Did You Hear the People Sing? Another Critique of Les Miserables the Movie

What choice do I have?  Everyone's a critic, right? So can you blame me for weighing in on the most anticipated movie event of the season?  Especially when the movie is a musical? The  musical I just directed last spring? Indulge me.

The movie version of Les Miserables is a cinematic masterpiece. Director Tom Hooper gives the viewer the panoramic scope of revolution and the close up brutality of its effects on Victor Hugo's iconic characters.  The movie drags you along through the dank, dreary, and desperate time through streets, sewers, and along the Seine with tight frames and sweeping cinematic shots. Les Miserables the movie does what a movie can and should do as a visual medium. Naturalism and realism are expected in film and Hooper delivers.

Which is why Les Miserables the cinematic masterpiece made me appreciate Les Miserables the theatrical masterpiece even more.

There have been other non-musical movie versions of Les Miserables, the most notable being the one with Liam Neeson as Valjean.  Hugo's story is epic and requires epic  story-telling one way or the other.  It's a great story.

What makes Les Mis the musical singular in the history of musical  theatre is its score! Boublil and Schoenberg wrote and composed a score as powerful and soaring as the story. It is in the best sense, an opera.   Schoenberg's music serves the story note by note, measure by measure from crescendo to crescendo - from recitative to soaring ballad - forte to pianissimo - the music is what makes the musical.

And the music is what was missing in the movie.  Oh sure it was there - kind of.  Boublil and Schoenberg both are credited as part of the screen writing team.  Somehow, in the mix, Boublil  forgot about his partner. In a musical that makes my insides explode with emotion with the thunderous and brilliantly woven  four- part barricade sequence, I was caught up in the realistic slaughter of idealistic students without the accompanying musical underscore.  It was there, buried beneath the rubble - barely audible most of the time.  There were selected moments when the music did what it is capable of doing - the heart breaking strings swelling  as we take in the deadly toll of the battle but the music was secondary to the visually graphic cinematography.

Don't get me wrong - I know that movies are a visual genre.  But oh how I missed Fantine's powerful belt in I Dreamed a Dream and the stillness of Valjean's Bring Him Home. Taking nothing away from Ann Hathaway's cheek bones, which we saw aplenty - or Hugh Jackman's mop of curly hair that barely grayed over the decades - both of whose performances I thought were credible with an abundance of tears in close ups that made the songs intimate at best and unmoving at worst...and so let's talk about Russell Crowe.
What were they thinking? Two of the best songs in the musical reduced to a semi-spoken, choked performance by a non-singer is perhaps the most grievous offense of all to the score.

In terms of storytelling, I thought the placement of I Dreamed a Dream was a startlingly good choice and the addition of the song Suddenly that Valjean sings about Cosette helped fill out a weak plot point in the musical.
Master of the House lost its charm although it had more than capable performances by Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter as the Thenardiers.  Directorially, the much needed comic relief descended into the dark abyss with the rest of the story.

They might have shaved thirty minutes off the movie had they simply picked up the tempos which were at times dirge-like serving the close up naturalistic approach to the songs.
This worked best as Marius (Eddie Redmayne) sang Empty Chairs at Empty Tables - though "the grief that can't be spoken"was there in abundance as the tears poured down the young man's face. His voice still soared where it needed to. Hooper left most of the Cosette (Amanda Seyfried) and Marius songs alone and that was a good choice.
But what happened to Eponine (Samantha Barks)? Somehow, her character felt diminished - albeit rain drenched for A Little Fall of Rain - she disappeared at the end - a love story lost in the shadows.

So what does this all prove?  As a theatre director and advocate, it reminded me that plays and movies are completely different genres. The theatre by its very nature is larger than life and an epic story like Les Mis can be told simply, representationally, and effectively with the creative expanse that can happen only on the stage and in the imagination of the audience.

And a great score like Les Miserables should be sung.

Lessons From the Barricade

I have always believed in the importance of working with  "good material." My philosophy is that getting to opening night is hard no matter what show you are doing - so why not be working with masterful writing, well developed characters, and interesting subtext? As a director you live with this project sometimes for months on end - it becomes your job, your obsession, your daily companion - in short - your life - for the duration of the process.  Why waist your energy, breath, and the audience's money on a show that isn't worthy of your effort?  I always have said, "Good material will never betray you." In fact, good material can save even the weakest of actors simply with a great line even poorly delivered. Good material is good for everyone. 

At this stage of my directorial career, I want to stand at the feet of giants. I want to wrestle with complexity.  I want to tackle the tough ones.  I want to strive to tell the story on stage in as clear a way as possible using all of the theatrical elements available to me - in all of their limitation.  Limitation, I have discovered, is perhaps the greatest source of creativity there is.  How to make it work given the limitations imposed forces collaboration, inventiveness, revision, looking again, problem-solving,  seeing possibility where there appears to be none. 

Before taking on Les Miserables in a modified circus tent, I looked at artistic compromise with some disdain - boldly and stubbornly demanding that my vision be made a reality - but this was when I had everything available to me.  A stage. A fly system. A curtain.  Space for an orchestra. Seating for an audience. Wings for scenery.  A backstage. 

Not having any of these essential elements for my recent production of Les Mis forced me to compromise at every turn. No there is no way to install a turntable.  No there is no way to rig a fly system for Javert's suicide.  No there is no way to rig a scrim for the ghosts in "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables." No there is no way to rotate the barricade for the Enjolras reveal.  No. No. No.  And so with my collaborators, we had to find ways to create dramatically compelling moments within the limitation of our space.  Nothing so impacted the show as the limitation of space for an orchestra.

My musical director told me we needed a minimum of thirty pieces to play the score.  I almost choked.  Now there are ways around this.  Tracks. Synthesizers. Re-orchestrating for fewer players. But just as I resisted compromise, so did he.  And he was right.  So, at the recommendation of one of my other colleagues,  we put the orchestra in a different building entirely from our performers - a first for me.  And we were forced into  an elaborate sound design and mix that required dozens of microphones, extensive cabling, multiple audio and video monitors, and a digital mixer.  Adding to the complication was the fact that my Valjean was legally blind and so in order to see the conductor, we had to install a TV monitor at the base of the stage.  At the curtain call, I was struggling with how we could acknowledge the orchestra and had the brainstorm to have two actors hold up the monitor proving to the audience that there really was an orchestra in the next building. 

The rehearsal process goes through various stages - the first of which is to understand the text.  In the case of Les Mis, the text is adapted from Victor Hugo's novel and is through-sung.  It is essentially, an opera. This was the first time I ever attempted to direct a through-sung musical.  What I learned was that the text needs to be treated as if it were a straight play.  The recitative needs to be treated as if it were being spoken.  Everything is essentially the same, except the singer/actor must be able to deliver the emotion and objectives not only through his actions, but through his voice.  

