Sometimes I like to do something stupid, just to see what will happen.
I don't have occasion to go on solo road trips very often, but a few weeks ago it so happened that I drove home from Banff by myself. I had been at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat workshop (reflections found here) for a week, where I had basically been coddled and treated like a child (didn't have to go anywhere, all the food was provided - didn't even have to make my own bed!), so even just something simple as driving home (I live 3.5 hours away, which in Western Canada is nothing) was enough responsibility to really have to adjust to.
The Arts Centre is up a hill and around a corner in the town of Banff. It seemed like it was easy enough to get there, so I figured it would be easy enough to get out. It wasn't. I stopped for gas, got all turned around, had to ask for directions, etc. Maps? What? I'll intuit my way out.
I intuited my way on to the freeway headed for Calgary. I did that for a bit when it really started to feel like I was going the wrong way. So, I looked for a turnaround spot and went the other direction. No big D. Lots of time.
"Castle Mountain (or something). That sounds familiar. I'll turn off there. When I start seeing signs for Radium, I'll know I'm on the right track." After about 15 minutes of that, nothing looked familiar. So, I pulled over, pulled out my iPhone and called my husband to confess that I was lost in the mountains and didn't know what to do. He told me to use Siri. I didn't know how to use Siri. I tried. I got confused. I called back, "I don't know how to use Siri, now what?" At which point, he was like, "Look, if you don't figure this out, you're going to run out of gas and freeze to death. Figure out your damn phone." The asshole-ish quality I've conveyed here isn't accurate. He was feeling very helpless at trying to navigate me out of where I didn't know I was.
So, I did. I figured it out and I was on my way. Then, Siri said something about turning off. But there was no real turn off. Then, she recalculated the route to say that it would be a lot longer before I was to turn next. At which, I panicked a little. "What if it turns out I have to circumnavigate the globe to get where I need to go unless I just turn around and try to turn where she said I was supposed to in the first place?" So, I turned around. I didn't see what she was talking about, so I saw a turnoff point (for hiking or something) and decided to pull off there.
But Siri was talking and she distracted me, so I turned too wide and got stuck in the snow. Stuck stuck. I saw some parked vehicles close by, and went up to them, but no one was there. Out all day for a hike, I assumed. I grew up on a farm and have experience in getting stuck in the snow in the middle of nowhere, so I went old school. I stood out there and started waving people down.
Not for long. The first people to pass by stopped. An older couple, very nice. Together, we did what we could do (pushing, digging snow out), but ultimately we realized we needed more help. We flagged down another vehicle. This time a young couple. We tied some cables between the vehicles and tried to pull. Not quite there. So, a middle aged guy and his young adult son stopped to help us, too. And then I got unstuck and there was joy in all the land.
Oh, and the older couple had just come from Radium. I was going the right way. I don't know what Siri was talking about. Sometimes Siri just fucking makes things worse.
But the aberrant part of all this? I kind of liked it. I had a bit of a premonition before I made that turn that I was going to get stuck, but I ignored it because I wanted to see what would happen. I enjoyed seeing the problem play itself out to the solution. If no one had stopped, I would have been hooped, but I liked seeing if anyone would.
In this case, I enjoyed being taken care of. I love my life and wouldn't trade it for anything, but I spend my days making sure that people get dressed and brush their teeth and get to rehearsal and have everything they need for their film projects. In a deep part of my soul that I don't like to admit is there, I was thrilled to be revolved around (I'm always thrilled to be revolved around. So, this was a great opportunity to indulge). And in a life that plays itself out with a fair amount of predictability, it was cool to wonder what would happen next.
It happened again, just yesterday. I had a moment of, "The smart thing to do would be to 'x' but I don't want to bother, so I'll do 'y'" and the undercarriage of the car ended up stuck in the ground. Everything is okay, the car is fixed and it didn't cost anything, but again, I went with the thing I knew would get me in trouble and potentially eff up my life for a bit.
