Monday, August 30, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Pay No Attention to that Woman Behind the Curtain! (Thoughts on Directing, Part 2)
The theatre director's hand should be invisible, as though the playwright's words are flowing effortlessly from the page to the stage. Throughout the rehearsal process, a good director must nudge and inspire the actor from within, rather than domineer and control from without.
This invaluable credo is central to the excellent book A Sense of Direction, by William Ball, which I mentioned in my earlier blog entry on theatre directing. Indeed, the Wizard of Oz quote graces the very first pages.
So, from the beginning, I understood that a good director must not be a puppeteer -- and must not hold too tightly to whatever initial vision he or she formed upon first reading the play. What appears on the stage must arise organically, a product of the director's unfolding vision and the actors' intuitive creativity.
The director shapes and prunes, and always keeps faith in the actors, no matter how awful things get in rehearsal. And, when this is done gently and seamlessly, sometimes even the actors are not entirely aware of the director's work, and can find themselves believing the finished performance would have emerged all on its own.
* * *
"What did you make of that last play?" I asked a fellow theatre company member as we headed out of an evening of one-acts.
"Which one?" she asked, searching her mind for images that she had seen less than 10 minutes before.
"The thing about the woman in the bar... in Scotland? She meets this weird drunken guy...?"
"Oh right!" she said and paused. "Not much!! I mean, what was that?"
"That was Life and Death -- the same play I directed a few months ago. Which you liked..."
"It was? No fucking way."
But, yes, it was. It was. In every fucking way.
Earlier that year, I had been given this spare, tense script about a vulnerable American tourist who is beset, seduced, frightened and charmed by a tortured charismatic Scottish nobleman in Edinburgh.
My two actors: Lee, a slight young woman with a hint of toughness, and Greg, a stocky, good-natured 30-something guy from Staten Island.
Lee immediately had a sense of the character's vulnerability and curiosity.
Greg, on the other hand, had no clue whatsoever. In the initial read, he started overacting, hunched over like a slightly deranged Jack Nicholson with a hint of Peter Lorre.
"Um... Let's try it again," I said, "And just sit up straight in the chair. And don't worry so much about acting. Just read the words for sense."
Now he gave me a more straight-backed Jack Nicholson.
"OK," I said afterwards, "That's getting there. And it's good that you're getting a sense of the dangerousness of this character. But remember, she's not running away, so he is charming her, right?" Greg agreed. "So, once again, don't worry so much about acting, just put in the back of your mind how you might talk to a woman you're interested in."
Now he stared at her relentlessly and even seemed to be salivating a bit.
"OK, let's take a break," I said.
Greg went for a cigarette and Lee pulled me aside, shaking her head, "This is really creeping me out!" "I know, I know," I sighed, "Give him a chance."
"Have you ever seen My Favorite Year?" I asked Greg after rehearsal.
"The thing with Peter O'Toole and the Jewish guy?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, that's the one. Before our next rehearsal, can you watch that and pay special attention to Peter O'Toole's performance? Because, remember this character isn't American, so he should be..."
"You mean kind of faggy-like?"
"Um... yeah...."
"Sure. No problem."
So Greg watched My Favorite Year and came back with a respectable embodiment of an upper-class Brit. We tamed the creepy leering and punched up the properness and things started to work.
But he was still having a hard time with the character's many transitions.
As he is charming and seducing the woman, he delves into increasingly angry and resentful diatribes about his brother being killed in "The American War" (i.e. Vietnam). Then he switches in to charming-mode, and then into dangerous seduction (OK, we kept a bit of the initial creepy leer after all :-> ), and then he goes back into Vietnam-War-anger, then he wistfully reflects on his life in Scotland and then back into charming, and then seduction, and around and around...
And Greg couldn't tell one beat from the next.
So I bought a box of crayons and color coded the script: pink for charming, red for seduction, light green for the early stages of the Vietnam diatribe, and darker green as his anger intensifies, then light blue for the reflective bits, and so on.
I had him monologue about the brother and about the war, about sex and love. We went through the script and found active, riveting verbs for each beat, layering moments of tension and suspension which gave the whole thing a beautiful roller-coaster feel.
In short, I practically breast-fed the guy.
And through it all, there was Lee....
She did well enough responding to what he was now giving her, but since I had to focus so much on him, I was not able to help her develop her character.