The staging of Les Mis came down to pictures for me.  Moments captured with composition, levels, and form like in a photograph.  As hard as one tries to create these pictures in the early stages of the rehearsal process, crammed into rehearsal spaces without the actual set - the final touches cannot be made until all of the elements are in place - set, lights, costumes, and props.  In this regard, theatre is more akin to painting than to photography - the photograph captures the moment - but the creation of the moment is like the brush on canvas. And it happens very late in the process.

I learned that scale is important.  Too big is too big - even if by inches.  Shaving off corners, trimming a baseboard, installing smart casters or fixed casters, shortening a staircase can mean the difference in both look and function.  Design and function - communication between the design team and director can avoid costly mishaps and re-builds.  I learned this the hard way.

I spend a lot of time staring at the stage.  Hard, steady stares - waiting for the picture to emerge.  How to create clarity where there is nothing but mush? This is where blocking is only the beginning.  Directors have lots of different methods for getting their shows "on their feet." I have come to believe that the initial blocking is simply a way to get actors moving.  There are directors with the luxury of time - who espouse weeks of table work so that the movement for characters organically emerges from their objective or action - a technique I believe in (in theory) but have never had the time nor courage to fully embrace.  I am absolutely a believer in analysis - ask any actor who has ever worked with me - barraged by questions of motivation - there are no shortcuts as far as I am concerned in this.  Thus, movement is inherently connected to objective as far as I am concerned. However, what I learned through Les Mis is that the orchestration of movement - and the carving out of the picture are sometimes more important -especially in a through-sung show where story points can be missed in the blink of an eye and entire character choices happen almost simultaneously. Case in point:  Jean Valjean's entrance into the "Beggar" scene with Cosette, his recognition by Thenardier, Cosette and Marius' bump and love at first sight moment, Javert's entrance and Valjean's fleeing from Javert so not to be discovered by him - all happen within a few short minutes and each moment is critical to the understanding of the story. Messy blocking can result in utter confusion.  I re-blocked that scene almost up to opening. This in some ways because everything changes once the cast is placed on the actual set. You cannot see the play fully until that happens - forcing re-staging.

This show, more than any other, reminded me that lighting design is possibly the most important scenic element after costuming. I have always known that costumes are what transforms the actor into the character with one look in the mirror  - but this show was a lighting epiphany for me.

Sitting next to my lighting designer, staring at the stage and painting the canvas before us with color, texture, pattern, intensity, beam angle of  moving lights, focus, and count was quite possibly the most satisfying aspect of the production for me.  Again, limitation forced inventiveness - but lighting finished the picture. Lighting punctuated the moment. Lighting gave us goosebumps. Lighting made up for all of the other deficits.  I remembered as I sat asking for this or that - "What about those instruments - can we point those at the barricade?"  "Can we flash or do some effect for each of the slow motion deaths?" "The last moments of the finale needs something - can we add a cue?" "Can that cue come later?"

 " Can it be more amber?" "Can it fade on the last note?"  "When are you calling that cue?" 

Timing is everything - even in lighting.  Faster fades. Quicker blackouts. Up with the music.  Out on the last note. Orchestration - even in lighting. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtdNoW0BxQw

I remembered how, when I was eleven years old, I walked into the high school gym where I was performing in my first musical, The Sound of Music and I saw the Von Trapp veranda bathed in blue light - it took my breath away.  I have identified that moment as the moment I was bitten by the theatre bug.  I had the same feeling as my lighting designer and I sat at the table staring at the barricade sequence trying to get it just right.  Here, I was unwilling to compromise and I believe it paid off. I'd let go of so many of my original ideas out due to the limitations of the space - taking the time to painstakingly light the show was a treat - a luxury afforded me by a collaborator willing to put up with my perfectionism and equipment that surpassed the facility we were in. 

Sometimes you just miss it.  Sometimes it isn't until the bitter end that you realize you've made a mistake and you need to fix it.  Sometimes that isn't until after you have an audience.  Case in point:

Eponine's death.  I staged it on the floor - but it was too far downstage to be seen by 3/4 of the audience due to the makeshift seating and rake of the choir platforms on which the chairs were placed.  So after our first performance in front of an audience, my choreographer and I toiled to find a way to drape her across Marius on top of a box.  Both of us, stumbling our way across the stage, laying this way and that - until we found just the right picture.  The domino was that somebody had to move the ammo crate off the top of the box to create the room for Eponine to collapse into Marius' arms.  It never happened and Marius had to think on his feet and move it in a split second to catch Eponine as she fell into his arms.  It was a "happy accident" making the moment seem utterly realistic. 

I realized my ultimate blunder in my sleep - which is often the case for me. In an effort to simplify a set change at the end of the show for the Epilogue when Valjean is sitting in a chair, writing his last confession and preparing to die, I'd eliminated the desk. In eliminating that second piece of furniture, I'd inadvertently eliminated the most important symbol in the whole story - the two silver candlesticks that were given to him by the Bishop transforming his life. So just before opening, we added a small table, the candlesticks, two new spike marks and an additional actor to set the table in place and I re-staged the last picture - Cosette on the floor next to Valjean, the candlesticks, and Marius looking over as Fantine enters to take Valjean to the other side.  Timing.  Lighting.  Fantine was coming in from the up left portal and the side light was in the down left portal.  I changed her entrance.  Timing. The moment Valjean stands and moves to Fantine symbolizing his death - the moment Cosette sees the "empty chair" and knows he is gone - Timing. Timing and Picture - Valjean, Eponine, and Fantine encircling Cosette and Marius - Focus - where to look on the famous line "To love another person is to see the face of God?"Look at them on "And remember the truth that once was spoken...." Look out at the audience on "To love...."http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNeqGSRqINw

  Timing. When should the chorus enter on the reprise of "Do you Hear the People Sing?" They're stepping on the moment.  Delay their entrance. 

All of this changed in the final rehearsals.  

Attention to detail makes all the difference. Push it over the finish line.  Never, ever give up.  

  I would have to say, directing  Les Miserables is to date, the pinnacle of my directorial experience.  All I ever set out to do was to produce the best Les Mis we could do within the limitations of our situation.  Sometimes all of the elements from casting to curtain call come together and transcend. It is a humbling and awesome experience.  It is ephemeral. The product lasts but for the run of the show.  It all comes down in a few short hours of strike.  Photos last. And these days, a few youtube clips capture pieces of the show. But ultimately, it is in the process - detail by painstaking detail - transition by transition - chair by chair - table by table - bottle by bottle - rifle by rifle - crate by crate - moment by moment - that art is created.  That is the artistic chore of the theatre. That is the wonder of collaboration. That is the gift in limitation. That is why I stick to good material.

