In The Eye Of The Beholder

When I direct a play, normally I also design the set ...

Well, that's not exactly true. I can't remember a show I've directed where I didn't also design the set - at the very least in rough form.

But then, I wasn't supposed to be directing INHERIT THE WIND in the first place. A friend of mine was supposed to get the job, I had just finishing directing a play for another theatre, I'm (in theory) writing a play for a contest, blah blah blah, lots of reasons why I took only a passive interest in the physical design for the production.

So when the directing offer came my way (long and largely uninteresting story for another day), I was somewhat disquieted to learn the design of the set had already been assigned to someone who's artistic subtlety I only marginally admired.

It wasn't that the man was a bad designer - he was actually quite good ... in his own way. But his work, to me, is normally very heavy and massive in appearance. (Not that I optioned for something light and airy, but ... you know what I mean.)

So I was somewhat less than thrilled ...

But I saw the finished design on paper. It was the mirror image (for some reason) of the very rough sketch I had first discussed with my friend. Construction followed, and the revised design proved to be quite practical. I liked stomping around on it. Levels. I like levels.

And then the painting started.



Red? A red courtroom? Red?



And then ...



Maybe this won't be so bad after all.



jb

First Look

INHERIT THE WIND in rehearsal on the partially completed set.

Out There

This morning I dipped my hand in the restless waters of Lake Erie. Like an old friend the waves eagerly rushed to caress my outstretched fingertips.

I was back.

Many things were exactly as I had held them in fond memory – the promise of shore buried in the rubble of unimagined boulders – remnants of a long abandoned amusement park – now jealous guardians of the surf-gouged shoreline.

Looking past the beach it was easy to see where glaciers had advanced, irresistible mountains of another age. Forward they had arrogantly marched, forward, only to be halted by capricious nature, within inches of where I was standing. Now only their shadows and the myriad creatures they once held dear remain, the only notation they had ever existed at all.

It was important for me to be here. The play I’m writing deals – in part – with the blessed/cursed wanderlust that surfaces within me from time to time, fevering my imagination. Only yesterday I wrote:

“I am a presence in an imagined gypsy caravan. Like fog, we float silently through the forest gloom. Away, away, dreaming past massively aged trees – witnesses to my good and bad intentions. With each mile – each yard, each step – more of the myself I know is left behind. New valleys beckon. I am slowly rushing to quiet.”

For a long moment I'm vaguely aware that I'm holding my breath, distracted, almost crying, absorbing as much as I can. Who knows when I’ll stand here again? The illusion of fleeting peace passes over me. I tell myself that I’m being “one with nature,” and do my best to embrace all the other contrived nonsense that defines my generation.

The simple truth, and I know it, is that I’ve taken a step in a direction.

jb

The Life That Late I Led.

I’m still here. Not much voice, but I’m still here.

It’s been an interesting few weeks. Fortunately I’ve had Wednesday and Thursday off, as well as the week-end. (Good thing. Thanks to the dog I must now rip up what remains of the carpet on the stairs and upper hall.) I planned on refinishing the wood floors in about a year from now … The dog decided that now would be more appropriate.

(Have you ever heard of a dog that EATS carpet? I mean, for real?)

The play INHERIT THE WIND is moving along. (Okay, so that’s not the smoothest transition in the world.) I presently have 31 people in the cast. When you consider that the stage of this theatre is 26 feet wide, it makes for creative directing. (Contrast that with the show I just closed, HARVEY, with 11 in the cast on a stage 38 feet wide.) For the past couple of weeks we’ve been thrashing around in a rehearsal hall. Tuesday we move onto the actual theatre stage, and I’ll give you the blow-by-blow as it occurs.

Tomorrow (actually later today) I’m going to Cleveland Ohio for a three day writer’s retreat. This is a good thing. Directing plays written by other people is fun (and pays well), but during these periods I write very little, if anything. I was reading The Inflammatory Writ the other day, and commented to the author that her subject matter would make a good play, with the implication that she should write it. She simply replied that everything is a play. That hit me, because she is so right. It also occurred to me that if I truly felt the material was worth developing, why was I asking someone else to do it? I need to get back to writing.

In mid October I’m conducting an acting seminar to benefit a struggling theatre in a city about thirty miles east of here. It’s a petite facility. Although they stage wonderful productions, they seat at most 30 people. Consequently, they are always hungry (And – let’s face it. They are interested in producing one of my plays, and if a seminar will encourage them in the right direction, well …) I received a copy of their ad for the seminar, and was jolted. They are charging 40 dollars a head for people to hear me speak for three hours. Uh … I, uh, certainly don’t expect to see many from the crowd I run around with …

And then there’s that. I miss the people I follow and those who follow me. They haven’t left – I’m the one who pulled away, to swat for a period at theatrical windmills. Suddenly I feel the loss. I do miss you, and I will be back …until the next flight of fancy takes me in another capricious direction.

But you know that, don’t you?

Okay, I wasn't gonna do this, but you forced me. The first twenty of my friends who respond will receive, at no additional cost, one slightly chewed square of carpet ...

jb

.....

