Well. Here it is, October, and despite my best intentions, it has been over a month since my last post. Life has been busy...and I have been rather lazy about getting round to writing about it.
To summarize:
Have started classes at The New School.
Boxes from California have finally arrived, thought still unpacked in the living room.
Am contemplating donating them because I've been able to survive with out them for the past five months.
Have joined a climbing gym, and experienced the immense pleasure of sore climbing muscles after a month's respite.
Am re-learning how to be human.
It's true. The classwork I do and the homework I'm assigned all falls under the existential title of "Learning How To Be A Human."
I will take you through it, because it really has consumed my life and I think most of you will find it most interesting, even perhaps ridiculous, but mostly you will envy it.
A typical day at school. (Grab something to drink while you read. I'll wait.)
You ready?
Okay....
8:30am. We arrive at the building and go upstairs to learn Neutral American Speech. NAS, as we commonly refer to it, consists of a new alphabet (called the International Phonetic Alphabet) and very specific, and detailed instruction in the use of articulators and breath control. Ever wonder how we make sounds? That's our area of study. If you are holding a drink at the moment, take a sip. What happens? You swallow it. Yes, and the liquid also passes through several different areas of your mouth, which we refer to as articulators: the lips, teeth, alveolar ridge, tip, blade, front, middle, and back of tongue (yes, your tongue has five areas), the soft palate, the hard palate, and finally past your uvula down into your esophagus and past your larynx. Wave hello to your vocal folds on the way to the stomach. Don't forget to let out a nasal "mmmmm" that will reverberate in your turbinates as you enjoy the sensation of quenching your thirst.
Armed with the knowledge of how each sound is placed in the mouth, we learn how to speak in a neutral pattern and how to write out words as they sound so that we can imitate any speech pattern of any person in the world. Ask me to write you a secret note in IPA sometime. Not only will I write one, I'll write it out in an Australian dialect.
10:00am. We change into movement clothes and head downstairs for Alexander Technique. This class consists of the study of how your body moves and whether or not you should trust how you move. The primary area of study is the spine, and how we can prevent compression. Imagine coming into this class and learning that you've been creating lower back pain for yourself for years without knowing it. When you inquire about how you can correct it, there is no simple solution, because one of the tenants of this area of study is to not focus on the end result. The answer lies in a three-fold tier of awareness: sensory appreciation, directing, and primary control. I could get into it, but then you would be worrying about the cup in your hand and how it's creating compression in the thoracic region of the spine when you lift it to your lips to take that next sip.
11:35am. We float out of Alexander class and across the hall into Vocal Production. Let us not confuse this class with the earlier sound-as-speech class (NAS). Vocal Production is the study of how to maximize your vocal registers. Everyone has two registers: chest voice, and head voice. Those high notes that come out of Mariah Carey's vocal chords? Head voice. The rumbling bass voice of James Earl Jones? Chest register. And by the year's end, we will all be able to imitate both to an exciting and terrifying degree of accuracy. Currently, we are working on developing strength in the registers, which involves a daily ritual of intimating sirens and emitting primal calling. We make so much vibrational noise that were I in the room with you now and demonstrated a warm-up, the liquid in your cup would start sloshing around.
1:00pm. Lunch. A well needed break from the physical rigors we've worked on all morning. Lately, we've been eating outside, but the fall is beginning in New York, and soon it will be soup and scarf weather.
4:00pm. After an afternoon of practicing spelling in IPA and calling out to each other in low rumbling tones while staying relaxed through the cervic region of the spine, we travel upstairs yet again for the motherload of the day: Stanislavski Technique. Stan-iz-lav-ski, properly pronounced, was the father of acting who lived in Russia in the early 20th/late 19th century and developed a logic path of study which we all know and love and recognize today as "acting technique". His followers went on to develop many different branches of acting based on certain tenants of their own fused with his, which comprise the wide range of acting styles we have in America (and somewhat abroad) to this day. In this class, however, we are concerned with Stanislavski and one of his followers, Lee Strasberg. Strasberg is credited with founding what is referred to as "The Method" or "Method Acting", and the difference between Stan and Strasberg is not a topic I intend to visit today. Just know that Strasberg's technique involves an area we will refer to as "sense memory".