And no, I don't know what I'm going to do next year....

Quickly, as if she were recalled by something over there, she turned to her canvas. There it was-her picture. Yes, with all its greens and blues, its lines running up and across, its attempt at something....With a sudden intensity, as if she was clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.                                                                                 From To The Lighthouse Virginia Woolf

Theatre Education Up to the Minute

Today I am bi-locating. As luck would have it, I am on semester break.  As luck would have it, it is a rainy day.  So here I sit at my desk - my laptop computer and my ipad opened to twitter, TEDxBroadway, and Howard Sherman's live blog from the one day conference being held  at New World Stages in New York. To say I wish I were there is an understatement. But thanks to technology and the world of social media, I'm as close to it as I could possibly be.  This year, TEDxBroadway's theme is WHAT'S THE BEST BROADWAY COULD BE IN 2032.
As a theatre educator this topic grabbed me and peeked my interest and curiosity.
In his blog, Howard Sherman quotes Patricia Martin:

Patricia Martin begins her talk titled, “Will the future ‘like’ you?” She talks about lying on the floor of the Vatican and wondering how that level of creativity happens. Her book prompted by that experience has thesis that we are poised on the edge of another Renaissance, despite difficult economic times. Cites mentor’s research: the same thing that creates a renaissance can also send us into the dark ages. As a result of hyper-progress, as what’s irrelevant is shed, making space for the new. Indicators of of a renaissance: 1) death comes first, 2 ) facilitating medium (in Rome, road; today, the internet), and 3) age of enlightenment (messy concept she often avoids; has everything to do with future of creative work and how we appeal to young audience). Talks about the dwindling of subscriber base at Steppenwolf Theater and charge to find global brands that were doing best work reaching young audiences; they all did one thing well, knowingly or not – they could speak at a higher frequency. Recipe to higher frequency: in young audiences’ upbringing, they experience truth by believing what they can feel, being heard above the din. Young audiences yearn for higher purpose through human connection; we are more and more becoming wired to be social and feel human connection. She studied science of consciousness: witness, empathize, imagine and then act; but there’s a caveat – it’s most powerful when it happens live. Speaks of difficulty in changing culture because you must walk against the tide of prevailing culture.So when do we get to renaissance? Currently deep in winter of discontent and have facilitating medium of Internet – so why are we still stuck? Because we don’t have a compelling story of the future. We’re waiting – what’s next? Martin cites Jung: “The creation of something truly new is not accomplished by the intellect, but by the play instinct, acting out of necessity.” So will to future like us? A conditional yes. “We need stories about the human condition that are told with love, because that is what helps people feel compassion towards each other and through compassion comes enlightenment.”

I couldn't agree more! The notion that we are in a Renaissance is a positive spin on the discomfort we feel with the revolutionary changes taking place in communication and technology.  But what role does live theatre have in today's world? There is one thing that cannot and will not change - human beings are human beings and they need to tell their story. Theatre is live and will always have the power to move an audience simply because it is a human experience.  This gives me faith as a theatre educator to encourage young artists. The theatre is not dead.  The theatre lives because it breathes - just like we all do.  Arthur Miller said, "The theatre makes us more human." Do not despair, fellow theatre educators.  The work we are doing continues to transform the world.

Fall Season

I don't know about you, but I am so relieved it is finally fall. Now don't get me wrong, I live for summer. I count down the days till the end of school just like I did as a child. I love the feeling of utter freedom and joy that comes with the long, lazy days of summer.

Growing up in Southern California, summer equals beach. Nothing stirs my sixteen-year-old sense memory like a sunny day at the beach. And on those overcast, gray mornings - "Do you think it will burn off?" is still my favorite question.

I love sand. I love sand in my shoes. I love sand between my toes. I even love sand on my hardwood floors.
I love the feeling of salt on my skin and the bristle of my hair after swimming in the ocean and sunbathing on the beach for hours on end. Summer sun draws me outside - beckoning me to sit in my white adirondack chair, lay in my zero gravity lounger, or just recline in my Costco aluminum beach chair. When I see the sun break through, I feel my skin sizzling with Vitamin D. I feel tan, healthy, and alive!

Summer days at the beach hold nothing but happy memories for me. On a hot, sunny, day at the beach I'm Gidget all over again. Without the bikini.

Still, I'm relieved it's over. All that pressure to relax. All that expectation of doing nothing. The stress of vacation planning. Behind me. Summer days come with a price. As I get older, there seem to be fewer of them, so each one feels inordinately valuable. Deciding how to spend a summer day creates so much anxiety, that sometimes it can be paralyzing - evidenced by the many projects still left undone, unfinished, and piled up in my guest room. "Should I spend today cleaning out closets, finishing that memoir, organizing the garage, painting the cabinet? Or should I go outside and enjoy the sun?" So goes the song, "Summertime and the livin' is easy."

More times than not, the sun wins.

When fall comes and school gets into full swing, my life takes on a familiar, comforting equilibrium. Rehearsals begin again. Syllabi need reformatting. The school year brings that wonderful sense of beginning.

I'm more aware than ever that the experiences my students will have in my classes and productions are going to make up a part of their high school memories. Their roles, their dreams, their opportunities, their futures are impacted by me. As I get older, my students get younger.
And their hearts seem all the more tender. Just this week, the girl I cast as Anne Frank, threw her arms around me and said, "Thank you, Mrs. Barth." In that moment, I remembered why I love what I do.

I suppose all that time relaxing in the sun contributes to my enthusiasm for returning to the daily chores of teaching and directing. By June, I will most likely be counting down the days again. I will most likely return to that pile in my guest room and the whole cycle will begin again. Sun or sort?

But for now, it is fall and with it brings another season out of the sun, in the darkness of a theatre where my soul gets its injection of whatever the creative equivalent is to Vitamin D. Call it passion.

Thank You, Mr. Sondheim

I have been slowly making my way through FINISHING THE HAT, Stephen Sondheim's instructional memoir about musical theatre. I say slowly, because each chapter is an in depth analysis of a different musical, complete with lyrics, anectdotal stories , biographical information, commentary, confession, and cautionary tales. I'm reading this book one chapter at a time.

Now this is less a review of the book (I'm only half way through - having just finished DO I HEAR A WALTZ? ready to jump into COMPANY) as it is a reflection on what I've learned thus far. I figure, as an aspiring writer, former musical theatre performer, lover of musicals, and all out musical theatre fanatic who has thus far failed to successfully create one of her own, I might as well learn from the best, right? Each chapter of FINISHING THE HAT feels like a master class taught by Mr. Sondheim.