Oh-h-h-h ...

I am sick. So-o-o-o sick. I have a sore throat to the point where I can't talk.

(Although I've discovered that if you consume an entire box of throat lozenges at one time, not only can you babble incoherently with no effort, but you can also fly for short distances.)

Problem is, I'm directing a show, right? I'm being PAID to direct a show. And I've learned that directing and conducting are not the same thing at all.

Directing is when you instruct people to move here or there, by example and by verbal instruction.

Conducting, I've discovered, is when you wave at an actor on stage, resulting in one of two reactions.

(1) The actor gets the standard "deer in the headlights" look, points to him or herself, and mouths the words "Who? Me?"

(2) The actor drops out of character, smiles because you've singled him or her out ... and waves back.

Ya see why I like writing plays better than directing 'em? I only fight with myself!

(But that's another story altogether.)


jb

And how was your day?

Closure

I like stories that are finished.

HARVEY closed this past Saturday. It was a good show, and had a good run. Directing the production was a pleasure.

When I left the theatre (at a little after 2:00 AM) - literally as I was walking out the door, on impulse I turned and took one final picture of what had been my set.



All this is entirely appropriate. One of the people on the stage is Tina Gleason. Tina is a friend, and the director of the next play this theatre will produce, ON GOLDEN POND. Following her will be the musical version of the Dr. Jekyll story, and we will all end up as bound photo albums gathering dust and fingerprints in the lobby.

I'm now a week into rehearsal for INHERIT THE WIND at another theatre. Their present play, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST, has another week to run.

When they close, I'll be there to help tear down the set.

For everything there is a season.


jb

And how was your day?

For Samantha ...

Since you persist ...

The one on the right is Don. He's an actual firefighter now. He's about
two years older than you.

If you want to know more,

send cookies.

jb

Intermission.

It’s Tuesday, a few minutes before eleven. The night is quiet. Once in awhile I can hear a car go by on the main road, a block from my front door. I’m looking forward to writing for the next four hours or so …

HARVEY opened this past weekend. Smallish audiences. I expected nothing more. Note to potential theatrical producers – don’t open a play on Labor Day weekend and expect large crowds. Next week they will come …

Held one private audition yesterday for INHERIT THE WIND. Officially, auditions for this play aren’t scheduled until next weekend, but a possible lead player will be out of time then, so …

I miss my writer friends. I do. Directing HARVEY and INHERIT THE WIND is grand fun, but it’s not the same as creating a work, and sharing that creation with others, and hearing – for the very first time – the works other people have created.

I really enjoy the company of writers. There’s a mixture of arrogance and vulnerability. They long to be accepted, and at the same time rush to solitude. They don’t see the world the way others do. I love science fiction/fantasy writers, because they believe there WILL BE a future.

Odd. For the past few days I’ve been writing like crazy. Odd how, when I am overly busy, overly tired … that’s when the time I do have is precious …

I met an interesting man about a month ago. From the way he stood and moved, I could tell he was military – and he was, having retired from the Navy after thirty years. His final tour of duty was aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise … (Did you know a ship can have more than one Captain? I didn’t know that.) Since first meeting him, he has told me about at least a dozen adventures, each more fascinating than the one before.

“Why don’t you write these down,” I ask, with all the sincerity that’s in me.

Almost shyly he looks at me. “I couldn’t do that,” he replies. “I’m not a writer, I’m just a story teller.”

Uh-huh …

The first of October four other writers and I are renting a house on Lake Erie for a few days and just write – no television, no internet, just writing. And eating. And walking on the beach. Heaven. Heaven heaven heaven heaven heaven! (One of our writers is a potential chef who wants to write cookbooks. Now I ask you – can it get any better than that?)

The weekend after the retreat I’m conducting an acting seminar at a local theatre. The group in charge of the event is charging $40.00 a head for people to listen to me talk for three hours. (Are you kidding me?!) One of my HARVEY cast looked sadly at me and asked if I was including a dog and pony show.

Could be …


jb

Footnote

I enjoy watching a set for a play being constructed. If it simulates a room in a home, I like to think of it as a place I'd live in, if it was in a real house. (As a matter of fact, I DO live in it for a number of weeks.

Here, then, is my set for HARVEY, as it went from this,

to this,

to this.

I like it. I consider it Art. What do you think?

jb

Gypsy life

HARVEY opens Friday.

After being in rehearsal since late July, the opening night for this play is now just a few days away.

I suppose I should be glad. I mean, in the past – by this point – I would be more than ready to move on. As a director I would have by now proven my point (to myself), and, like many of the cast, I would already be anticipating my next project.

Still …

I’m working with an awesome group of performers. As an ensemble, they are a finely tuned instrument, and with every rehearsal we uncover and explore more shadings, more nuances.

Selfishly, it’s gonna be hard to give that up.

Still …

I’m directing INHERIT THE WIND next. Auditions are in two weeks. Already people have started calling, requesting information that, surprisingly, I’m reluctant to give. INHERIT THE WIND is a large cast show. I’m grateful for interest. I know I’m gonna need people willing to throw themselves into the work. I know this.