We take our seats in class and immediately assume "relaxation position" - sitting in the chair in such a way as to promote total relaxation of the body without falling asleep. This is somewhat difficult, given the comfort level of the chairs themselves, but our teacher assures us that we will not often have the luxury of even a chair, so we must plough through with the given circumstances.
Relaxation is harder than you imagine. The effect is stunning. Everyone holds tension in their bodies in different areas, and when we actually achieve a state of total relaxation, those tensions escape in varied ways. It is not uncommon to hear the person next to you start crying because she has relaxed her forehead, or the guy on your left let out a long scream because his jaw was clenched too tightly. Our instructor calls these effects "general emotion" - and he reminds us that not only is it okay to release these sentiments, but also that everyone carries general emotion around and we would all be better off if people learned to relax more often with deeper intention. I am inclined to agree with this. I am not suggesting that we go about screaming at random times, nor crying over our lunchtime bento box, but rather noticing in your day where and why and when you feel tense...and gently asking the tension to leave as you take a deep, satisfying breath.
Once we have achieved an acceptable level of relaxation, we begin the sense memory work. Take the cup in your hands, for example. Take your time in examining it. How does it feel? What is the texture? Weight, color? Temperature of the container? Is it hard, soft? Plastic, glass, metal? Does it smell? If you tap on it, does it make a sound? What about the perspiration on the outside of the cup? Is there a handle? What does it feel like to hold it in your left hand compared with your right hand? If you set it down near you, does it make a sound? Can you smell what's inside it? What does it taste like? What happens when you hold the liquid in your mouth without swallowing it? Can you feel anything leftover on your lips? What about the sensation in your chest as the liquid travels to your stomach? How about the tension in your arm or shoulder or back as you lift the cup to your face? Does the rim touch your forehead when you drink? How does your breath feel inside the cup?
These, and even more questions, are the questions we ask when we sit down to recall something from our memory within the sensory realm. Visual, visceral, aural, oral, tactile, pungency...they all are contained in any experience you have in your day. However, we rarely take the time to process the full sensation of any moment or any object. Can you imagine what would happen if you did? Can you imagine firing up every sense to its fullest capacity?
We concentrate on sense memory for over an hour during class. Just sitting there, recalling the senses and trying to feel what it's like to be in the shower, drinking coffee, feeling sunshine on your body. Putting on a sock, a shoe, taking off your coat. Little things. By the time we are finished, we have to take a mental break. We continue with this after the break even more, so that by the time we are finished at 7:00pm that evening, we're exercised our minds, bodies, and souls to exhaustion during the course of our day of studies.
And that's what it's like...at least on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are a whole bevy of three other, new classes. But that's another entry altogether. Right now, I'm going to go journal a little bit about the feeling of the keys under my fingers and the clackety-clack of the keyboard keys, while recalling the sounds of the park below my apartment and the slight chill incoming from the cracked window reminding me that the fall is coming and the light is fading into evening.
I hope you're enjoyed your cup of whatever it was as you read...and I hope that maybe you'll start paying more attention to relaxing and experiencing the moments of your day.
It's such a gift, learning to be human again.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Place Where Nomads Go
My boxes are still in a storage unit in California.
I flew out to NYC last Saturday, and successfully moved into my apt, however. The boxes I shipped in July actually did not get sent. $500 to have them stored for two months, 20 minutes down the road from my house. Needless to say, there is some hell to pay.