There is much to be learned about rhyme scheme. He has strong feelings about what he calls the "sin" of the misplaced stress in lyrics. But, the one line in the book that hit me between the eyes, made me close the gigantic blue cover, sit back, desire to argue, and then force me to face my own conceit, was that writers "should not direct their own work."

He uses his experience with ANYONE CAN WHISTLE, the show that he and Arthur Laurents created, and Laurents directed as the basis for his warning. While arguably the first "absurdist" musical, it was by all rights, a commercial failure with some great songs.

Sondheim says that a writer, "creates." A director, "interprets."

"Yes," I thought. "That is exactly right. I am more of an interpreter than a creator." Now grant it, my directorial experience has primarily been in the field of educational theatre, thus it comes with the many layers of "teaching" along with interpreting. In fact, getting to the interpretation is itself an educational process. Through my directing, I teach how to analyze. Because it is my job to encourage young artists, my work with them is often their first collaboration.

There is so much for them to learn. I have never been a director who spoon feeds. At the point I'm forced to spoon feed, I have become desperate. It has happened only a couple of times in my career as a theatre educator.

No, my way is the way of digging, questioning, working with the actor to come to some understanding of the playwright's intent. It is my job as the director to make that clear - moment to moment -through physical and inner action, stage picture, pause, and delivery. As a theatre educator, each one of these aspects of an actor's performance includes teaching - the degree to which depends obviously on the innate, intuitive ability of the student. Sometimes the job requires a lot of "undoing" particularly with the "highly experienced" student whose background includes a lifetime of children's theatre.

More often than not, students come with no training, only performing experience. Moving them from "performer" to one who appreciates the "craft," is a process that requires immense patience and an understanding that the awakening of the artist may not occur until long after the rehearsal and performance experience is completed.

The young, new, actor is blindly trusting me to mid-wife their own artistry without realizing that that is what is happening. Through a uniquely individualized, nuanced process, the student, grows to understand that in acting, he is the instrument. A musician learning to play the violin must know how to read music, commit to a discipline of practice, and develop the technique of bowing. These skills ultimately move the player into the world of interpretation and artistry.

It is the same thing for an actor, only in his case, the instrument is himself.

Interpretation of a musical includes understanding the plot, characters, and story - "the book", the lyrics of songs, and the orchestration of the score. The role of music in a musical may seem the obvious distinguishing feature of the genre - but as a director, I spend as much time listening to what story the music is telling me through its style, melody, tempo, rhythm, crescendo, decrescendo, and structure as I do analyzing lyrics. The music often conveys a character's motivation, decisiveness, uncertainty, and feeling. How the lyrics fit with the music and how they interweave with the book are also part of the interpretation.

In FINISHING THE HAT, I have learned that the process of creating what, as a director, I interpret, takes enormous skill. It's not that I didn't know that. Nothing in art comes easy. But it is important to recognize in one's self, where one's expertise lies.
A writer "creates." A director "interprets."

The desire to create may be a driving force. Whatever the motivation to do so, wisdom, and Mr. Sondheim, dictate that there be someone with some aesthetic and emotional distance, to interpret what you have written.

A Breath Taking Lesson

I felt like what I'd written my brother had felt like that morning it had taken me four hours to get him out of his condo to take him to the doctor. Step. Stop. Rest. Like the oxygen had been vacuumed out of me. I slumped against the tile in the shower. Sheer will power had gotten me there from my bed. I'd pulled myself up knowing something was wrong. When one's body wants attention, it has plenty of ways of demanding it. Not being able to breathe is a pretty clear message. I had to get to the doctor.
Chills, aches, and a rumbling cough that came from deep within the cavern of my body told me this was not just a cold. I wondered if I had Swine flu. I figured bronchitis. I couldn't drive.
My house keeper, Silvia, was busily mopping the floor when a stood at the top of my stairs and choked out her name. "Silvia, can you please drive me to the doctor?"
It is a bit of blur to me now. She did drive me. Foggily, I presented my medical card and driver's license at the counter. When they took me back to the examining room, I couldn't sit up. I lay on the metal table, lethargic, without an ounce of energy, my head resting on a pillow covered in scratchy paper.
A chest xray confirmed, bacterial pneumonia.
"Wow," I thought. "Wow."
No wonder I felt like I remember my brother feeling before being admitted to the hospital for breathing treatments. He had pneumonia.
My oxygen level was low. The prescriptions kept coming. Inhaler. Antibiotics. Ibuprofin. Then the zinger. Off work for a week.
"What!?!"
A week off work??? It's not possible. I teach five classes. My freshmen are getting ready to start their final scenes. My sophomores are getting ready to perform scenes from The Crucible. My seniors are preparing Blithe Spirit. How could I possibly miss a week of school?
She hands me a note. "Doctor's orders."
"Wow," I thought. "Wow."

I guess I over did it.
I guess I ignored the signs of fatigue.
I guess I still haven't learned that lesson. You know the one. Balance.
Just ask my husband. He's had to live with me for twenty -nine years as of today, our anniversary.
He says that my overly developed sense of responsibility, conscientiousness, and work ethic is in my DNA.

I know better.
It was modeled for me. Expected of me. Forced upon me. Sung to me. In many cases in my life, I had no choice. This is learned behavior. I've had lots of practice.

You see, I was born out of grief – a replacement for two brothers – one dead. The other gay. Both secrets. I filled the void . Where ever there was a void, I filled it. I was the pleaser. The fixer. My father used to sing this little rhyme to me, “Always do a little more than what people expect you to do. Always do a little more and you’ll be happy too.”
He forgot to tell me when more was enough.
What could have been enough to replace a buried child, save a marriage, a family business, and a brother with AIDS?
When I was growing up, my parents fought.
After one terrificly ugly fight they told me that I was the reason they stayed married.
Wow.
That's a lot of power for a child to wield.
And a lot of responsibility.

I remember several years ago, when I was getting my Masters, the question was posed, "What lie have you have believed about yourself that has impacted the choices you have made?"

I remember the question piercing me. Its ramifications far reaching. It was a simple lie.
It's my responsibility.
If it is my responsibility, then, no one else can do it.
Always do a little more than what people expect you to do. Dangerous words.

I accused my brother of denial when he had AIDS. I've written volumes on how denial can kill.
There are none so blind as those who will not see.

I must face my own denial.

I'm not drowning, I'm swimming.

I must learn when enough is enough.

The reckoning or the wrecked.

My choice.

