A theatre experience

     Ok, I have a story to tell you. Many years ago (MANY years ago) I was in an Equity waiver production of “Wonderful Town,” written by Leonard Bernstein. (“Equity Waiver” meaning the leads were Equity, the supporting cast was whatever was capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time. Yes – I was one of them.) We were opening in Ft. Wayne Indiana at a quite respectable theatre when we got work that Bernstein himself might come to see our show. (We were one of the first groups outside of New York to actually produce this musical.) On the night he was scheduled to attend, we outdid ourselves … (What if he likes me? What if HE likes ME?) I mean, he was doing SOMETHING in Cleveland at the time. What if …?) But he didn’t show. Instead, he sent a 21-year-old LACKY to see OUR show and EVALUATE IT to the great maestro. I remember, greatly disappointed, standing backstage and listening to this character sing our praises – that we had done good, that he would tell Bernstein that we had done him proud – yeah yeah yeah. Bullshit. Most of our cast dispersed. (There was a bar two blocks away we called home.) I felt sorry for this guy – obviously he had made a 200-mile-trip for a less than enthusiastic response. So as the cast departed, I invited him to join us. “I can’t,” he responded, “got to get back to Cleveland.” We shook hands in parting. “Jack Petersen,” I said, “glad to meet you.” “Steve,” he responded. “Steve,” I asked. “Sondheim,” he responded, “Steve Sondheim.”

About MONEY

     For an artist, inspiration starts with a gnawing hunger. No hunger, no inspiration, no art.  Culture defines civilizations. Art defines cultures.

     Okay, here’s where I’m going with this thought process. A friend bemoaned the fact that people in the dramatic arts are paid less than their counterparts working in Walmart. And, unfortunately, I believe this to be true in the broadest sense. Actors have the only unions where ninety percent of the membership is unemployed at any given moment. Art is a luxury. Food and shelter come first (as they should). Yet art defines us. Look at any generation. What comes to mind ? Music? Movies? Clothing styles? It’s all art. Even architecture falls under someone’s artistic impression (or lack thereof.) During World War Two Winston Churchill was criticized for not cutting the Arts budget for England. His reply? “If we do that, what are we fighting for?”

    So Art is appreciated. Established Art is appreciated. Something – or someone – has to be around long enough to attract an audience. There are places everywhere (and IN XANADU is no exception) where “followers” are courted. Have enough followers and you win a prize. (I’m still waiting.) The point is, an artist is acknowledged. That is, he or she has put together enough of a body of work to create a style to which audiences gravitate.

     So we have been talking about someone who, after years of perseverance, has “made it.” Well and good for that person.

     But what about the poor shmuck working equally hard, who has yet to be discovered? (And, isn’t this the majority of us?) Regardless of the potential for rewards, a person in arts needs to express beyond what ‘normal” life will allow. If you have never been there, it’s like a drug. However, because the need to express is an end goal, the need to be understood and appreciated falls into second place. Because of this, when the dust settles, the artist realizes that he or she has placed a low price on him or herself as a commodity. It’s a psychological Catch-22. Lower the price, reach more people. Raise the price, reach fewer. Like race horses, artists have traditionally been supported by the very rich, and I suspect for many of the same reasons …

     Will this change at any time in the future? I doubt it. Look around. The value of an individual artist’s work usually only increases dramatically after he or she has been dead for a period of time. 

BEEN BUSY ...

     Sorry we haven't chatted in awhile.

     Writing has picked up considerably. So has exposure, apparently.

     I entered a short play in a local contest. It won a presentation, which was a week or so ago. I attended, and I must tell you, it's always a grand feeling when you see people saying your words, expressing your thoughts ...

     I entered TWO one-act plays in a contest in Atlanta, Georgia. This was months ago, and I have been told that both are still in consideration. ONE would be fine, but the chances that both are still in the running, well, that is rare indeed, and I am certainly honored.

     In mid summer I entered one of my better plays in the Writer's Digest Playwriting Competition. Results will be announcer in the Spring. Modestly, my plays have always placed well in this contest during previous years, and they graciously gush over my work. Still, who knows? Maybe somebody will see this one and do something ... (And why not? I'm having a good year so far.)

     A play I wrote for a competition in Indiana is also doing well. The man in charge has called me several times, and I'm impressed by how impressed HE is. I really do hope this one wins - serious money here.

     And all this has inspired me, at least to some degree. I'm in the process of writing a sequel to one of my earlier plays. Never done that before. Fun and very interesting.

     So there you have it - ego trip all the way, but I wanted you to know what's been going on in my life.

     As always, thanks for being there.

     j

TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

Auditions were last week-end, and went well, considering ...

     (... considering I was using the original version of the play, and the theatre had optioned a REVISED script without telling me. "It will be fine," they said. "Hardly any differences at all," they said ...)

And, of course, there were significant differences. Two actors dropped out because auditions were something less than professional (along the lines of Mickey Rooney saying, "Hey, gang, let's find a barn and do a play!) I stuck it out, and eventually things were smoothed out ... (A word to the pretenders - NEVER hold auditions for a play you haven't actually read.) The show will survive, in fact I suspect it will be quite good. (I love working with ensemble, and many of my "regular" performers auditioned.) On the other hand, I doubt - at the moment - that I will apply to direct at this particular theatre again.

I hate "blocking" a play, which consists of telling actors where to move on stage. Pretty boring stuff, this. Thursday was even MORE interesting. The theatre furnace died, and we rehearsed on a stage with the temperature hovering at 42 degrees. Some would say this is dedication. Some would say it's something else - my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't read my own writing on the script.

Other than that, everything was just ducky. I can hardly wait for the next rehearsal - Sunday evening - to see what new, uh, challenges occur.

They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I think I may go lift a Volkswagon just for fun.