Luckily, the past week has left me with a full heart - a heart full of joy, excitement, hope, and laughter. There were a few items on my brainworry list: roommates, weather, colleagues, administration, finances. These topics manifested themselves in various detailed form: Will my new roommate talk in her sleep as well? What am I going to do about running in the infamous NYC humidity? How does my loan refund get deposited? Where am I going to find a good burrito on the East Side?
Amazingly, all these questions were resolved in a matter of 48 hours. :)
As for starting in the program, I know I promised to write all about it, but there is too much to say about the experience of meeting your collective soulmates, after waiting for years to discover something you couldn't exactly define until you found it. You have to forgive me for the next portion of this blog, because I'm writing on the fumes of a residual life high. Ahh...actors.
I've come up with a little story that will best sum up the experience as a whole of this week's journeying:
A nomad wanders around in the desert by herself, meeting people along her various walks of life, scrounging for what she can, and surviving how she will. She lives her life from one adventure to the next, and though sometimes feels pressure to find a town and settle down, something in her soul tells her to keep searching.
She hears of a place where nomads go, and decides to venture forth to see what is there.
When she arrives, there is a group of people who have also wandered like she, scrounged for what they could, and survived how they had. They had lived from one adventure to the next, and though they too had felt the pressure to find a town and settle down, they knew they were to keep searching for something. They too had heard about the place where nomads go, and as these nomads suddenly find each other all in the same place, they recognize that they have found what they did not know they were looking for all this time. They cannot place the feeling, but something is happening. They know it by the heart's leaping, and by the spirit's trumpeting.
The first day they feast together, and there is an excitement in the air that cannot be satisfied, and as they look at each other, each nomad taking in the other's countenance, they see there reflected pieces of themselves. And the longer they stare, and the more stories they share, the harder it becomes to distinguish between the nomads and the self. (When one has been wandering like only a nomad can wander, it is quite unsettling to discover that there are others like yourself.)
They agree to feast again on the second day.
The second day arises and the feast they have then heralds a new sentiment: terror. Each nomad realizes that the life they knew is on the brink of extinction. Studying each other for a while, sensing bubbles of doubt in their throats and weights of fear in their hands, they discuss what to do. A passerby would find this scene most peculiar - a collective of nomands, standing close in a circle, not knowing if they should stay in this place or run for their lives.
Suddenly, a voice breaks through the thick fog of panic and it tells them to be kind, respectful.
Engage in a dialogue, it urges. Take care of each other, is the echo.
They set up camp, sharing what little they have, and exchanging each fear for a sprinkle of hope. Bit by bit, they begin to breath again, and the breath becomes a sigh, ebbing in with the new life of their collective. They talk long into the night, and under the twinkling smiles of the stars, they discover their home in each other. They fall asleep, side by side, and a dream hangs over their heads like the cool shade of a plum tree.
When they awake, they will see each other in the dawning, look happy, and say,
Good morning, I am excited and terrified.
I flew out to NYC last Saturday, and successfully moved into my apt, however. The boxes I shipped in July actually did not get sent. $500 to have them stored for two months, 20 minutes down the road from my house. Needless to say, there is some hell to pay.
Luckily, the past week has left me with a full heart - a heart full of joy, excitement, hope, and laughter. There were a few items on my brainworry list: roommates, weather, colleagues, administration, finances. These topics manifested themselves in various detailed form: Will my new roommate talk in her sleep as well? What am I going to do about running in the infamous NYC humidity? How does my loan refund get deposited? Where am I going to find a good burrito on the East Side?
Amazingly, all these questions were resolved in a matter of 48 hours. :)
As for starting in the program, I know I promised to write all about it, but there is too much to say about the experience of meeting your collective soulmates, after waiting for years to discover something you couldn't exactly define until you found it. You have to forgive me for the next portion of this blog, because I'm writing on the fumes of a residual life high. Ahh...actors.
I've come up with a little story that will best sum up the experience as a whole of this week's journeying:
A nomad wanders around in the desert by herself, meeting people along her various walks of life, scrounging for what she can, and surviving how she will. She lives her life from one adventure to the next, and though sometimes feels pressure to find a town and settle down, something in her soul tells her to keep searching.