Stephen Sondheim wrote,

"Careful the things you say. Children will listen. Careful the path you take. Children will see and learn. Children will look to you for which way to turn to learn what to be. Careful before you say, listen to me. Children will listen."

Wise words for teachers.
And a lot of responsibility.

If Not This What?

I am standing in JoAnn Fabrics watching women leisurely poking around the bolts of seasonal patterns of pastel Easter eggs and bunnies. They ask for two or three yards of this or that. The woman at the cutting table asks what they are making. Various projects are described for grandchildren and so forth. A yearning comes over me. Why was I not born one of them?

I wander through the aisles of cotton, jersey knit, satin, and taffeta looking for muslin. Twenty-four yards of it to be exact. Twenty-four yards of muslin one hundred eight inches wide. When I finally find it and arrive at the cutting table, the kind- faced grandmotherly looking woman behind the counter is slightly surprised by the amount of fabric I ask her to cut.
She begins to unroll the bolt with authority flipping it over and over and over unwrapping the muslin to be measured by the metal yard stick attached to the counter. "So, what are you making?" She asks with an amazed curiosity.

"An arc," I reply.

Story of my life. Hunting for oddities - alice frames from the army-navy store to which we will attach the tree of knowledge. Glittery balls made from styrofoam for apples. Some copper wire. An old rusty tin for the cider cup. A Biblical looking mallet - what would Noah have used to hammer in that final peg?

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. The shadow effect didn't. Two panels of tan fabric hung as a tent for Adam and Eve in the wasteland. The fabric was too narrow - only forty-five inches. Overlap the seam. Maybe weight it with some washers. Try a magnet. No go. I rip it off the scaffold and grab the left over one hundred eight inch wide muslin I bought for the arc and tell a techie to attach velcro to the top. Barking orders - get the scissors. Cut the bottom - not too short - it needs to hit the floor.

The show comes together in pieces. Ragged and fragile. Both. Everyone with their share of the responsibility. Actors remember to pre-set your props, take the tags off your costumes. We need a different leotard for the dove. What is that shadow on the Father's robe? It has too big a hem in it. Noah's beard is overwhelming him. Father's mustache is too shiny. Where do we stash the mini flashlights? Someone comes up with an idea to attach a big safety pin to each costume. Brilliant. Problem solved.

Glow tape the stairs, mop the floor, rotate the scaffold, face the bottom step on of the stage, attach hooks to the rainbow, hang masking. Spin the flowers on this song. Don't on that one. Tell the story. Don't look at the floor.

Cling to each other. More passion. You are desperate. You have been spared. None of this works. I resort to technicalities. Put your hand to her cheek then gently bring her face into yours. Touch your lips. Kiss. Hold. Hold. Hold. Done.

They are just kids after all.
What do they really know about passion, clinging to one another for their lives as they sing the lyrics, "In whatever time we have for as long as we are living...." waiting for the great flood? I try references to Japan's Tsunami.

One more light cue for the end of act one before the black out. The cast stands and waits as the cue is programmed into the board. We run a test. Call the cue as the music modulates. No. Go back. Call the cue as Adam and Eve hug. Call the next cue as they reach for father. It's a visual. Watch the stage. Try it again. The stage manager sweats the sequence.

Microphone passing schedule. Costume check out sheets. Makeup stations. Hair extensions. The orchestra is too loud. Hang some blacks. What happened to the percussion? Where is the Didgeridoo sound? We make one out of a piece of PVC.

Not for the faint of heart.

I stagger out to my car at the end of dress rehearsal. In less than a week, it all comes down. Strike. What took months to put together, will disappear in a few hours. An ephemeral art - theatre.

Have I been too harsh? Have I pushed them too hard? Am I too demanding? These questions reverberate through me. I am reminded of Terrence McNally's play, Master Class. At the end of the play, Maria Callas delivers a monologue that runs through my head.

If I have seemed harsh, it is because I have been harsh with myself. I'm not good with words, but I have tried to reach you. To communicate something of what I feel about what we do as artists, as musicians, as human beings. The sun will not fall down from the sky if there are no more Traviatas. The world can and will go on without us but I have to think we have made this world a better place. That we have left it richer, wiser than had we not chosen the way of art. The older I get, the less I know, but I am certain that what we do matters. If I didn't believe that.

A line ending with a period not an ellipses - beginning with the preposition "if".

A line that sums up my life.

The Blessed Unrest

Haven't written much lately. No - lately my life has been about that other art form. The one that relies on the multi-faceted elements of live storytelling. The one that begins with text. Layers in music and lyrics. The one that is interpreted and translated through actors, dancers, and singers in order to become something off of the page - living, breathing, moving. The one that needs space not a desk. The one that comes into being moment by moment, piece by piece. The one that uses costume and light. The one that is best expressed through gesture and pause. The one that cannot simply come together with the final punctuation point, stroke of the pen, or tap of the keyboard of the solitary artist. This one involves a lot of people. It is a collaboration. The sum of its parts greater than any one part and those parts can't come together until the very end which is then, the beginning. As Stephen Sondheim wrote "Everything depends on execution. The art of making art is putting it together bit by bit." It is a process.

I've been at this art form for a long time. And every time I find myself nearly brought to my knees by the shear magnitude of details involved in mounting a musical. Ask Julie Taymor. I'm sure she would agree that executing one's creative vision takes a kind of courage and boldness. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Better or worse. Richer or Poorer - the marriage between director and musical is a commitment of one's life for a certain period of time.

Should the snake head puppet turn this way or that on the lyric, "no pain, no gain?" Should Cain clench his fists, drop to his knees, plie or stand in a wide second on the lyric "lost, slowly dying in the wilderness?" " What is wrong with that transition? Hold one more second, then walk away. No another second. " These directions, only after digging deeply into story, subtext, and character to understand exactly what story is being told.

In educational theatre, there is the added responsibility of teaching. Teaching the craft. Teaching discipline. Teaching commitment. Teaching technique. Teaching them to dance. Teaching them to sing. Teaching them not to play with the props. Teaching them what it means to be a team. And hopefully, inspiring them along the way. Instilling in them a love for the theatre.

This path is not for the faint of heart. It takes enormous stamina. And then the dreams begin. Whole numbers running through your mind at night when rest eludes and sleeping becomes found work time. I have staged entire numbers in my sleep.

It has been six years since last I directed a musical. Surprising to me, who for two decades marked the years not by dates, but by shows. '94 Into the Woods. '95 Carousel. '96 Fiddler. '97 Secret Garden. '04 King & I and so on. My six year hiatus from musical theatre was not a hiatus from the theatre. I directed plays, cabarets, dramatic collages - all in alternative, challenging, non-theatrical spaces. Expanding my imagination, sharpening skills that simply had not been developed having had the luxury of working in a fully-equipped theatre in my early years as a director. But most importantly, during this time, I saw a lot of theatre. I continued to hone my craft as a spectator.