As I relayed this part of my nature to my teaching partner ("I court danger, it's something I do," I said.), he all but snickered at my idea of recklessness. But such a thing is relative, just like suffering or victory. And it's always a big deal to me at the time - "Why did I just do that?" But we need to get stuck and to solve our way out, don't we, we writers (or any of us theatre practitioners)? Otherwise, what would we have to say to anyone?
But, I'll keep doing it. I know it. Not on purpose, but because of my insatiable curiosity. And though I wish I could be smart, capable and responsible, there's a part of me that hopes I'll never learn.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Perfection
In which I confess my passion for art galleries and museums.
About this time last year, my family and I were getting ready to head out on a big trip to Europe. Mostly English-speaking Europe (and many folks don't even consider that to be Europe), mind you. But. Mimosa season in Provence - that was pretty extraordinary. You should go sometime.
I wanted to soak it all up, every minute. And the best way I knew how was to spend as much time in as many museums and art galleries as I could. I mean, that's where they put all the stuff that means the most to them, those nations and cities. The stuff that represents what they think of themselves and how they want the world to perceive them. And I went to most of the places I wanted to.
I was alone in my devotion. My family amused me for a time. At about Dublin, the whining started (but you should have seen! Irish peasants fending off the British army with these little makeshift daggers. The nobility and poetry of it all). In Paris, I was just about kicked out of the family (Umm . . . it's Paris. We could sit around the hotel, or we could go out and seize us some world class culture. Given a choice, I'm gonna seize. Even if I have to do it by myself). When we talk about it now, it's kind of like, "Ugh. Mommy and her (sigh) museums."
However. Early in the trip, before I exasperated everyone, we hit the V&A Museum in London and stumbled on to an exhibit that we unanimously agreed was outstanding. I was recovering from my disappointment at the closure of the costume exhibit (that always happens to me!), and was, admittedly, slightly bored of viewing Samurai uniforms and Japanese furniture (I do have a limit to my interest in museums. I draw the line at spoons and bowls - which was where we were kind of at by this point) when we saw it. This. Spider silk. Silk made from the spiders themselves, not boiled up cocoons. You can read more about it here. There was this beautiful cape:
This was just one piece. (I would totally wear this, bt dubs.) There were other things, including spools of threads of the stuff. And a big shawl (or large placemat, depending on what you wanted to do with it). You guys. We've all seen raw silk and dyed silk. Chiffon, duppioni, charmeuse, satin - you name it. All of it chump change compared to this (and I love fabric). It took 1.2 million spiders from Madagascar to make that cape. That's its natural colour. Every strand of it uniform (how rare - uniformity in nature!). Every strand of it strong and light and perfect and golden like what one might imagine the breath of God to be.
So, perfection in art exists. And that can be at once inspiring and crippling. Inspiring, because wouldn't we all love to hit that mark? Crippling, because what if we do all that work and we don't? Or worse, it doesn't land anywhere at all, but dematerializes into the oblivion of who the fuck cares? But think of what we could do if we gave it a good, honest shot.
But 1.2 million spiders. That's a lot of spiders.
My writing mentor, Elise Forier Edie (I wonder if she knows she's my mentor), has been on Twitter a lot lately (I'm becoming increasingly addicted to Twitter), urging us writers to "Dispense with ego. Write the worst crap in the world, but keep writing anyway," and "Let the draft be crappy. Write now, fix later."
I can do that. A far cry from the breath of God, but any start is a step toward something. It's better than nothing (and that's something!). And for those of us who are compelled to create, for whom not creating is hell on earth, this is the perfect advice. It precludes me, personally, from the excuses I manufacture to get myself out of writing ("No one will care" "This isn't going to go anywhere" "If I don't write, the world will be the same - days will continue to give way to nights which will give way to days again whether I write something or not"). It gives us permission to fail, so that in failing, we might have a chance of success. Some day. With something. Maybe even golden, breath of God success.
What's your equivalent to 1.2 million spiders?
PS: I still haven't seen the British Museum and the Pompidou Centre. What are your favourite galleries/museums?
About this time last year, my family and I were getting ready to head out on a big trip to Europe. Mostly English-speaking Europe (and many folks don't even consider that to be Europe), mind you. But. Mimosa season in Provence - that was pretty extraordinary. You should go sometime.
