Sunday, April 20, 2008

Social Reasons

Spring has replaced fall as my favorite season since moving to New York. My neighborhood is resplendent with blooming dogwoods, pink and white, tulip bulbs in a rainbow of colors and the more subtle hues of wine-colored leaves against red brick homes and iron railings.

Really, it’s the only time this place looks good. By the time summer arrives I’m too hot to appreciate anything. No, this is the best time. Hundreds of people in Prospect Park, sauntering through the farmers' market, buying newly dead fish, organic meats, green herbs and fresh loaves of bread and stuffing them in the now-popular canvas “green bag.” A group of younglings plays Ultimate frisbee on the green, mothers follow toddlers around on the grass, birds set up a discordant chorus in the trees, squirrels beg and lovers sit on the bench and neck.

I love this time of year especially because the days are long, but one isn’t longing for the sun to go down to dispel the heat. I love that when I leave for an 8pm show, it’s still light out. I did that last night. My friend Brenda (who, oddly, I discovered was in my high school home room in Wisconsin and we have absolutely no memory of one another) choreographed and performed in a dance piece on 14th street.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen real live dancers on stage. It may have been Brenda’s last show, in fact. It was fun to watch how her style has matured. While many of the works expressed clear stories of individual love, rage or outrage, Brenda’s was a fluid ensemble piece, expressing nuances of the music and the dancer’s bodies.

And I think, that’s just it, isn’t it? Almost everyone I know in town is entertaining some sort of major career crisis, thinking of getting out of the arts, wondering if the sacrifice is worth it, asking themselves, “why do I do this?” And coming up with a variety of answers.

In my second year at DePaul, my teacher had all her students in her office for a little chat. She asked each of us to answer this very question: “Why do I sing?” I’d actually been giving that some hard thought already. When it came my turn I hesitated. “I think…I think I do it for social reasons,” I said.

I could tell my answer displeased her. Something crossed over her face which was dark and uninterpretable. I think she wanted – or expected- something more insightful from me. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the choice of words. I might have elaborated.

Last night in one of the dance pieces, (which I think was about the Salem witch trials, but I'm not entirely sure) there was a chair. A metal folding chair, which always sends chills up my spine when I see on stage. Too many accidents waiting to happen.

Well, I needn’t have worried. First of all, the smart dancers always used the edge of the chair, keeping it from folding on itself. But also – and this is the Thing – there were always a dancer or two placed cleverly at the back edge of the chair, doing their choreography while subtly holding on to it.

This is what I mean by “social reasons.” It’s the little things you do, when performing, to take care of one another. The clear knowledge that we fly or sink together, all one interdependent unit which can easily break down without the cooperation of even one member. Or one body part of one member.

I remember one show I did where a guy in the cast was experiencing a major medical mental meltdown. He wasn’t sure he could go on stage. I promised him I would stay behind the set in a certain place when I could, and when his blocking allowed him to, he would come back and hold his hand out, just enough so I could grasp it. He clung to my hands like a drowning man. He got through the night.

There’s the way theater people move around one another in cramped quarters backstage. There’s an internal dance behind every production, moving bodies out of the way of moving sets and curtains and rigging and one another exiting and entering, an automatic turning aside of bodies, a light step for quiet, words whispered, or said without saying. Polite. Professional. Caring.

And quite frankly, it annoys me that other people don’t move with the same swiftness and dexterity on the sidewalk in the city, in the home or in the restaurant or in the store.

I was once in an opera where I was in a dozen consecutive scenes, each with a different, late 19th century costume. They were gorgeous. But the costumer felt the stage in that theater was too close to the audience to allow for anything unauthentic in the dresses, like oh, zippers or Velcro instead of fifty teensy buttons up the back.

The first dress rehearsal was a complete disaster. The costumer’s assistant had no idea what she was doing. The domino effect was of epic proportions – there was absolutely no room in the music for more than 30 seconds of changing time. I didn’t come on stage, the lights came up, my musical cue came up, no one sang, so no one sang after that, the conductor kept waving her arms in desperation, trying to coordinate the people left on stage, her job made more impossible by 20th Century scoring. Everyone just had to stop.