Even on opening night, she was working with generalities like, "I'm in Scotland to escape..." From what? Why? What do you want?? We never figured it out. She did well enough because she was a good actor, but I did her a disservice....
The upshot?
The playwright LOVED him -- and hated her. (And she didn't care much for me either.)
It turned out that the piece was semi-autobiographical, and the playwright made the mistake of expecting to see an onstage re-enactment of her own experience with some real-life Scottish weirdo.
She expected to see her own anguish, frailty, desire, frustration, confusion, etc. played out in Lee's eyes. To the playwright, this was a story about the woman. And, perhaps because she was telling her own story, she believed the vividness in her mind's eye would come across in the text, but it didn't.
As the play is written, the woman is just a foil for this bizarre man; to artificially make it her story would only dilute the drama.
Anyway. Everyone loved it. And everyone LOVED Greg.
Lee and I stood aside as exiting audience shook his hand and slapped his back. He continued to receive praise -- and additional roles -- for weeks and months after the show.
And the theatre company loved it so much there was talk of entering it in the Samuel French festival for Best One-Act Plays. And they decided to remount it a month or two before the festival. But this time, without Lee -- and without me.
The playwright cast herself in the woman's role and got some friend of hers to direct the incomphrehensible mess that appeared on the mainstage that summer.
The result was bad. It was worse than bad.
It was instantly forgettable.
This invaluable credo is central to the excellent book A Sense of Direction, by William Ball, which I mentioned in my earlier blog entry on theatre directing. Indeed, the Wizard of Oz quote graces the very first pages.
So, from the beginning, I understood that a good director must not be a puppeteer -- and must not hold too tightly to whatever initial vision he or she formed upon first reading the play. What appears on the stage must arise organically, a product of the director's unfolding vision and the actors' intuitive creativity.
The director shapes and prunes, and always keeps faith in the actors, no matter how awful things get in rehearsal. And, when this is done gently and seamlessly, sometimes even the actors are not entirely aware of the director's work, and can find themselves believing the finished performance would have emerged all on its own.
* * *
"What did you make of that last play?" I asked a fellow theatre company member as we headed out of an evening of one-acts.
"Which one?" she asked, searching her mind for images that she had seen less than 10 minutes before.
"The thing about the woman in the bar... in Scotland? She meets this weird drunken guy...?"
"Oh right!" she said and paused. "Not much!! I mean, what was that?"
"That was Life and Death -- the same play I directed a few months ago. Which you liked..."
"It was? No fucking way."
But, yes, it was. It was. In every fucking way.
Earlier that year, I had been given this spare, tense script about a vulnerable American tourist who is beset, seduced, frightened and charmed by a tortured charismatic Scottish nobleman in Edinburgh.
My two actors: Lee, a slight young woman with a hint of toughness, and Greg, a stocky, good-natured 30-something guy from Staten Island.
Lee immediately had a sense of the character's vulnerability and curiosity.
Greg, on the other hand, had no clue whatsoever. In the initial read, he started overacting, hunched over like a slightly deranged Jack Nicholson with a hint of Peter Lorre.
"Um... Let's try it again," I said, "And just sit up straight in the chair. And don't worry so much about acting. Just read the words for sense."
Now he gave me a more straight-backed Jack Nicholson.
"OK," I said afterwards, "That's getting there. And it's good that you're getting a sense of the dangerousness of this character. But remember, she's not running away, so he is charming her, right?" Greg agreed. "So, once again, don't worry so much about acting, just put in the back of your mind how you might talk to a woman you're interested in."
Now he stared at her relentlessly and even seemed to be salivating a bit.
"OK, let's take a break," I said.
Greg went for a cigarette and Lee pulled me aside, shaking her head, "This is really creeping me out!" "I know, I know," I sighed, "Give him a chance."
"Have you ever seen My Favorite Year?" I asked Greg after rehearsal.
"The thing with Peter O'Toole and the Jewish guy?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, that's the one. Before our next rehearsal, can you watch that and pay special attention to Peter O'Toole's performance? Because, remember this character isn't American, so he should be..."
"You mean kind of faggy-like?"
"Um... yeah...."
"Sure. No problem."
So Greg watched My Favorite Year and came back with a respectable embodiment of an upper-class Brit. We tamed the creepy leering and punched up the properness and things started to work.
But he was still having a hard time with the character's many transitions.