I wanted to soak it all up, every minute. And the best way I knew how was to spend as much time in as many museums and art galleries as I could. I mean, that's where they put all the stuff that means the most to them, those nations and cities. The stuff that represents what they think of themselves and how they want the world to perceive them. And I went to most of the places I wanted to.
I was alone in my devotion. My family amused me for a time. At about Dublin, the whining started (but you should have seen! Irish peasants fending off the British army with these little makeshift daggers. The nobility and poetry of it all). In Paris, I was just about kicked out of the family (Umm . . . it's Paris. We could sit around the hotel, or we could go out and seize us some world class culture. Given a choice, I'm gonna seize. Even if I have to do it by myself). When we talk about it now, it's kind of like, "Ugh. Mommy and her (sigh) museums."
However. Early in the trip, before I exasperated everyone, we hit the V&A Museum in London and stumbled on to an exhibit that we unanimously agreed was outstanding. I was recovering from my disappointment at the closure of the costume exhibit (that always happens to me!), and was, admittedly, slightly bored of viewing Samurai uniforms and Japanese furniture (I do have a limit to my interest in museums. I draw the line at spoons and bowls - which was where we were kind of at by this point) when we saw it. This. Spider silk. Silk made from the spiders themselves, not boiled up cocoons. You can read more about it here. There was this beautiful cape:
This was just one piece. (I would totally wear this, bt dubs.) There were other things, including spools of threads of the stuff. And a big shawl (or large placemat, depending on what you wanted to do with it). You guys. We've all seen raw silk and dyed silk. Chiffon, duppioni, charmeuse, satin - you name it. All of it chump change compared to this (and I love fabric). It took 1.2 million spiders from Madagascar to make that cape. That's its natural colour. Every strand of it uniform (how rare - uniformity in nature!). Every strand of it strong and light and perfect and golden like what one might imagine the breath of God to be.
So, perfection in art exists. And that can be at once inspiring and crippling. Inspiring, because wouldn't we all love to hit that mark? Crippling, because what if we do all that work and we don't? Or worse, it doesn't land anywhere at all, but dematerializes into the oblivion of who the fuck cares? But think of what we could do if we gave it a good, honest shot.
But 1.2 million spiders. That's a lot of spiders.
My writing mentor, Elise Forier Edie (I wonder if she knows she's my mentor), has been on Twitter a lot lately (I'm becoming increasingly addicted to Twitter), urging us writers to "Dispense with ego. Write the worst crap in the world, but keep writing anyway," and "Let the draft be crappy. Write now, fix later."
I can do that. A far cry from the breath of God, but any start is a step toward something. It's better than nothing (and that's something!). And for those of us who are compelled to create, for whom not creating is hell on earth, this is the perfect advice. It precludes me, personally, from the excuses I manufacture to get myself out of writing ("No one will care" "This isn't going to go anywhere" "If I don't write, the world will be the same - days will continue to give way to nights which will give way to days again whether I write something or not"). It gives us permission to fail, so that in failing, we might have a chance of success. Some day. With something. Maybe even golden, breath of God success.
What's your equivalent to 1.2 million spiders?
PS: I still haven't seen the British Museum and the Pompidou Centre. What are your favourite galleries/museums?
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Why Wouldn't I?
So, I've returned from the Paddy Crean Stage Combat Workshop in Banff. It was awesome. Different in many ways from the FDC Nationals, but awesome nonetheless.
In several of the many conversations I had with people there, I was asked why I was there. As in, I'm a teacher (I haven't been writing much lately, so I left that detail out), and not a stunt performer or an actor, so what would possess me to come to a Stage Combat Workshop?
The quick response was, "It's nice to be a student." Lots of nods and, "Sure, that makes sense."
I would then be asked if I would take any of what I learned back to my students. Not really. I don't really have the skill to teach a room full of teenagers what these master instructors are teaching to a room full of adults with varying degrees of skill. There are definitely some skills and tricks I will put in my back pocket for directing shows when they're called for. Mostly approaches to physical comedy.