What it came down to? The entire show had absolute reliance on the costumer’s assistant.

Performing creates an intense sense of belonging, one which helps me understand completely why when people serve together in the military, all they want to do is sit around and share war stories. Because it recalls that sense of being an important part of a unit.

Of course your life isn’t technically on the line when you’re performing – usually, though of course there are exceptions – but try convincing your brain of that! We are all hard-wired to respond intensely to being observed, to peer pressure, to a tribal mentality of cooperation and trust. Try purposely screwing up in front of an audience of 600 – I can’t physically make myself do it. Could you?

And that’s what I think I miss about performing, as I haven’t been doing much of it at all lately. It’s “social reasons.” I’ve discovered into my thirties that I’m not really very interested in performing alone – I’m an ensemble player, be that in a band, a choir, an opera or a musical. And of course the question which follows is: Can one find that in another line of work which demands less sacrifice?

Sure, it’s possible. I think what’s important is recognizing what it is about what you do which enriches you and feeds your will to live. I like to be a functioning part of a unit, with something to contribute which is unique. My situation is, of course, complicated by the need for regular breaks and ten hours of sleep, a heart condition and such, but surely a choice is there if I should decide to grab it.

I went to Fibromyalgia support meeting last week (perhaps a mistake, as, in just being around all of them my pain levels spiked…) and I told them I was a massage therapist. There was a puzzled pause. “Wait – which do you have, fibro or CFIDs? “ one asked. I told them for what it was worth, I’d been diagnosed with both. There was a collective gasp. “And you do this kind of work????”

Although I argue with the characterization of people with these diseases being incapable of physical labor, and allow for differences in individuals, I’d still do well to perform a reality check and think that both my performing and massage days may be numbered. I am considered extraordinarily functional for someone in my place physically, and I thank many a wonderful hands-on therapist for that, but that work does not come free, and the budget for it would come much more easily on a better salary.

My friends and acquaintances are leaving show business in droves….leaving non-profits for capitalist ventures, leaving directing to have babies, leaving electrician work to go back to school, leaving stage managing to make it in real estate, to explore another life. Leaving for L.A. where there’s the possibility of residuals in film and television. Leaving for careers which are not as hard on their bodies. I see many making successful and rewarding transitions into worlds more stable and less competitive than the performing arts.

Who will take their place?


Well, more 22 year olds come every year.

Monday, April 7, 2008

2002

It's been exactly six years since I left my first sublet in NYC, figuring I was going back to Chicago for good. Or until I had the next better idea.

I had just had my first date with Colin. Though i didn't know it, I was soon to embark on my first real regional theater gig. I was driving the same car I have now. I was taking five prescription medications a day.

Some of you traveled with me via the old "email" method of blogging (I didn't really know that's what it was and still kinda prefer it that way, but alas we must all evolve...) and I thank you from the bottom of my gut for being someones to laugh with me at the ridiculousness of it all.

Yesterday I got word that my new MacBook Pro, which I got for Christmas from my Dad, needs to go bye-bye, to the rehab spa for computers. "I'm actually surprised it boots up at all," said the mac genius who was helping me. "I'd advise you to back everything up as soon as you can, and get it back in for repairs." He wrote down a number for me and sent me on my way.

I picture my computer forgetting everything at the spa - maybe it's in Arizona, under a hot, dry sun - and among those things are all those tasty memories of my first days in NYC. I backed everything up as best I can today. And came across those old Word Perfect files which barely even function on my new operating system.

I decided it's time to start the process I've been meaning to get to - slowly bringing all those stories to a new birth in the land of Blog.

I don't know if those signed up with Feedblitz will necessarily get a new feed every time I make a new entry dated way back to 2002. If so, I hope it's not too annoying. They'll probably come in small clumps.

If you want to look for them, they'll be appearing here. Look for them by date on the right hand side of the blogger page. Starting with "2002."

Please let me know if you know something I don't to make the whole process funner and easier.

And thanks for reading.

Niki