As he is charming and seducing the woman, he delves into increasingly angry and resentful diatribes about his brother being killed in "The American War" (i.e. Vietnam). Then he switches in to charming-mode, and then into dangerous seduction (OK, we kept a bit of the initial creepy leer after all :-> ), and then he goes back into Vietnam-War-anger, then he wistfully reflects on his life in Scotland and then back into charming, and then seduction, and around and around...
And Greg couldn't tell one beat from the next.
So I bought a box of crayons and color coded the script: pink for charming, red for seduction, light green for the early stages of the Vietnam diatribe, and darker green as his anger intensifies, then light blue for the reflective bits, and so on.
I had him monologue about the brother and about the war, about sex and love. We went through the script and found active, riveting verbs for each beat, layering moments of tension and suspension which gave the whole thing a beautiful roller-coaster feel.
In short, I practically breast-fed the guy.
And through it all, there was Lee....
She did well enough responding to what he was now giving her, but since I had to focus so much on him, I was not able to help her develop her character.
Even on opening night, she was working with generalities like, "I'm in Scotland to escape..." From what? Why? What do you want?? We never figured it out. She did well enough because she was a good actor, but I did her a disservice....
The upshot?
The playwright LOVED him -- and hated her. (And she didn't care much for me either.)
It turned out that the piece was semi-autobiographical, and the playwright made the mistake of expecting to see an onstage re-enactment of her own experience with some real-life Scottish weirdo.
She expected to see her own anguish, frailty, desire, frustration, confusion, etc. played out in Lee's eyes. To the playwright, this was a story about the woman. And, perhaps because she was telling her own story, she believed the vividness in her mind's eye would come across in the text, but it didn't.
As the play is written, the woman is just a foil for this bizarre man; to artificially make it her story would only dilute the drama.
Anyway. Everyone loved it. And everyone LOVED Greg.
Lee and I stood aside as exiting audience shook his hand and slapped his back. He continued to receive praise -- and additional roles -- for weeks and months after the show.
And the theatre company loved it so much there was talk of entering it in the Samuel French festival for Best One-Act Plays. And they decided to remount it a month or two before the festival. But this time, without Lee -- and without me.
The playwright cast herself in the woman's role and got some friend of hers to direct the incomphrehensible mess that appeared on the mainstage that summer.
The result was bad. It was worse than bad.
It was instantly forgettable.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
But What I Really (Didn't!) Want to Do ....
... is direct.
When actors whine that "what they really want to do is direct," they are talking about film -- where, in these days of the auteur, the film director is seen to exercise complete control in realizing his or her vision.
Indeed, an auteur -- as a director of signature-style films -- (Jim Jarmush, Woody Allen, Tim Burton, the Coen Brothers, etc.) can be more of a star than any given actor in his (yes his, more often than her) films.
Not so in the world of theatre directors.
"im in theatre class," [sic] pleaded a student on Yahoo's message board, "and i need a famous theatre director and i cant find anything......so please help me........."
Needless to say, the Wikipedia list of theatre directors provided by a thoughtful respondent yields very few recognizable names -- at least to those who aren't in theatre. And the few notables belong to directors who famously crossed over to film: Orson Welles, Mike Nichols, Laurence Olivier, Bob Fosse, and the like.
When I first joined a Manhattan theater company, in my early 20s, with little training and questionable talent, I had less of a clue about exactly what a director did than our young Yahoo poster. Like much of the average audience, I was quick to assign the finished product on the stage entirely to the actor and writer.
As far as I knew, the director made sure everyone knew their lines and didn't trip over the furniture.
And even in my first few one-acts, it didn't seem like the director did much -- other than the lines-and-furniture thing.
This, it turns out, was because those few directors just weren't very good.
This particular company did not actively seek directors; their bread-and-butter was young out-of-towners hungry for any -- and I do mean ANY -- NYC stage experience. So we all auditioned, paid $100 and were guaranteed a role.
If we wanted more roles, we had to do stuff for the company: stage manage, run lights and sound, build sets, clean the theater, run the box office, create flyers and programs -- and direct.
So many of the directors were just actors who were grudgingly putting in hours so they could get their butts back onstage.
And then I was cast in a sensitive, two-person drama about a jilted wife reuniting with her fanatical ex who had run off with a cult.
I was completely lost.
