the play that I am writing. This happens to me to a certain degree with just about any project I take on and it seems to get worse the more personal the project.
In the midst of writing my new play it dawns on me why the patriach makes such a stink about his grown, single daughter's choice to have a child alone. Will, the patriarch, is so monsterously self centered that it makes a certain amount of sense for him to tell her, "You may not have liked your father, but at least you had one. He's going to hate you for what you've done to him!" However, it just stuck with me that there has to be something more about Will that neither his children (nor his writer) knows.
In the circumstances, Will has been a shoddy husband and father. He has been depressed, abusive and unfaithful throughout his marriage. As he begins to decline (due to Alzheimers) he seeks a spot of redemption from his family before it is too late. His family does not like him too much, with the exception of his ever faithful wife, Rita, who cares for him above and beyond the call of duty. What has been bothering me is that, throughout the text, the adult children treat their father as the man he once was, not the man he has become. They have sainted their mother, and due to the given circumstances they seem correct in their assumptions. However, there needs to be something more. Something more challenging in his past to explain his filandering and abuse of a good woman as well as her desperate attempts to be the good woman she is expected to be. Then it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Will isn't Rhonda's (the eldest child and aforementioned single mother) biological father. It would make sense, wouldn't it? Think about it. It would explain his venom in accusing Rhonda of not providing for her newborn son what he had bent over backward to provide for her - a father. It would absolve him (in his own mind, anyway) of 40 years of wrong doing because he did a "good" thing. It would explain some (not all) of Rita's patience with Will's past behavior and give a strong motivation to continue to care for him. He has made her pay for her indescretion during their 40 years of marriage. Over and over and over again. Clearly, Will has other issues, other circumstances that play in to his destructive choices, but I can't help but think this might be the path to take. there is even a good scene to reveal this information so that it doesn't feel like a formal reveal. Rather, it would be layered on top of another event which would make that information a bit more earth shattering than if it had been discovered through some more straight forward narrative device.
So, what's my problem then?
There is a bit of a "joke" that some theater people share about how close Chekhov's work is to a soap opera. I love Chekhov. He's a big influence on my writing. I understand the comparison and it even makes sense. It's true. However, what makes Chekhov better that a soap is his incredible wit, his use of language, his masterful juggling of circumstances, and his rather gentle hand with exposition. By "gentle hand with exposition" I mean that he does not beat you over the head with information. He says it once and then expands upon it. Or even better, he IMPLIES it once and then expands upon it! My weakness as a writer is that I don't expand as much as I would like and I almost never imply. I don't have the kind of faith in my audience that Chekhov has. I'm struggling to bury some of the things that I know about my characters and make it a part of their language instead of what they say. It's not what they say, it's HOW they say it. This takes tons of practice.
I'm concerned that this tweaking of circumstances will take me to soap opera land. However, I recognize that it isn't the circumstances that make soap opera, it's the use of dialogue and narrative structure that turn circumstances from good drama to schmaltz. This takes practice and faith in your own ability as a dramatist. Therein lies the struggle.
Speaking of "the givens", as I like to call the given circumstances, I recently saw "Little Miss Sunshine". Actually, I saw it twice which is rare for me with a theatrical release. At any rate, I was really taken with the building of circumstances in that film. It could have easily turned into soap opera or farce, but it didn't. (Okay, there's nothing wrong with farce. Farce is actually pretty cool, but here I mean farce in a negative way.) Part of the reason I went to see it twice was to see just where that tightrope walk really was. Allow, for a moment, my brief, inexpert dissection.
The exposition in the film was fun and well laid out, albeit fairly conventional. This is not a bad thing. The narrative was simple and logical, giving the audience everything we needed to know about these characters to make this impending road trip have weight and and urgency. Each character (with the notable exception of Mom and to a lesser extent Grandpa) has a dream or emotional goal at the beginning of the film. It is clear that these characters are in precarious places in their individual lives. Some of the characters have already been chipped away at. Frank, the uncle, has just attempted suicide after losing his career and experiencing an unrequited love affair. Grandpa was kicked out of his nursing home because he was snorting heroin. The kids, Dwayne and Olive, are both hopeful (to a certain extent) that they will reach their goals in life- if they can just make it to adulthood. Dad is clearly a loser who thinks he's a winner. Mom just really, really wants to keep her family from falling apart. As events unfold each of them loses something dear to them. Each of their dreams are completely shattered and then they find each other.