She hears of a place where nomads go, and decides to venture forth to see what is there.
When she arrives, there is a group of people who have also wandered like she, scrounged for what they could, and survived how they had. They had lived from one adventure to the next, and though they too had felt the pressure to find a town and settle down, they knew they were to keep searching for something. They too had heard about the place where nomads go, and as these nomads suddenly find each other all in the same place, they recognize that they have found what they did not know they were looking for all this time. They cannot place the feeling, but something is happening. They know it by the heart's leaping, and by the spirit's trumpeting.
The first day they feast together, and there is an excitement in the air that cannot be satisfied, and as they look at each other, each nomad taking in the other's countenance, they see there reflected pieces of themselves. And the longer they stare, and the more stories they share, the harder it becomes to distinguish between the nomads and the self. (When one has been wandering like only a nomad can wander, it is quite unsettling to discover that there are others like yourself.)
They agree to feast again on the second day.
The second day arises and the feast they have then heralds a new sentiment: terror. Each nomad realizes that the life they knew is on the brink of extinction. Studying each other for a while, sensing bubbles of doubt in their throats and weights of fear in their hands, they discuss what to do. A passerby would find this scene most peculiar - a collective of nomands, standing close in a circle, not knowing if they should stay in this place or run for their lives.
Suddenly, a voice breaks through the thick fog of panic and it tells them to be kind, respectful.
Engage in a dialogue, it urges. Take care of each other, is the echo.
They set up camp, sharing what little they have, and exchanging each fear for a sprinkle of hope. Bit by bit, they begin to breath again, and the breath becomes a sigh, ebbing in with the new life of their collective. They talk long into the night, and under the twinkling smiles of the stars, they discover their home in each other. They fall asleep, side by side, and a dream hangs over their heads like the cool shade of a plum tree.
When they awake, they will see each other in the dawning, look happy, and say,
Good morning, I am excited and terrified.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Theatre and the Imagination
Julie Taymor is the director/designer of The Lion King, the musical. In this talk from TED, she speaks of "being aware of knowing that you've created a sacred space" - a phenomenon that makes theatre as necessary as religion. Theatre is, unlike some artistic forms, ephemeral and fleeting. There are a few chances to see certain performances, live and in the present moment. Yet the experience of a specific work is difficult to recreate, or even relate to a third party. Trying to converse about a specific theatrical moment usually ends with "you just had to be there." That difficulty however is what makes it so appealing, so eternal.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Ruminations
We had a clean-out-the-garage fest on Monday at the Cook household. It was predictable.
The amazing thing about living in one place for a long time is that you seem to accumulate a lot of stuff. And this stuff just kind of sits in various places until you need it. Then you use it and it sometimes returns to its place and sometimes it finds a new place and more often than not it gets misplaced. Then you decide to reorganize and somehow the stuff gets put back in its place and then you feel good about having cleaned up the stuff.
The amazing thing about living with my family is that I get to watch all this stuff move from place to place in the process of "reorganizing" and yet somehow it never gets "cleaned up"...or, God-forbid, reduced.
My mother in particular has an incredible knack for taking piles of stuff, reorganizing them into different piles of stuff, and then realizing after 5 hours of "cleaning" that there are still too many piles of stuff. For example:
On Monday, in an effort to clean up all the paperwork lounging around our family room, she successfully moved the five piles of stuff on the coffee table to the floor, and reorganized them into six piles. The two piles from the kitchen table were moved into three and a half piles by the fireplace, and somehow, there was a pile of other stuff from another room in the recycling bag. When prompted to throw it away (the verbal equivalent of "f@$#!" in our household) she first looked horrified, then insulted, and then started yelling about how no one helps her get stuff done. I can't bear to tell her that getting stuff done means actually doing something with the stuff other than moving it from place to place.