Thankfully, I had a director who had actually studied directing, and who wanted to pursue a career in directing. And she was brilliant!! She helped me understand the meaning and intention of each beat, to clarify and solidify my performance, and create a moving drama.
Slowly, it became clear to me how crucial good directing was -- and how very difficult it was, first to grasp the meaning of the play, and then to guide the actors towards the fullest, richest telling of the story.
About a year later, I was given my first one-act to direct. And, happily, I came across ACT director William Ball's outstanding book A Sense of Direction, which not only gave me essential tools for directing; it changed my understanding of acting as well.
It also seared into my brain the maxim that The Director is Always Responsible -- no matter what, with no excuses; the finished product is the director's responsibility. You can never, ever blame the actor. (Admittedly, a few times I've wanted to blame the writer, but even there, a badly written play can be directed into something worth watching... more on this in another entry).
This uncompromising acceptance of responsibility at first seemed daunting, but ultimately I embraced it as both a challenge and even an act of unconditional love.
I had once heard that to truly love a thing, you can fully -- without delusion or denial -- see it in its current and perhaps flawed state, and you can also see its most beautiful, most fully realized potential. In short, you can see what it wants to be. And through love (and more than a little sweat and tenacity), you can guide it to that fruition.
And I think that many of the actors understood this about me... that no matter how hopeless things sometimes seemed in rehearsal, they knew I had faith in them, in the play, and in the creative process itself, and so they had faith in me.
I soon began to love directing (though, diva that I was -- and still am -- still sought the spotlight when I could), and within a few months I was given my first full-length play.
To this day, the playwright -- who has been produced throughout the US -- considers that production among the best of his work.
He recently wrote, "Some things about that little production I’ll never forget -- some things you don’t even know about -- like my sister’s reaction. She’s passed away now. She came up from Florida to see it. She had no idea what I was up to. I can still see her leaning against the wall afterward, across the room from me, mouthing the words, wow, wow, wow -- blown away."
And many other playwrights have felt the same. Even after I left the company, I had been sought out to direct more work for satisfied playwrights.
And even though I know -- and they know -- exactly how much the director's hand is responsible for what the audience sees... sometimes I forget.
And so do they....
Sometimes, even as the audience cheers, and friends are slapping their castmember pals on the back... I can't help thinking, "Could this have been done without me....?"
To be continued...
When actors whine that "what they really want to do is direct," they are talking about film -- where, in these days of the auteur, the film director is seen to exercise complete control in realizing his or her vision.
Indeed, an auteur -- as a director of signature-style films -- (Jim Jarmush, Woody Allen, Tim Burton, the Coen Brothers, etc.) can be more of a star than any given actor in his (yes his, more often than her) films.
Not so in the world of theatre directors.
"im in theatre class," [sic] pleaded a student on Yahoo's message board, "and i need a famous theatre director and i cant find anything......so please help me........."
Needless to say, the Wikipedia list of theatre directors provided by a thoughtful respondent yields very few recognizable names -- at least to those who aren't in theatre. And the few notables belong to directors who famously crossed over to film: Orson Welles, Mike Nichols, Laurence Olivier, Bob Fosse, and the like.
When I first joined a Manhattan theater company, in my early 20s, with little training and questionable talent, I had less of a clue about exactly what a director did than our young Yahoo poster. Like much of the average audience, I was quick to assign the finished product on the stage entirely to the actor and writer.
As far as I knew, the director made sure everyone knew their lines and didn't trip over the furniture.
And even in my first few one-acts, it didn't seem like the director did much -- other than the lines-and-furniture thing.
This, it turns out, was because those few directors just weren't very good.
This particular company did not actively seek directors; their bread-and-butter was young out-of-towners hungry for any -- and I do mean ANY -- NYC stage experience. So we all auditioned, paid $100 and were guaranteed a role.
If we wanted more roles, we had to do stuff for the company: stage manage, run lights and sound, build sets, clean the theater, run the box office, create flyers and programs -- and direct.
So many of the directors were just actors who were grudgingly putting in hours so they could get their butts back onstage.
And then I was cast in a sensitive, two-person drama about a jilted wife reuniting with her fanatical ex who had run off with a cult.
I was completely lost.
Thankfully, I had a director who had actually studied directing, and who wanted to pursue a career in directing. And she was brilliant!! She helped me understand the meaning and intention of each beat, to clarify and solidify my performance, and create a moving drama.