Years of experience, a certain aesthetic, a propensity to zero in on minute details, the right collaborators, and an obsessive compulsive scheduling gene have brought me now to this point. Three more rehearsals until we come back for "tech." As I look out onto the vast set-less, costume-less, light-less stage, I see the makings of a show. I see it in its barest state before color, texture, and dimension are added. I see the work of the actors on their own telling a story with every ounce of their beings. The beauty of the theatre is that when all of the other production elements come together, something magical happens. There is transcendence.

In her famous quote, Martha Graham says,

"There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others"

I never tire of this quote. It inspires me every day. And so I keep on marching.

Why I Don't Do Facebook (a rant)

It's Oscar day so last night I broke down and watched The Social Network. My daughter and son both told me I should see it. They both also told me I'd hate it.
They were right.

When the movie ended, I stood in the middle of my den and pontificated for at least fifteen minutes. In many ways, seeing the movie validated my choice not to do Facebook.

In my relatively conventional and uncontroversial life, I have waged very few rebellions. The last time was when I cancelled our season tickets for USC football games - an act of retaliation for a deferred college admission decision - that single act of rebellion cost us one entire tunnel section when we returned to the fold the following year and cost me relentless teasing by my family at every home game as they eyed Tunnel 6 recalling that once upon a time we were just that much closer to the 50 yard line. Arguably my rebellion cost USC nothing. But still, I stood my ground!

My other rebellion is against Mel Gibson movies. I refused to see Passion of the Christ and much to my dismay, now will no longer show his version of Hamlet in my drama class because of his anti-semitic views. Mel Gibson is a jerk.

In the sea of rebellion taking place in the Middle East, my paltry little fights seems a tad absurd. But with so much attention being given to Facebook these days and the revolutionary way it has transformed society, I believe my stand is an important one. Here's why (and it's not because Mark Zuckerberg is a jerk):

My husband said he believes Facebook has not taken anything away from society but has in fact added something. I completely disagree. While Facebook portends to connect people and allows for instant "communication" - a point I do not argue as it is amply evidenced by the revolution in Egypt and now the rest of the Middle East - I, however, believe it is actually diminishing communication. Real communication. Interpersonal communication. Authentic, deep communication. One on one communication. Grant it, the days of family gatherings in the parlor, sing alongs, and musical recitals died out long ago thanks to radio and later, television and letter writing died out thanks to email, I believe Facbook is and will continue to radically alter humanity.

Let's face it. I'm a theatre educator so my profession and art is inextricably tied to human interaction - a raise of the eyebrow, a touch of the hand, the subtext communicated "behind the eyes" communicates from the heart. On Facebook one can poke, like, and write on someone's "wall" granting the illusion of connection - surface, superficial, and meaningless. How much thought or time goes into to these empty gestures? None. How many of those so called friends will show up at your funeral? No, they will instead, write on your wall. It's faster. Easier. And these days, as acceptable an expression of sympathy as sending flowers. Not to mention, cheaper.

Today there are still adults - young and old - who remember life before social networking. One day, there wont' be. The generations pre-Facebook will be like pre-historic cave dwellers whose primary means of storytelling were the pictures they scratched on the sides of their caves.
Words, reading, language, art, culture, will continue to diminish. And some day, no one will remember. The theatre, will be irrelevant if not non-existent. Its would-be audience deluded by the illusion that they are engaged in real inter-personal communication with real friends .

Is it any wonder that an anti-social, spineless, opportunistic, duplicitous, friendless, judas invented this thing?

Musical Notes

I pull the red scrap book from the shelf in the garage. The silver fish that have made it their home scatter. I open the yellowed pages. There, tucked into programs, flyers, rehearsal schedules, dried flowers, and telegrams are the little cards that come in floral bouquets scrawled with pre-show messages in familiar handwriting.

I turn the pages. There - written in large, bold handwriting, are instructions from my father turned drama coach: Amy! Discipline!!! (underlined three times) and the schedule of our practices for The Unsinkable Molly Brown, thirty-five years ago.

Amy Darling We love you reads one in my mother's hand.
With you on every word and note tonight reads another.

But the one I seek is deeper into the pages.

To Amy who will make them forget Bernhardt, Duse, and Modjeska - Love, Bob. I was eleven.

Clever.

Yesterday would have been my brother's 70th birthday. I was prompted to dig in my garage to find some remembrance of him from my early days on the stage because I was imagining the card he would have written this month to his eldest granddaughter, Hannah who stars in her first musical as Anna in The King & I. I remembered that card and hoped it could somehow be re-cycled. It is, however, glued tight onto the page.
But it won't stop me from re-cycling the message.

My brother was always in my audience. And he will be in Hannah's. I will look up to the stage and see her through his eyes just as he watched me when I was her age.

As I turned the pages of my tattered scrapbook, memories of my family came flooding back to me. My brother's wit and keen insight. My father's direction. My mother's support. We may not have been the Barrymores but the theatre pulsed through our veins.

I need only open my scrap books for evidence of why I became a drama teacher.

Greater, still, to find evidence of a happy life.

Ode to Ambra

Her name is musical
Her laugh is melodic
Her life is song

From beneath the stage
she emerges
this goddess of the night
holding a cup of coffee
poured from her thermos - a constant companion
clip board in hand
pins, labels, and tags
and she, herself, the cushion
next to me
in the darkness
with eyes to see
what needs fixing.

With big, broad strokes
she writes the words of the wardrobe world
hem
spats
vest
fedora
belt
sash
cravat

OK she will say
and return to her labor
buttons, elastic, velcro, and lace
cut from the same cloth as her mother
generations of generosity
the hum of her sewing machine late into the night

Schlepping loads of costumes
Hauling mounds of laundry
Serving
always
Serving
without complaint
this good woman of the theatre
whose hands have
pulled
tugged
tagged
tied
till the job is done
ready for tomorrow's run.

Patient saint of the pit
this leading lady
has no understudy.

For Ambra
the show must go on.

Lessons in Self - Care

I took time to exfoliate this morning. It was an act of the will. Yesterday, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an exercise bike. And some foam yoga blocks. And a stretch strap. This, after I tried to pull on the jeans I bought myself at an after Christmas sale.

I'm a full immersion kind of person. My problem is I don't just fully immerse myself in one thing. I immerse myself in multiple projects at the same time - all demanding my full creative energy. As I lose myself in my work, I tend to lose - well - my self.
That is, I forget about my self. I eat badly. I don't exercise. I forget to rub cream into my elbows. I don't stretch. I don't walk. I forget to floss.