The workshop is a series of 90 minute classes on a variety of topics for a number of different skill levels over the course of six days. So that's a big chance to learn a lot of things from a lot of different people. By the end of Day 1, I stopped trying to master the skills and focussed on what it felt like to be in the room with those teachers. What was it about what they were doing that made me feel excited, or bored, or successful . . . stuff like that. Also, how did time move? Did it seem like it whipped by? Was I wondering what would be for lunch? Would I like to see more from this person? These are things that matter a great deal to students. And the stuff is fun. And do-able (sidenote - one of the biggest necessities in learning anything is a teacher's belief that the student can do the thing being taught. A quality which was present in spades at the workshop.)
I also watched how the instructors interacted with each other and how they made the quality of the participants' experience their top priority. And they succeeded.
Conflict is hard to write. In my world as a wife, mother and teacher, my job is to prevent conflict. "Be nice." "Don't fight." Don't say that comment that might incite a reaction, just suck it down and move forward. I have decent communication skills, so I don't run into as many conflicts as I used to. Plus, it's not socially acceptable to start conflicts and act like an ass, like we do sometimes when we just want what we want and we don't care how we get it. But nobody wants to see a play where everyone just plays nice.
Many of the classes talked about the nature of fighting. What causes two people to lose it and go at each other? Why may they choose not to? How close do you need to be on stage for something to happen? What is the dynamic when there are more than two people in a fight? How do we maintain tension and when do we let go of it? I don't think this just applies to plays with fighting in them. Every playwright needs to grasp how one stabbing remark differs from a series of cutting comments. And the ensuing reactions. I actually can't see a better way than on your feet, putting it all into your body and having it at the ready when you need to write a scene.
So, in my brain, the question isn't "Why am I here?" It's "Why isn't every teacher and playwright at something like this?"
In several of the many conversations I had with people there, I was asked why I was there. As in, I'm a teacher (I haven't been writing much lately, so I left that detail out), and not a stunt performer or an actor, so what would possess me to come to a Stage Combat Workshop?
The quick response was, "It's nice to be a student." Lots of nods and, "Sure, that makes sense."
I would then be asked if I would take any of what I learned back to my students. Not really. I don't really have the skill to teach a room full of teenagers what these master instructors are teaching to a room full of adults with varying degrees of skill. There are definitely some skills and tricks I will put in my back pocket for directing shows when they're called for. Mostly approaches to physical comedy.
The workshop is a series of 90 minute classes on a variety of topics for a number of different skill levels over the course of six days. So that's a big chance to learn a lot of things from a lot of different people. By the end of Day 1, I stopped trying to master the skills and focussed on what it felt like to be in the room with those teachers. What was it about what they were doing that made me feel excited, or bored, or successful . . . stuff like that. Also, how did time move? Did it seem like it whipped by? Was I wondering what would be for lunch? Would I like to see more from this person? These are things that matter a great deal to students. And the stuff is fun. And do-able (sidenote - one of the biggest necessities in learning anything is a teacher's belief that the student can do the thing being taught. A quality which was present in spades at the workshop.)
I also watched how the instructors interacted with each other and how they made the quality of the participants' experience their top priority. And they succeeded.
Conflict is hard to write. In my world as a wife, mother and teacher, my job is to prevent conflict. "Be nice." "Don't fight." Don't say that comment that might incite a reaction, just suck it down and move forward. I have decent communication skills, so I don't run into as many conflicts as I used to. Plus, it's not socially acceptable to start conflicts and act like an ass, like we do sometimes when we just want what we want and we don't care how we get it. But nobody wants to see a play where everyone just plays nice.
Many of the classes talked about the nature of fighting. What causes two people to lose it and go at each other? Why may they choose not to? How close do you need to be on stage for something to happen? What is the dynamic when there are more than two people in a fight? How do we maintain tension and when do we let go of it? I don't think this just applies to plays with fighting in them. Every playwright needs to grasp how one stabbing remark differs from a series of cutting comments. And the ensuing reactions. I actually can't see a better way than on your feet, putting it all into your body and having it at the ready when you need to write a scene.
So, in my brain, the question isn't "Why am I here?" It's "Why isn't every teacher and playwright at something like this?"
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