Slowly, it became clear to me how crucial good directing was -- and how very difficult it was, first to grasp the meaning of the play, and then to guide the actors towards the fullest, richest telling of the story.
About a year later, I was given my first one-act to direct. And, happily, I came across ACT director William Ball's outstanding book A Sense of Direction, which not only gave me essential tools for directing; it changed my understanding of acting as well.
It also seared into my brain the maxim that The Director is Always Responsible -- no matter what, with no excuses; the finished product is the director's responsibility. You can never, ever blame the actor. (Admittedly, a few times I've wanted to blame the writer, but even there, a badly written play can be directed into something worth watching... more on this in another entry).
This uncompromising acceptance of responsibility at first seemed daunting, but ultimately I embraced it as both a challenge and even an act of unconditional love.
I had once heard that to truly love a thing, you can fully -- without delusion or denial -- see it in its current and perhaps flawed state, and you can also see its most beautiful, most fully realized potential. In short, you can see what it wants to be. And through love (and more than a little sweat and tenacity), you can guide it to that fruition.
And I think that many of the actors understood this about me... that no matter how hopeless things sometimes seemed in rehearsal, they knew I had faith in them, in the play, and in the creative process itself, and so they had faith in me.
I soon began to love directing (though, diva that I was -- and still am -- still sought the spotlight when I could), and within a few months I was given my first full-length play.
To this day, the playwright -- who has been produced throughout the US -- considers that production among the best of his work.
He recently wrote, "Some things about that little production I’ll never forget -- some things you don’t even know about -- like my sister’s reaction. She’s passed away now. She came up from Florida to see it. She had no idea what I was up to. I can still see her leaning against the wall afterward, across the room from me, mouthing the words, wow, wow, wow -- blown away."
And many other playwrights have felt the same. Even after I left the company, I had been sought out to direct more work for satisfied playwrights.
And even though I know -- and they know -- exactly how much the director's hand is responsible for what the audience sees... sometimes I forget.
And so do they....
Sometimes, even as the audience cheers, and friends are slapping their castmember pals on the back... I can't help thinking, "Could this have been done without me....?"
To be continued...
Friday, July 2, 2010
Sailing, Synchronicity and Face Blindness
So I went to my sailing club's little tent this evening hoping to take out a sailboat.
Unfortunately, I arrived close to 8pm and the Dockmaster told me the wind had died down shortly before, so the boats were starting to head in -- at about a half-knot, so it could take an hour to reach the dock.
So, no sailing for me.
But the weather was nice, otherwise, and the sunset was luminous and pink. So I hung out chatting with another member.
We small-talked for a bit, and then I decided to ask about a member whom I'll call Nick Nevins, who had been on my mind a lot.
I'd met Nick a month or two before and we'd emailed over subsequent weeks.
And then Nick suffered a terrible personal tragedy.
There were email announcements and heartfelt words of sympathy on the club's message board. We took up a collection and sent love and good thoughts.
While I'd joined in the collection, I was nervous about emailing Nick as, after all, I didn't know him that well. But I had experienced a tragedy similar to what he'd gone through and hoped I could offer insight or encouragement that could be useful to him.
But mostly I was concerned about him. He hadn't posted to the board or sent any word to the club other than his gratitude for the support.
So, after a beat in the conversation, I asked my new friend, "Have you heard anything about Nick Nevins? Is he ok?"
And he said, "Uh... I AM Nick Nevins..."
The next thing I knew, he was giving ME sympathy for making such a fool of myself!
I told him how I'd been thinking about him but was unsure about reaching out. And he said it was strange that I'd come to the lake that very day since he had been away since the day of the Event.
And I had not been to the lake myself in all that time either...
Synchronicity.
Fast-forward to the train ride home and I start listening to a new podcast of one of my favorite shows, RadioLab.
The topic? FACE BLINDNESS! Yes, really!!
The blurb describes how the famous neuroscientist Oliver Sachs, and PORTRAIT ARTIST Chuck Close, were both born with a condition called face blindness.
"You can sit down with either man, talk to him for an hour, and if he sees you again just fifteen minutes later, he will have no idea who you are. (Unless you have a very squeaky voice or happen to be wearing the same odd purple hat.)"