Then there is the scattered thing. So immersed am I in whatever I am doing in the moment, I lose things. Well more specifically, I lose my keys and my glasses.
Fed up with spending so much time looking for my glasses, I bought myself a pretty Brighton chain from which to hang my glasses around my neck. This was, in truth, an admission to getting older. I have resisted getting one of those chains because they seemed "old lady-ish " to me.

And I mean how many things can one wear around one's neck? I tend to wear long necklaces. I like scarves. I have a hearing impaired student for whom I hang a microphone around my neck and when I remember, I wear a lanyard attached to which are keys to a lighting shed, costume cage, and storage facility. Adding my glasses just seemed a bit much.

But the fact that I was losing my glasses at least five times a day, I felt it a necessity. One time, during rehearsals for our Christmas program, I'd misplaced my glasses - searching high and low for them. I even sent an email plea out to the entire faculty describing my glasses in the event I'd absent mindedly left them in the bathroom, at the postal machine, next to the fax machine, or on a chair somewhere.
Eventually they turned up -inside an army helmut on top of a rolling costume rack. A student found them when he went to put on the helmut.

Last Friday, as we began reading the opening description of the set for Death of a Salesman, I again found myself without my glasses. The two pages of tiny italicized print were a blur. I carried on with class, talking about visualizing the space, ground plans, and stage directions as I moved about the classroom lifting papers, bending down to look under tables, and digging into boxes of props. Finally, one of my students said, "Mrs. Barth, what are you looking for?"
I said, "My glasses."
He said, "I thought you bought a chain for them so you wouldn't lose them."
"I did," I said. "The glasses kept falling off the chain," I explained.

I would find them dangling from one end of the chain as the other end of the chain hung loose.
The chain is now in a tangled mess inside an otherwise empty glass case.

I eventually found my glasses - under a purple, feathered boa.

I don't like being scattered. I don't like being completely out of shape. I don't like feeling out of control. How many times do I need to learn this lesson?

So I exfoliated this morning. I used my moisturizer. I walked. My Weight Watchers menus are planned. I bought a new style of plastic containers for my lunch - with fitted lids that attach so they won't get lost. I am recommitting to yoga. The exercise bike is the newest addition to our bedroom ensemble.

And I'm going to untangle the darned glasses chain and try it again.

For All You Musical Theatre Junkies

http://nymag.com/news/features/greatest-new-york/70476/
This article is a fun must read for anyone who loves musical theatre. Enjoy!

In Defense of Musical Theatre

Recently I read an article in the Wall Street Journal about "cultural resolutions." It profiled the goals of artists - musicians, writers, and film makers for the upcoming year. I scanned the list and my eyes landed on Robert Redford's name. He said that he wanted to spend more of his time "making art." Having invested so much of his energy into developing the Sundance Film Festival - he said he is ready to create his own work again. As the year turns over, I find myself reflecting on my work and the artistic life I live.

My book shelf contains three DVD collections - Ken Burns' JAZZ, Michael Feinstein's THE GREAT AMERICAN SONG BOOK and Stephen Sondheim's 80th BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION IN CONCERT. Resting on my bedside table is an enormous tome entitled FINISHING THE HAT - Stephen Sondheim's collection of lyrics and critical analysis of the genre of musical theatre. Since Sondheim is my favorite composer/lyricist I have paid a lot of attention to what he has had to say during his various interviews and appearances. I will admit, I have not found it all to be terribly encouraging or inspiring.
Once again I find myself confronted with just another version of the cynical statement, the theatre is dead.
So what in the world does that mean for a drama teacher?
Is musical theatre irrelevant?
Is there any reason to explore the history of the genre? Does Agnes De Mille's ballet, the advancement of the book musical from early revues or the rhyme scheme of a song matter?
Should we care?

There is much to say on this topic. As a teacher, I know without a doubt that the process of creating theatre is a valuable. Collaboration, imagination, hard work, discipline are all skills learned through the rehearsal process.

But what about the relevance of musical theatre as an art form?

If Sondheim sees himself as a dinosaur where does that leave the rest of us?

Well here's what I say. In the simplest terms, musical theatre is another form of storytelling. We act out our stories. We sing our feelings. We dance to communicate.
And the genre itself continues to evolve.
I say evolve because I believe that in order to remain relevant it is important to reach the younger generation.

Case in point. I gave my two twenty-something children tickets to see AMERICAN IDIOT - the Green Day musical that received terrible reviews on Broadway. Why would I do such a thing, you ask? I did so because I knew they loved Green Day.
I chose not to go myself. Instead I went to see Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones in DRIVING MISS DAISY.

Now, my kids are sophisticated theatre goers who can dissect a scene and analyze a play's direction as well as any critic.
Over our post theatre drink at the Algonquin, I quizzed them on the show.
It had hit my daughter's twenty-six-year-old sweet spot. She related to every story point, lyric, and scene because it told her generation's story. The Millennial Generation.
I found myself thinking that for her, American Idiot had the effect HAIR must have had on the flower power generation.
She was moved.
It was relevant.

I think it is easy to sit where Sondheim sits and say that musical theatre has lost is relevance because on some level at eighty, we probably believe we have lost ours. It becomes harder and harder to keep up especially in today's lightening fast -technologically driven age.

So I'm putting a stake in the ground here in 2011. Musical Theatre is very much alive.
I couldn't go to work in the morning if I thought otherwise.
As a theatre educator, I must passionately promote its relevance and expose the younger generation to its power to move us.

So next week, when I return to school, I will be holding auditions for the Stephen Schwartz musical, CHILDREN OF EDEN.
A new generation of students will be exposed to the inventive story telling of the first nine chapters of the book of Genesis and will explore through music and dance the complexity of fathers, family, obedience, and rebellion.
And they will have to figure out how to become aardvarks, anteaters and antelopes. A highly relevant task, wouldn't you say?

After all, Sondheim himself wrote, "The art of making art...is putting it together."

And one more thing - for anyone reading this - go to the theatre and take your kids.
It matters.

Attention to Details

Awoke with that familiar rush.
That surge of adrenaline.
Mind racing full of details.
Do I wrestle the monster to the ground?
Do I embrace it?
Or do I surrender to it?

And so it goes - my love- hate relationship with the theatre.

This sweater or that one?
These handcuffs or those?
That badge or the other one?

Update the stats on exoneration for the power point.
Make the sound effect for clanging jail cell doors.
Purchase the lumber.
Find the steel case metal chairs.
Borrow a Priest's collar.
Get the tummy padding for the kid playing the lawyer.

