Never Say Die

WRITTEN BY THEATRE EAST COMPANY MEMBER MARIANA VILY

"Talent is the ability to accomplish what you started." ~ Pyotr Fomenko

I came into this quote by chance, and liked it immediately. It may seem lackluster compared to many of the other definitions of talent out there, at least at first sight. But the words would stay with me, for two reasons: for one, I'm a perfectionist, meaning I sometimes ask too much of myself. So I was grateful to be relieved of the pressure to do something great, and instead just have to finish what I set out to do.

Which, as we all know, can be no small feat. And this is, perhaps, the main reason the words stood out for me. This year, though very satisfying artistically, did prove a big challenge to me in terms of things outside acting that I absolutely had to deal with. These things (getting an artist visa first, finding a new home later) were, of course, stressful and very time consuming. There were moments when I felt like they were taking over my life. And while quitting didn't occur to me as a possibility, I could see how easily I could allow those things to divert me from what I wanted to be doing. How I could simply stop just by not having the time, or worse, the frame of mind.

In due time, my difficulties took care of themselves, as they always do. But what allowed me to stay on track had more to do with finding inspiration than with eliminating obstacles. It had more to do with accepting my friends' encouragement, with sitting through a lot of screenings and talks with great artists at the New York Film Festival, and with then following through by coming up with a plan, running it by my mentor, getting back into class and finding new artistic projects and collaborators. Which is where I am now.

Being done with the bureaucratic and logistical stuff is allowing me to enjoy all the aspects of acting much more. But I also better appreciate the value of perseverance. It takes a lot to finish anything, including the talent the quote refers to.

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Mother Theatre

Just a few thoughts on Mother's Day on how theatre can be like your mother...

Theatre welcomes you even when no one else does.
Theatre can make you laugh.
Theatre can make you cry.
Theatre will tell you the truth...even when it isn't easy for you to hear.
Theatre wants what's best for you.

How else do upon think theatre is like a mother? Let us know in the comments!

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TEam Work

from Christa Kimlicko Jones, Associate Artistic Director, Director of Programming: 

We have begun the creative discussions. Last week we held our first production meeting for our fall shows NORMALCY and THE JUNGLE BOOK. What’s most exciting about this season is the challenge of discussing two productions at once that need to work together. It is a lot to take on in a short, 3-hour meeting, but because of the team that we have, we all left inspired and ready for the next steps. 

 

First production meetings are so much about coming to the table with initial ideas and problem solving. Everyone has been doing work on their own and the time has come to begin to put it together—to collaborate, to really work as a team. I’m always amazed to see what the various departments have been working on. In many ways it’s the same excitement we, as school children, felt on Show-and-Tell days. It’s a lot of oohs and ahhs. Set, lighting, costumes, sound and music—all these incredible folks gathered in a room presenting their ideas, supporting the director’s vision...and the production manager making sure it all stays within budget. 

 

It was a great beginning, resulting in very workable and exciting ideas. We all left inspired and ready for more! Go TEam! 

 

You can also be a part of the TEam and help make these productions happen.  DONATE TODAY  to Theatre East!

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A Moment of Truth

from Todd Eric Hawkins, Managing Director

This past week I attended a preview of one of the new musicals opening on Broadway this season. It was a Monday night, I wasn’t particularly excited by the star, nor was I really in the mood to sit in the theater. But...I had a ticket so off to the theatre I went.

One of the disadvantages of being “in the business” is that there is a tendency to
be hyper-critical of theatre, especially when you are not in the mood to lose yourself in the story. Admittedly, this was one of those nights. I will not mention the show, because I am sure that my impression of it is completely based on my own psychological state, not on the quality of the show, or the performances. However, even in my disgruntled mood, a single line, in the hands of an incredible actress, pierced through all of the crap that I was carrying around. With just a few words, she was able to deliver that elusive, magical moment of truth: an emotional connection so strong that the audience has no choice but to connect.

At that moment, everything in my otherwise unremarkable, slightly annoying day fell away. For the first time that evening I stopped looking at the lights and the set and wondering how much they cost. I stopped nit-picking every performance and every song. I stopped being an ass.