Now, while my experiences are not quite as extreme as Sachs' -- who recalls stroking his beard in a diner mirror, only to realize his reflection was not! It was, in fact, a bewildered bearded gentleman wondering why Sachs was making faces at him -- for most of my life I have been unable to remember new faces.
Like Sachs and Close, I've come up with techniques to help myself recall details of a face which I try to connect to a name -- though I suck at remembering names, too -- (e.g. Mary has the mole, Joe has the big schnoz), but my circuits overload quickly, the system crashes and I end up remembering useless fragments of faces and names.
I have a few kind friends who help me negotiate parties; throughout the evening, I'll run up to them asking, "Who did I just talk to? Was that the person who poured my drink when we arrived?" And they patiently answer and calm me down without making me feel like an idiot or a lunatic.
It usually takes several focused meetings for me to be able to recall, reassemble and/or recognize a face. But once a face is in, it's there for good.
Thinking about it now, I can't quite say what it is that I recognize when a face finally sinks in. Sometimes I think it has more to do with mannerisms than physiognomy -- though I'm good at recognizing actors in very different roles.
But I NEVER recognize celebrities on the street.
For some reason, they read differently when they are not performing.
I'm also good at remembering voices and I have excellent episodic memory. So if I've met you once and you told me your life story, I can guarantee I won't recognize you the next time I see you (even if it's the next day). BUT, once you start talking, I will remember every detail of your story, as well as where and how you stood or sat during the tale.
Go figure.
It's a frustrating way to live -- especially since people often remember ME, and I feel like a schmuck for not being able to return the favor -- but it's nice to know that there are many others who go through this as well.
Perhaps that is why Nick was so understanding...
Strange -- thinking about him even now, I can't quite recall what his face looks like, but I have a few details.
Mostly, though, I recall how he carried himself, where there was tension in his body, and the way that he walked. So that should be enough to recognize him next time. As long as he is not sitting down.....
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Thursday, July 1, 2010
May-June Events Archive
Sunday, May 2nd @ 2pm
Dancing with the Rising Sirens
with Bellyqueen at
Spring Caravan
Ukrainian Cultural Center
135 Davidson Ave
Somerset, New Jersey 08873
$18
Wednesday, May 8th @ 8pm
Dancing with the Rising Sirens at
Bellyqueen's
Djam at Je'Bon
15 St. Mark's Place, NYC
212-388-1313
$10 cover/$5 minimum
Saturday, May 15th @ 8pm
Dancing in PURE's Groundbreaking
Dance-Theater Work
PURE Reflections: Beauty Reimagined
The Dragon's Egg
401 Shewville Rd, Ledyard CT (Near Mystic)
Note: We are also teaching a BodyLove workshop at 1pm.
$20 at the door
$15 advance
Saturday, June 5th @ 8pm
Dancing and Emceeing in Bellyqueen's
Tamalyn Dallal Showcase at
Je'Bon Noodle House
15 St. Mark's Place, NYC
212-388-1313
$15 Cover/$5 Minimum
Tuesday, June 8th @ 9pm
Performing Stand-Up Comedy at
Karma's Gay & Lesbian Night
51 First Avenue ( bet. 3rd and 4th sts,) NYC
212-677-3160
$10 Cover
No Minumum
Thursday thru Saturday, June 24th, 25th & 26th @ 8pm
and Saturday, June 26th @ 2pm
Dancing in Jehan's
Dance-Theatre Spectacular
Cirque Arabesque
at Manhattan Movemement & Arts Center
248 West 60th Street & West End Ave, NYC
646-385-8493
$35
Dancing with the Rising Sirens
with Bellyqueen at
Spring Caravan
Ukrainian Cultural Center
135 Davidson Ave
Somerset, New Jersey 08873
$18
Wednesday, May 8th @ 8pm
Dancing with the Rising Sirens at
Bellyqueen's
Djam at Je'Bon
15 St. Mark's Place, NYC
212-388-1313
$10 cover/$5 minimum
Saturday, May 15th @ 8pm
Dancing in PURE's Groundbreaking
Dance-Theater Work
PURE Reflections: Beauty Reimagined
The Dragon's Egg
401 Shewville Rd, Ledyard CT (Near Mystic)
Note: We are also teaching a BodyLove workshop at 1pm.