Monday was predictable in that my father got up early and proclaimed that we were "Cleaning Out the Garage!" - he wanted his home gym back. The garage used to be a destination for supreme workouts and full-fledged gym goings-on, until stuff happened. Over the course of 9 months, stuff from my brother's room and stuff from the guest closet and more stuff from the family room had been slowly migrating into the garage.
So out we trudged on Monday morning, and started misplacing the stuff. First, we moved all the stuff into the driveway. Then we dusted and vacuumed the clean space in the garage. By mid-afternoon, my mom looked around and said "What are we going to do with all this stuff?"
That's when I made the prediction.
"Well Mom," said I, "All this stuff is going to be in the driveway and Dad's going to realize that he will have to put it somewhere. Then he's going to want to throw it out. Then you're going to get upset and say 'No, no, we have to save it! No one helps me go through this stuff, and there are a million pictures we might need next year!' And then Dad will give you a big sigh and resign himself to the fact that we will have to move the stuff somewhere else. Loathe to mess up his now empty gym, he will suggest the side yard. Then next week you two will complain to each other than you need to clean out the side yard before anything gets ruined. And then you will end up doing next weekend exactly the same thing you did today, only the stuff might end up in the tool shed next Sunday."
"Scary." said my mom.
And lo and behold, I watched my prediction play out.
We looked at the piles of stuff in the driveway and my dad had a revelation. He whispered to me "You know, we haven't used any of this stuff in 9 months. We should just..." - he smiled, because my mother was nearby and God forbid we start swearing in front of her. I nodded vigorously. So then we got the Suburban and moved some stuff into the backseat. This was the giveaway pile, and we diminished the pile of stuff by 1/10 for this charitable deed. Then, my dad moved the remaining stuff in the driveway to the side yard. But first, we had to move the stuff in the side yard out of the way to make room for the other stuff. Then, in a futile attempt to pretend we had cleaned up, we covered the stuff in the side yard with three large tarps.
Here is a visual of the day's activities:
So, by 5:30pm that day, we had successfully cleaned out the garage by moving the stuff from the garage to the side yard...where it will remain until we move it to the tool shed next weekend. However, we're going to have to move the stuff in the tool shed somewhere.
I think the garage might be free.
The amazing thing about living in one place for a long time is that you seem to accumulate a lot of stuff. And this stuff just kind of sits in various places until you need it. Then you use it and it sometimes returns to its place and sometimes it finds a new place and more often than not it gets misplaced. Then you decide to reorganize and somehow the stuff gets put back in its place and then you feel good about having cleaned up the stuff.
The amazing thing about living with my family is that I get to watch all this stuff move from place to place in the process of "reorganizing" and yet somehow it never gets "cleaned up"...or, God-forbid, reduced.
My mother in particular has an incredible knack for taking piles of stuff, reorganizing them into different piles of stuff, and then realizing after 5 hours of "cleaning" that there are still too many piles of stuff. For example:
On Monday, in an effort to clean up all the paperwork lounging around our family room, she successfully moved the five piles of stuff on the coffee table to the floor, and reorganized them into six piles. The two piles from the kitchen table were moved into three and a half piles by the fireplace, and somehow, there was a pile of other stuff from another room in the recycling bag. When prompted to throw it away (the verbal equivalent of "f@$#!" in our household) she first looked horrified, then insulted, and then started yelling about how no one helps her get stuff done. I can't bear to tell her that getting stuff done means actually doing something with the stuff other than moving it from place to place.
Monday was predictable in that my father got up early and proclaimed that we were "Cleaning Out the Garage!" - he wanted his home gym back. The garage used to be a destination for supreme workouts and full-fledged gym goings-on, until stuff happened. Over the course of 9 months, stuff from my brother's room and stuff from the guest closet and more stuff from the family room had been slowly migrating into the garage.