I’m also aware that HARVEY cast members have other work waiting for them. Two in our show already have been cast in other plays. They start into rehearsal right after our show opens. Several are planning to audition for INHERIT THE WIND. One cast member is starting his own drama school. Two others have film roles in their futures. All this I expected. These people are the best of the best. They are in demand. It’s unusual (and a draw) that they all happen to be together in any show.

This is good stuff. Good stuff! But it all reminds me that true theatre moments and performances are fleeting, illusionary. That is not only their very nature, but also their appeal.

Slowly I become aware of purpose. If we have presented the work properly, then you, our audience, our equal partner, will recognize these as moments as they are presented to you, and hold them close in memory for the rest of your life. Not too much to ask. We are such stuff as dreams are made on.

We freely admit that we are gypsies, melancholy and fatalistic. Ourselves are the only gift we have to give. Ah, but when the gift is accepted, the awareness and experience shared …

in those rare moments …

we are justified.


jb


And how was your day?

I'm free! (Well, maybe not free exactly. Cheap. Yeah, maybe that's a better word. I'm cheap!)

Whew.

I have a couple of days off.

I may take the afternoons and go to the theatre and work. The set construction is not progressing fast enough for me, and sometimes you can accomplish a lot when there are no distractions.



Or …

I may not do that at all.

I may take a day to mow the lawn and trim around flower beds and trees and other stuff that will not, with a sense of self preservation, jump out of my way.

Or I may take a day or two and sort (read mostly throw away) the dozen or so large cardboard boxes someone mysteriously placed in my den, effectively blocking the storage units this stuff is supposed to be in.

I could do that. I could. I really could.

But I won’t. I mean, just look at this stuff. Is this how you want to spend your free time? It’s depressing.

(You’re starting to detect a pattern here, aren’t you?)

I could work on the play I entered in a competition. I should do that – finish it. It would serve me right if somebody actually wanted to read it. Oh. I forgot. The manager of a local theatre DOES want to read it. Pressure. Hey! It’s my day off! Don’t give me pressure on my day off! (Besides. The dog won’t let me.)

There’s a charming restaurant on the Ohio river that serves the best pasta in the world. I’ve been thinking about that lately. Across the street is a paddle wheel boat with a tiny bar on the top deck. After a good meal you can sit comfortable in top deck lounge chairs and watch large ships waft up and down the river.

Only … both places require shoes. Not on my day off, Skippy!

Or … I suppose I could just post something. Yeah, that would be nice. I could write a paragraph or two. I've done it before. I can do it again.

Or not.

Ya see, the real problem here is

HARVEY - the set

Here's the set for the play. Walls are as yet unpainted.

I like spending time on a set under construction. It's like being in a Maxfield Parrish painting while the artist is working on it. There is unreleased energy here.

Shadows also abound here - future shadows. I can feel them, waiting. waiting for the actors to play their parts, to justify the shadows very existence. "Stand here," the shadows demand, "and here and here and here."

And the actors, eager to please, do as the future shadows instruct.

And there is peace, harmony, contentment, a sense of completion.

I like that.

Our play hasn't opened yet, and the theatre has already announced the audition dates for the play that will follow us.

In its own way, that also is comforting.

jb

Dreams

I’ve reached the point when I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t tired …

I hear bells. Seriously. I wake up at night hearing them – bells attached to the collars of horses.

Going. Moving.

I’m in a caravan of wagons. Going … out there. Somewhere. It’s so real. I’m not sure we have a direction, that is, we – I – have no defined goal. It’s more like a drawing … yes. I’m being drawn in a direction.

Funny. I’m in no hurry to get there – no hurry at all. I think I’m with a traveling company of gypsies. Don’t laugh. They are kind to me and pleasant – Hungarian or Russian, I think. And that’s fine. I like Hungarians and Russians. As people groups they are fatalistic, melancholy, and maybe as a result they are giving and warmly funny.

Julie tells me I’m dreaming a movie. Could be. The wagon I’m in is certainly something out of a 1930’s movie. But it feels so real. And the time feels like the 1930’s as well – somewhen between the world wars.

Last night was cool and blanket dark. After the horses were tethered and fed, someone built a roaring campfire. From a distance I could hear a mournful violin, and see the shadowy form of someone dancing around the fire. The scene became more and more surreal until I could no longer define what I was looking at.

Today I was cleaning out a cabinet in my den, and in one drawer I found a bell.

I waited.

Anticipating.

:Possibilities

The play is now a week into rehearsals. For the record, I'm working with a "dream team" cast - the best this city has to offer, likely the best with whom I've ever been associated.

We have possibilities here. In a world where being mediocre is considered the ultimate goal for just about everything, I'll have to think about what to do with possibilities.

jb


And how was...?

No.

I'm not quite done yet.

I'm involved in one play after another (including two of my own) now through the first of the year. Since I'm doing my best to be open with you, I wanted you to know these things. Am I over committed? Could be, but opportunities arise. Shouldn't they be taken? When might they come around again? How soon again might I come across a work with possibilities?