$20 at the door
$15 advance
Saturday, June 5th @ 8pm
Dancing and Emceeing in Bellyqueen's
Tamalyn Dallal Showcase at
Je'Bon Noodle House
15 St. Mark's Place, NYC
212-388-1313
$15 Cover/$5 Minimum
Tuesday, June 8th @ 9pm
Performing Stand-Up Comedy at
Karma's Gay & Lesbian Night
51 First Avenue ( bet. 3rd and 4th sts,) NYC
212-677-3160
$10 Cover
No Minumum
Thursday thru Saturday, June 24th, 25th & 26th @ 8pm
and Saturday, June 26th @ 2pm
Dancing in Jehan's
Dance-Theatre Spectacular
Cirque Arabesque
at Manhattan Movemement & Arts Center
248 West 60th Street & West End Ave, NYC
646-385-8493
$35
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Third Day Back in Civilization (and email updates)
Although I officially returned from Dunya's blissful Dancemeditation Retreat on Thursday, June 24th, I officially count my return to the mundane world from Sunday because I took a brief weekend sojourn through the magical land of Jehan-world.
In spite of my foot injury, and in spite of the fact that I'd be gone right up until a few hours before opening night, Jehan asked me to dance in her spectacular Cirque Arabesque -- which was a vote of confidence I couldn't refuse.
My mission: Choreograph a routine with fellow amazonian dancer Jaklina (who, at 6'2" and size 8, and makes me look short and round) to complement six other numbers where 1 to 10 other dancers will be performing. This was a vote of confidence I could not refuse.
And somehow, through the use of video, internet and blind faith, we got it together for four amazing shows.
Now... about the Dancemeditation Retreat...
This was my third, for three years in a row ... in a nutshell, we dance for seven hours a day (four hours in the morning, and three in the evening) with a four-hour break.
During the break we rest, meditate, walk, swim, sometimes shop the local fare, maybe hit the internet (although we couldn't pick up a signal this year, and it was a pain to trudge up to the library for wireless).
And we eat -- all ultra-healthy, ultra-vegan, raw food.
Or we don't eat.
Often people will elect to fast, usually eating only watermelon. (Last year I made it through three watermelon fast days.)
But for a reason I never learned there was no watermelon this year, so fasters were confined to a diet of coconut water -- which turned out to be a lot less painlful than I'd imagined
In fact, the only pain was that I was missing all the tasty meals being served, so I only fasted for a day.
But I kind of enjoyed the fast, so I may buy a case of Zico at some point and fast a few days here and there during the summer (it's always better to fast during warmer weather).
The weirdest thing about the Retreat is how time bends, compresses and expands. Things that happened that morning seemed like ancient history; yet the days flew by.
Many times I wanted to blog, but didn't make it to the library.
So I've enabled email updates.
More on the Retreat later.
And my next post will be emailed.... :-)
In spite of my foot injury, and in spite of the fact that I'd be gone right up until a few hours before opening night, Jehan asked me to dance in her spectacular Cirque Arabesque -- which was a vote of confidence I couldn't refuse.
My mission: Choreograph a routine with fellow amazonian dancer Jaklina (who, at 6'2" and size 8, and makes me look short and round) to complement six other numbers where 1 to 10 other dancers will be performing. This was a vote of confidence I could not refuse.
And somehow, through the use of video, internet and blind faith, we got it together for four amazing shows.
Now... about the Dancemeditation Retreat...
This was my third, for three years in a row ... in a nutshell, we dance for seven hours a day (four hours in the morning, and three in the evening) with a four-hour break.
During the break we rest, meditate, walk, swim, sometimes shop the local fare, maybe hit the internet (although we couldn't pick up a signal this year, and it was a pain to trudge up to the library for wireless).
And we eat -- all ultra-healthy, ultra-vegan, raw food.
Or we don't eat.
Often people will elect to fast, usually eating only watermelon. (Last year I made it through three watermelon fast days.)
But for a reason I never learned there was no watermelon this year, so fasters were confined to a diet of coconut water -- which turned out to be a lot less painlful than I'd imagined
In fact, the only pain was that I was missing all the tasty meals being served, so I only fasted for a day.
But I kind of enjoyed the fast, so I may buy a case of Zico at some point and fast a few days here and there during the summer (it's always better to fast during warmer weather).
The weirdest thing about the Retreat is how time bends, compresses and expands. Things that happened that morning seemed like ancient history; yet the days flew by.