So out we trudged on Monday morning, and started misplacing the stuff. First, we moved all the stuff into the driveway. Then we dusted and vacuumed the clean space in the garage. By mid-afternoon, my mom looked around and said "What are we going to do with all this stuff?"
That's when I made the prediction.
"Well Mom," said I, "All this stuff is going to be in the driveway and Dad's going to realize that he will have to put it somewhere. Then he's going to want to throw it out. Then you're going to get upset and say 'No, no, we have to save it! No one helps me go through this stuff, and there are a million pictures we might need next year!' And then Dad will give you a big sigh and resign himself to the fact that we will have to move the stuff somewhere else. Loathe to mess up his now empty gym, he will suggest the side yard. Then next week you two will complain to each other than you need to clean out the side yard before anything gets ruined. And then you will end up doing next weekend exactly the same thing you did today, only the stuff might end up in the tool shed next Sunday."
"Scary." said my mom.
And lo and behold, I watched my prediction play out.
We looked at the piles of stuff in the driveway and my dad had a revelation. He whispered to me "You know, we haven't used any of this stuff in 9 months. We should just..." - he smiled, because my mother was nearby and God forbid we start swearing in front of her. I nodded vigorously. So then we got the Suburban and moved some stuff into the backseat. This was the giveaway pile, and we diminished the pile of stuff by 1/10 for this charitable deed. Then, my dad moved the remaining stuff in the driveway to the side yard. But first, we had to move the stuff in the side yard out of the way to make room for the other stuff. Then, in a futile attempt to pretend we had cleaned up, we covered the stuff in the side yard with three large tarps.
Here is a visual of the day's activities:
So, by 5:30pm that day, we had successfully cleaned out the garage by moving the stuff from the garage to the side yard...where it will remain until we move it to the tool shed next weekend. However, we're going to have to move the stuff in the tool shed somewhere.
I think the garage might be free.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
And a little bit of This
Sometimes, after a full-night's rest, I wake up feeling as though I've lived the past 7-10 hours in a parallel universe. The feeling is so overwhelming that I'm undoubtedly certain of the existence of a Parallel Me. (Hah, P.M. Get it?)
It's supposed (by brain scientists) that your subconscious plays out all the daily items of unfiltered substance during your snooze time. The details of your life that go unnoticed to the naked eye are vacuumed up by your involuntary senses every 30 seconds of your day. Between morning rush hour, incessant admin meetings, and the perils of family life, your brain simply tucks the little bits of phone calls, familiar faces, and extra cups of coffee away for another time. The next day, you wonder why you were dreaming about your dead aunt calling you from a phone booth in Mumbai, berating you for making her cappuccino without enough pepper spray.
Easy to speculate then that your dreams are just the mumblings of your prefrontal cortex on laughing gas.
But what about the dreams that aren't quite clear? The ones that shadow over the beginning of your day, as you rub your eyes and yawn, and swear you were just there in a boat with a purple octopus? There is something so unclear about their manifestation, something eerily familiar; you are convinced that your Parallel Me was up to her usual travels in the Land of Lucidity.
I suppose that belief in PMs are also a way of keeping our sanity. All those witty retorts you had stored up for infuriating moments? The moments of incredulity over what seemed to be a two-hour long meeting on the effectiveness of the refrigerator in the staff lounge? The aggravation you felt when informed by your best friend that she's canceling on your birthday party (again)...? All these inner monologues are delightfully splayed across the vast sky of your dreamscapes - bright, colorful things that shock and inspire your Ambivalent Me to live the life she dreams about. Blinking off the shady cloud of another PM adventure, you swear that you can still see these striking subconscious images behind your tired little eyelids, and that one thought stays with you until about 11 am on Thursday, at which time you become too absorbed in another day's work to filter it's relevance.
Friday, April 18, 2008
A little bit of That
"Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go."
—William Stafford
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go."