Details.
Make Believe.
Obsession.

Five hours of pulling costumes in the attic of the local civic light opera.
My students amazed at how much work it all is.
Labor intensive.
Schlepp Schlepp Schlepp.
"You'll need a big vehicle to schlepp stuff," I said loading armloads of costumes, a 1940's style microphone and an army cot into the back of my Ford Explorer.

The guard hat was black.
"It needs to be blue," I said.
"I don't care anymore," my student responded.
"Oh no," I said. " You must care. You always care. If you don't care then you shouldn't be doing this."

This is why I love the theatre. It matters what color the hat is.

Thanks. Yes.

For all that has been, thanks. For all that will be, yes.
Dag Hammarskjold

I wonder if this will last?
This enthusiasm.
This sense of purpose.
This joy.
This gratitude.
It feels so different.
This time.
I wonder why?
Is this what it feels like to be an elder?
To not be rocked by the little ups and downs of the day in day out?
To see a bigger picture?
To know that it will work out. One way or the other?
To not roll over.
To be persistent.
To not feel like you've anything more to prove.
To see it for what it is.
To see your place in it?
Is this what Erik Erikson meant by generativity?
Is this what if feels like to have chosen?
Really chosen?
Nothing accidental about this time.
Intentional.
Everything intentional.
Is this what it feels like to embrace one's limitations?
Is this what Rilke meant by seasoning?
Patience?
Living your way into the answer?
Is this what Shaw meant when he said
I want to be all used up when I die?
Is this what a second chance feels like?
Is this what Maurice Chevalier meant when he sang,
I'm so glad that I'm not young anymore?
Whatever it is
Thanks.
Yes.

Buttons Popping

When I was a junior in high school, my ship came in and when we set sail, my life was forever changed. My father, who was my coach, sent out to all of his employees an invitation to see his daughter perform the title role in Meredith Willson's musical, The Unsinkable Molly Brown. The top of the invitation read, "My buttons are popping."

I remember auditioning for the role, and the musical director, Eugene Ober, asking me if I played the piano. I told him, "No." Then added, "But I can learn."
And learn I did. One song. Well, 36 bars of one song - Chopin's Minute Waltz - My father saw to it that I had piano lessons and when the show opened, I indeed sat at the piano, rented for the production by my father, and played the 36 bars live on stage only to find out from Meredith Willson himself, who in the latter years of his life made a practice of attending high school performances of his musicals, that I was the first actress he'd ever seen actually play it!

My senior year in high school brought to an end an era that had begun when I was eleven in the gym of Servite High School as Brigitta in The Sound of Music with the musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.
On closing night of the show, my father, brother, and entire family walked into the gym wearing sailor hats with the words, Once in Love With Amy, appliqued on them.
"Low Key" was not my family's style.
That was over thirty years ago.
The memory is as fresh as if it were yesterday, brought home to me only the other day by a phone call I received from my beloved nieces, Hannah and her sisters. They had called to deliver the news that Hannah had been cast in the role of Anna in Rodger's and Hammerstein's The King & I. My two other nieces, Mckenzie and Elise, both were cast as well. There was much celebrating going on in that arm of the Luskey family.

I have cast hundreds of students in countless roles over my twenty plus year career as a high school theatre director. I've watched families bursting with pride as they walked through the lobby doors of the theatre. I've read the heartfelt messages from parents in my programs and seen the families swarm their children after performances with armloads of flowers.
And now, it's my turn.
Aunt Amy's button's are popping!
And I imagine my father and my brother, both beaming with pride as the Luskey family musical theatre legacy lives on through their grandchildren and great grandchildren.
But don't worry, Hannah.
We'll leave the sailor hats at home on closing night.

An All Consuming Life

“I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake.” George Bernard Shaw

Someone once told me (I think it was my therapist) that I have a fear of being consumed by my passions.

I think this is true.

I have just returned from a week-long training sponsored by ISTA - the International Schools Theatre Association - on teaching the two- year International Baccalaureate Theatre Diploma Curriculum. Dangerous stuff. As I sat at El Torito last night with my husband, I looked him in the eye and said, "I think I may have done it again. This new job has the potential to completely consume me." And he said, " Yes, I know." And then he added, "It is what you were put on this earth to do."

I think this is true.

I have little evidence to support a counter argument considering my history. Anyone who knows me would see right through my protestations. I am at times, bursting at the gills with creative energy. The thing about a program like the IB Theatre is that it is challenging, demanding, creative, rigorously assessed at an international level - and completely open-ended. Therein lies the danger.

It would seem that my life as a theatre educator includes having a constant battle with myself to set limits and boundaries. I remember my therapist once asking me, "What would happen if you just allowed yourself the freedom to completely immerse yourself?" She said she thought I was afraid I would dive in so deeply that I might not come back up.

I think this is true.

But this time, I'm fifty-one. My kids are launched. My husband, frankly, prefers it when I am creatively engaged - the balance in our relationship is right when it's like that. My boredom is his curse. Not that I've often been bored. But it is a fact that when I am creatively inspired and my mind is pressed against something intellectually and artistically stimulating, I thrive. When I thrive, I am happy. When I'm happy, he is happy.

I think this is true.

So here I am. My heart quickens. My mind races. Ideas surge through me like an electrical current. Yes. Each class has its creative demands - but the truth is I love designing courses. I love putting together a syllabus. I love mapping out a plan. I love scheduling. I love sticking to a schedule when the schedule is planned right. It is evidence of my experience. I can look at a script and know almost to the hour how long it will take me to rehearse. I love it when I follow my instincts and I especially love it when my instincts are right.

I love my doubts. Doubt is a familiar companion with each new production and each new class. Each has its own set of personalities and challenges. But now, at fifty-one, I know that each problem will be solved one way or the other.

I know this is true.

How much luckier can a person be? I get to work in my craft - I get to play in the messy, unformed world of creativity every single day - I get to bring my artistic vision to life for an audience- I get to nurture and mold young lives - I get to think and work hard at something that is unquestionably fulfilling and worth my time and effort - I get to build - I get to risk - I get to collaborate - I get to grow - I get to contextualize - I get to learn - I get to begin again. And I get paid to do it.

People speak of something called "retirement." Here's my problem. Every time I "retire" from the theatre, I am lured back. I have had a love-hate relationship with it my entire life from the time I first stepped on to the stage at eleven-years-old. It is the dragon that must be slayed. The beast that must be tamed. It is, what Jungians call the tension. Now, after forty years in the theatre, I am choosing it. Up till now, it has always felt like it chose me - and thus, had the power to consume me. Maybe this time, we can at last be at peace with each other.

I hope this is true.