Many times I wanted to blog, but didn't make it to the library.
So I've enabled email updates.
More on the Retreat later.
And my next post will be emailed.... :-)
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Writer's Block
When I was in school I wrote a lot of poetry.
I used to joke that this was because I was lazy and a terrible typist (back in the days of manual typewriters... yes, really), so whenever a writing assignment came up where we could choose between a short story or a poem, I went for the poem.
But the truth is I really liked poetry. I liked its precision and economy -- and that if you wrote in rhyme and meter, you could get away with all kinds of bizarre constructions and multiple meanings.
Verse became my specialty and when I started churning out sonnets in the 11th grade, our English teacher made me a poetry editor of the school magazine -- a privilege usually reserved for seniors.
Throughout grade school's 12 years, teachers entered my stuff in citywide contests, and I often got some kind of prize or "mention" but I never thought of myself as a "poet" -- and I never wrote anything for my own pleasure.
When I got to college, I found I was unable to produce anything without being compelled by an assignment, so I signed up for an advanced poetry class -- and was rejected.
I confronted the professor; he felt the work in my portfolio was "glib." But he was impressed by my tenacity and let me in the class anyway.
But he was right... something had been lost, maybe to self-consciousness, insecurity, vanity. I knew I could impress with verse, so I relied on it, even when I didn't have to because it forced me to choose words carefully in a way that blank verse did not. (I believe I know the reason, psychologically, that this happened -- that that is a subject for another essay.)
So nearly everything I wrote in blank verse was unreadably bad and I didn't do well in the class, overall.
For a few years after college, I wrote maybe a half-dozen poems -- all sonnets -- usually dedicated to various friends.
But for the past 10 years I've written hardly anything.
One friend had a "poetry" birthday party a few years ago, so I wrote her a sonnet and recited it to the blank expressions of her DefJam-style poet pals.
And that was the end of that.
This past year I've told a few friends I'd "write a sonnet for them" but the well has felt dry, and even thinking about it made my brain hurt.
Last night, however, as I strained to will myself to sleep through a punishing headache, I found myself teeming with words about, of all things, writer's block.
Here is the result:
Words
packed incomphrehsibly
pressing impatiently
against the fragile pinhole portal
of articulation.
Single spies emerge
disoriented.
The battalion must wait.
I used to joke that this was because I was lazy and a terrible typist (back in the days of manual typewriters... yes, really), so whenever a writing assignment came up where we could choose between a short story or a poem, I went for the poem.
But the truth is I really liked poetry. I liked its precision and economy -- and that if you wrote in rhyme and meter, you could get away with all kinds of bizarre constructions and multiple meanings.
Verse became my specialty and when I started churning out sonnets in the 11th grade, our English teacher made me a poetry editor of the school magazine -- a privilege usually reserved for seniors.
Throughout grade school's 12 years, teachers entered my stuff in citywide contests, and I often got some kind of prize or "mention" but I never thought of myself as a "poet" -- and I never wrote anything for my own pleasure.
When I got to college, I found I was unable to produce anything without being compelled by an assignment, so I signed up for an advanced poetry class -- and was rejected.
I confronted the professor; he felt the work in my portfolio was "glib." But he was impressed by my tenacity and let me in the class anyway.
But he was right... something had been lost, maybe to self-consciousness, insecurity, vanity. I knew I could impress with verse, so I relied on it, even when I didn't have to because it forced me to choose words carefully in a way that blank verse did not. (I believe I know the reason, psychologically, that this happened -- that that is a subject for another essay.)
So nearly everything I wrote in blank verse was unreadably bad and I didn't do well in the class, overall.
For a few years after college, I wrote maybe a half-dozen poems -- all sonnets -- usually dedicated to various friends.
But for the past 10 years I've written hardly anything.
One friend had a "poetry" birthday party a few years ago, so I wrote her a sonnet and recited it to the blank expressions of her DefJam-style poet pals.
And that was the end of that.
This past year I've told a few friends I'd "write a sonnet for them" but the well has felt dry, and even thinking about it made my brain hurt.
Last night, however, as I strained to will myself to sleep through a punishing headache, I found myself teeming with words about, of all things, writer's block.
Here is the result:
Words
packed incomphrehsibly
pressing impatiently
against the fragile pinhole portal
of articulation.
Single spies emerge
disoriented.
The battalion must wait.
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