Of all of the shows I have seen, I can only think of two occasions when a member of the
ensemble delivered, in my opinion, the best performance of the night. I have always heard the adage, “There are no small parts, only small actors.” Both of these performers have proven that statement.

It is rare for actors—especially those in the ensemble—to hear how much their performance affects audience members. I think good work deserves praise, no matter how small the role. So, while I will not mention the show, I would like to thank that actress—in spirit here, and in a letter delivered to the stage door—for reminding me why I am in the theatre.

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The Power of Story

from Judson Jones, Artistic Director

One of the things I love about New York is the subway system. So many walks of life. So many histories. So many geographical, religious, and political backgrounds.  So many different clothing options! So many different faces. I love the shared glances you have with someone when you realize that you’re both eavesdropping on the same conversation and a bit a juicy news just came out. And for the most part, I love the myriad of musical performers (some good…and some not so good) that hop on the subway to play and then pass the hat. And all of this is crammed together in a hole in the ground.

The other day, it was an unusually early morning commute. I was on my way to a set and, as TV shows tend to start shooting at the break of dawn, I was not in the mood to do anything but go over my lines in silence. So of course there’s going to be a baby that’s having a complete and utter breakdown on the train. This child had some lungs and wanted everyone to know that he was not happy! Put on my headphones, but instead of hearing Jeff Buckley, I heard Jeff Buckley being backed up by the crying baby chorus. Ditched the headphones and tried to focus on my script. Then the doors open and I see two guitars and an accordion walk on. I looked up to the ceiling and thought, “Well, my morning just got better.” I was just not in the mood. Then they started playing one of the most beautiful and sad pieces of music I have ever heard. I’m not an expert of Spanish music but it sounded like it was perhaps a traditional folk song. The first thing I noticed was that the child stopped crying almost immediately. He just stared at the musicians, his cheeks still covered in tears. And then I looked across from me and there was an elderly woman mouthing the words, with tears in her eyes. There was such passion and pain in her eyes. I’m not sure what the history of the song is, but to her, it was very personal and it was very deep. I just sat there and watched her, and the child, and the band. And I smiled. Oh, the power of performance.

Today, throughout the world, two holidays are being celebrated by millions. Passover and Easter.  Passover celebrates the great exodus of the Children of Israel from the bonds of slavery in Egypt. And Easter celebrates the resurrection of a messiah. Both of these holidays celebrate the miracle of great change, journeys, and hope. Today people will gather in homes and perform the ritual of the Seder and others will gather in churches and take communion.  And at the heart of both of these rituals are the stories that will be told as they have been for many, many generations.

Theatre, at its core, is just that. Storytelling. Take away the lights, the score, the costumes, the scenery and what are you left with? The story. But the paramount aspect of the storytelling is the communion we share with each other. It is during time when we come together and we don’t just observe, but we partake. And when we leave, we should all be full.

Have a truly wonderful holiday.

Jud

Lies & Truth in the Theatre

from William Franke, Director of Development & Communications

Much has been made in the past few weeks of Mike Daisey’s one-man show The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs, particularly the truthfulness of it.  Perhaps none of this would have come up had it stayed in the theater and not been presented as truth on This American Life, where it transitioned from theatre to journalism.

(Full disclosure: I have not seen the live performance at the Public Theater. But like many people*, I was enthralled with the half hour excerpt of Daisey’s performance presented on This American Life. I was equally captivated by the episode that they ran last week, “Retraction.”)

I know some people who find it ridiculous that Daisey is being lambasted for being less than truthful. They repeat Daisey’s defense that he is an artist of the theatre and that his monologue—a piece of theatre—does not need to meet the same rigors that a piece of pure journalism does.

The reason this sticks in my craw is that it reminds me of a refrain I’ve heard over and over again: that actors = liars. (A few examples: A friend of mine was told by her in-laws “We can never be sure if you’re telling the truth, because you’re an actor.” I was once approached by a former coworker to pose on the phone as her grown daughter’s boss to give a glowing recommendation to a potential employer. When I refused, she said “C’mon, you can do it. You’re an actor.”)