The way the circumstances were constructed allowed the audience to take a completely looney ride without question. After all the dreams, save young Olive's dream of competing in the Little Miss Sunshine pageant, had been stripped away it begins to make perfect sense why the family decides to steal a body and stick it in the trunk of their car. It makes perfect sense why a normal, red blooded, American family would support their seven year old stripping. It's outlandish, but is constructed in a way that makes it TRUE. Their choices are somewhat addled, but the givens are strong enough to make it seem that these crazy choices are the best and only choices to make at that particular point in time.
For instance, there is a point in the film where the entire family dances. After they get into it, they dance with abandon. It is an great release, but it brings me to tears even to think about it. This seemingly joyous and rebellious dancing was filled with terrible pain and sadness. I think I was the only one who cried instead of laughing, but for me it profoundly expressed where this family was in the arc of the story. It expressed their coming together under bizarre and painful circumstances, and it did it without saying a word. I love that shit.
I've been watching circumstances unfold in films, plays, politics, and my daily life ever since I became acutely aware of how circumstances affected people. I have built and knocked down and rebuilt the circumstances in my own life several times to try and better understand myself. The funny thing is, once you have a circumstance enter your life you have that piece of the puzzle with you forever. It may not always be in the forefront of your mind, but it still affects you in some way. The puzzle that is a human being just keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger. In order to find truth as a writer or as an actor, regardless of genre, we must discover those circumstances and put them in their proper place, give them appropriate weight. In my first play, "Pull", Dan steals a doorknob from the faculty lounge at her school. Why a doorknob? Why not a seat back or a pencil sharpener? It turns out that, at a pivotal moment in her sexual devlopment she found herself locked in a basement with a boy who coerced her into a sexual act. Stealing a doorknob was like stealing her self possession, her power back. Of course, later in the play this very doorknob is used against her and I expect she will need years and years of therapy to come to terms with that, but that's a whole other story.
Maybe what I am trying to convince myself is that circumstances are not the problem. Layering and building circumstances would be the appropriate and interesting thing to do. As with a painting it isn't the existence of blue or red or purple that make a painting vital but how blue, red and purple are used in relation to one another.
All right. Now I think I've got it.
My Life In Art
Ah, how pretentious.
I am struggling to find a tone that suits my new endeavor. Let's face it, I am making this up as I go along. No matter.
First, QWIP will be about my art and only about my art. Of course, art is a personal thing and from time to time you WILL catch me musing about social and/or political issues, personal events, observations and the like, but only as they relate to my choices as an artist.
Second, I will limit my links on this blog to sites pertaining to my artistic interests.
Third, I hope to eventually bring other artists in to write about their process. That will come in due time. Right now I need to pull myself together and start building this blog. When it is good, people will join me.
Fourth, I am going to try to express myself intelligently and my inner sailor will have to find a different outlet. I won't bar the use of profanity officially, but I am going to challenge my vocabulary because the time for these infantile pursuits has passed.
And last, this blog will make me accountable. No more claiming involvement in projects that never materialize. If it is in print here I am bound to complete the project. I will talk about my process, ask for opinions, give advice and, in general, work to build a community of artists who work for the sake of working.
As I grow older, I realize that art is not a luxury for me. This is how my brain works. This is how I process the world around me and learn how to cope. If I don't have it, I fall apart. My art makes me strong. It provides me with an outlet for my confusion, my anger and my love. It bestows its own wisdom and peace upon me
So welcome. Come in. Sit down. Have some coffee. Breathe. But please, be quiet. There's a work in progress.
I am struggling to find a tone that suits my new endeavor. Let's face it, I am making this up as I go along. No matter.
First, QWIP will be about my art and only about my art. Of course, art is a personal thing and from time to time you WILL catch me musing about social and/or political issues, personal events, observations and the like, but only as they relate to my choices as an artist.
Second, I will limit my links on this blog to sites pertaining to my artistic interests.
Third, I hope to eventually bring other artists in to write about their process. That will come in due time. Right now I need to pull myself together and start building this blog. When it is good, people will join me.
Fourth, I am going to try to express myself intelligently and my inner sailor will have to find a different outlet. I won't bar the use of profanity officially, but I am going to challenge my vocabulary because the time for these infantile pursuits has passed.
And last, this blog will make me accountable. No more claiming involvement in projects that never materialize. If it is in print here I am bound to complete the project. I will talk about my process, ask for opinions, give advice and, in general, work to build a community of artists who work for the sake of working.
As I grow older, I realize that art is not a luxury for me. This is how my brain works. This is how I process the world around me and learn how to cope. If I don't have it, I fall apart. My art makes me strong. It provides me with an outlet for my confusion, my anger and my love. It bestows its own wisdom and peace upon me
So welcome. Come in. Sit down. Have some coffee. Breathe. But please, be quiet. There's a work in progress.
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