—William Stafford
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Brain Candy
Since I've now dedicated this blog to my adventures in the arts, I thought I'd kick off with a little artsy-fartsy idea. My dad sent me a link to a great website the other day, and if you haven't heard about it, you should go there now. It's called TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) and it's a right-brained human's mecca. The video below is a small excerpt from one of their annual conferences. This particular video is about 24 minutes long, but well, well worth it.
Just sit back, relax, and engage...
I'll be posting little bits and pieces of brain candy like this from here on out, so you can be sure to exercise your right brain functions every now and then. I mean, your arts education is just as important as mine, you know.
Just sit back, relax, and engage...
I'll be posting little bits and pieces of brain candy like this from here on out, so you can be sure to exercise your right brain functions every now and then. I mean, your arts education is just as important as mine, you know.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
A Comfortable Three Minutes
It was a long process, applying for graduate schools.
It all started over a pint, as most adventures do. (Thanks Thom!) First came the decision to apply, knowing full well that if I got in, I was headed back to Debt Central. Comfortable with that fate (and completely sober) I made a list of degree curricula preferences, did my research, and selected seven schools to which I applied. After selecting the most competitive programs, I filled out application after application, agonizing over application letters, searching for the magic words that would secure my acceptance into each school. I begged for recommendations (Thanks Ally, Peter, and Jeanie!) and paid fee after fee for audition slots. I had a binder. A binder with colored tabs and organized information on each school. I carried that binder with me everywhere for five months.
Then came the prep work.
Searching for the right monologues took nearly three months of selection and dismissal. Pouring over play after play, I tried to pair two pieces that would show my full range of capabilities. The goal: in under three minutes, prove that you can perform work that embodies every extreme of emotion and style. This includes but is not limited to classical, contemporary, comedic, dramatic, solemn, frantic, angry, sad, happy, disgusted, surprise, betrayal, love, hate, movement, stillness, exceptional vocal ability, extreme imagination, and (of course) truth.
I finally found four pieces that would become the repetitive dialogue of the next two months. (Everlasting gratitude to Jeanie Forte for coaching me into what will become the next chapter of my life.) One school required a scene. (Chad, thank you for the gift of your talent.) Two solid months of rehearsing for a three minute stint.
Herein lies the rub of the theatre industry: you have three minutes to prove yourself to your auditor. But, within the first 10 seconds of your audition, an auditor will have decided whether or not you are right for the part. Forget interviews. This industry doesn't do 'interviews' - you have to show them your focus, professionalism, intelligence, imagination, and sense of humor in less time than it takes to fry an egg. Your career is dependent on first impressions and pretending to be someone you're not for 180 seconds. And you can take comfort in the fact that the three-minute 'interview' standard will allow auditors to 'interview' five times as many 'applicants' who look and sound just. like. you.
Graduate auditions are a toss-up - sometimes you get a comfortable three minutes, other schools are exceedingly generous and chat with you about your career goals for a few minutes afterwards. Programs that are admitting students for work with a repertory company will generally do three minute rounds, as they are looking for type. The more academic schools will consider your intelligence factor in a longer round. The New School was innovative: prepare a scene, a classical monologue, and be prepared to chat about anything under the sun with your auditor.
As grad school Audition Weekend approached, I grew nervous. Three days spent traversing back and forth from San Francisco, holed up in a 9-story building swarming with other actor hopefuls left me drained and full of doubt. After initial auditions, schools generally invite their favorites back for a school visit. This is called "Callback Weekend". There were some auditions that I knew would not result in callback weekend. Others, seeming promising, baffled me when rejection letters arrived in the mail.
Nearly two months of waiting (the agony!) finally resulted in a small success: the New School wanted me to come for a callback in March. Immediately, travel and lodging were arranged (thank you my NY friends!) and I was thrown back into prep work, as the school was requesting different audition material. Two weeks leading up to the callback were spent in nauseous anticipation and fitful nights of sleep.
Now, let me preface the end of this story (or the beginning?) by saying that the callback weekend was an exceptional experience. I was quite proud of my performance, and thrilled with the prospect of studying with such a talented group of artists. I could go into detail about the whole weekend, but the most important aspect was what I took away from the experience. I learned that the arts are still alive and necessary amongst the older generation, that there are faculty and staff who believe in the power of theatre, and that I am now going to embark on an incredible three years which will change my life.
It all started over a pint, as most adventures do. (Thanks Thom!) First came the decision to apply, knowing full well that if I got in, I was headed back to Debt Central. Comfortable with that fate (and completely sober) I made a list of degree curricula preferences, did my research, and selected seven schools to which I applied. After selecting the most competitive programs, I filled out application after application, agonizing over application letters, searching for the magic words that would secure my acceptance into each school. I begged for recommendations (Thanks Ally, Peter, and Jeanie!) and paid fee after fee for audition slots. I had a binder. A binder with colored tabs and organized information on each school. I carried that binder with me everywhere for five months.
Then came the prep work.
Searching for the right monologues took nearly three months of selection and dismissal. Pouring over play after play, I tried to pair two pieces that would show my full range of capabilities. The goal: in under three minutes, prove that you can perform work that embodies every extreme of emotion and style. This includes but is not limited to classical, contemporary, comedic, dramatic, solemn, frantic, angry, sad, happy, disgusted, surprise, betrayal, love, hate, movement, stillness, exceptional vocal ability, extreme imagination, and (of course) truth.
I finally found four pieces that would become the repetitive dialogue of the next two months. (Everlasting gratitude to Jeanie Forte for coaching me into what will become the next chapter of my life.) One school required a scene. (Chad, thank you for the gift of your talent.) Two solid months of rehearsing for a three minute stint.
Herein lies the rub of the theatre industry: you have three minutes to prove yourself to your auditor. But, within the first 10 seconds of your audition, an auditor will have decided whether or not you are right for the part. Forget interviews. This industry doesn't do 'interviews' - you have to show them your focus, professionalism, intelligence, imagination, and sense of humor in less time than it takes to fry an egg. Your career is dependent on first impressions and pretending to be someone you're not for 180 seconds. And you can take comfort in the fact that the three-minute 'interview' standard will allow auditors to 'interview' five times as many 'applicants' who look and sound just. like. you.
Graduate auditions are a toss-up - sometimes you get a comfortable three minutes, other schools are exceedingly generous and chat with you about your career goals for a few minutes afterwards. Programs that are admitting students for work with a repertory company will generally do three minute rounds, as they are looking for type. The more academic schools will consider your intelligence factor in a longer round. The New School was innovative: prepare a scene, a classical monologue, and be prepared to chat about anything under the sun with your auditor.
As grad school Audition Weekend approached, I grew nervous. Three days spent traversing back and forth from San Francisco, holed up in a 9-story building swarming with other actor hopefuls left me drained and full of doubt. After initial auditions, schools generally invite their favorites back for a school visit. This is called "Callback Weekend". There were some auditions that I knew would not result in callback weekend. Others, seeming promising, baffled me when rejection letters arrived in the mail.
Nearly two months of waiting (the agony!) finally resulted in a small success: the New School wanted me to come for a callback in March. Immediately, travel and lodging were arranged (thank you my NY friends!) and I was thrown back into prep work, as the school was requesting different audition material. Two weeks leading up to the callback were spent in nauseous anticipation and fitful nights of sleep.
Now, let me preface the end of this story (or the beginning?) by saying that the callback weekend was an exceptional experience. I was quite proud of my performance, and thrilled with the prospect of studying with such a talented group of artists. I could go into detail about the whole weekend, but the most important aspect was what I took away from the experience. I learned that the arts are still alive and necessary amongst the older generation, that there are faculty and staff who believe in the power of theatre, and that I am now going to embark on an incredible three years which will change my life.
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