My understanding is that, while Daisey created a theatrical piece, he did so as a storyteller, purportedly relating stories of his actual experiences without caveat, without footnote. Instead, what was brought to light was that he made much of it up to manipulate the emotions of the audience.

Yes, actors in any play are up there on stage saying things they don’t mean, things they may not personally believe, pretending to be people they aren’t. But when actor and audience enter the theater, there is a contract, an understanding between both parties about what is going on. Even with plays based on historical events, audiences understand that liberties are taken: historical personages and events are merged for the sake of dramatic expediency. The irony of this situation is that in a room full of people sharing an evening of these agreed-upon lies, something transcendent often occurs. Greater truths are discovered. That is the power of theatre when everyone is in it together.

Meltdown on the Mountain

Meltdown on the Mountain—It’s the getting back up that counts (with a little help from our friends).

from Christa Kimlicko Jones, Associate Artistic Director, Director of Programming: 

Building a theatre company isn’t easy.  There are many long roads, hurdles, and often mountains to climb. There are fears and doubts. There are big leaps. There are setbacks. Sometimes it even seems that it would make more sense to just not do it. It would be easier, safer, simpler. But, then, miraculously we get back up. We leap. We dive. We push through. Somehow we find strength in each other, in our dreams—and in you, our supporters. Not really sure how exactly it happens, but it does—and we thank you for it.

This past week, I went skiing for the first time EVER. And, needless to say, it proved to be more than just a skiing trip. I think I discovered myself and perhaps even conquered myself up on that stupid not-so-easy "Easy Street" course—with a little help from my friends. The leading up to it was fine, I guess. I would mention what I was doing for Spring Break, look around with saucer eyes for any sort of insight (people didn't realize that I was really looking for magical ANSWERS!) and mostly it was the same: people giving me advice, saying "you’ll be fine!" and telling me "just keep your skis in 'pizza.'" Telling me what boots or pants or jacket I needed. And of course I just said, "Okay!" because really, I had no idea about any of it. I had no context (except what I've seen on TV, and those people aren't doing 'pizza,' I don’t think. These "bits of advice," however, could IN NO WAY prepare me for what I was about to do. I suppose "keep it in pizza" was something I used the most! But, seriously, folks—almost 40 and first time skiing?? This brain and body are a bit different than my 5-year-old nephew who literally got to the top of the mountain and just went. No pausing. No questions. He just went. And survived. And went back for more. There is a lesson in that, I’m sure!  But, my journey was a bit more…um… involved.

So, first things first, I got my outfit—I looked like I knew what I was doing (that’s half the battle, right?!). The next morning, we started our road trip to Vermont. We got to the lodge after our gorgeous drive and met up with family. We were staying in the Trapp Family Lodges in Stowe, VT. Over dinner, there was discussion about the snow and the slopes and "Stay on the bunny..." "Okay," I said. Next morning—got dressed, good breakfast, and off we went! Another gorgeous, peaceful drive to the slopes. After getting all set up and looking around I thought, "I can do this!" Then off to lessons. We started slowly. Scooting along, learning about weight, etc. We learned how to get on the lift (much appreciated!), and then got to the top of the bunny slope. I honestly don’t remember my first time down. I was just following. Just trying to stay up. And I was doing great! We did this several more times until the class was over. Success!! I was able to do this! I only fell a couple of times (trying not to run into children—a very smart objective, I thought!). But I was good! We then had lunch, and back to the 1pm lesson: Intro to Turning. We graduated to "Easy Street." However, Easy Street wasn’t so easy. Anyway, it was fine, really—at first. With my class, I was able to follow my teacher and my other classmates. I fell mostly every time going down, but I learned how to get up. In fact, I got really good at that. (Maybe that’s the moral to the story, really?!) Up and down. Falling, yes, but getting back up! Had a great afternoon, evening of rest—muscles very sore. Jud said that I’d probably wake up tomorrow and think, "I don’t want to go, I’m too sore" (he was right), but, "getting up and going is key!"

Next morning, VERY sore. Could hardly walk. But, was determined to push through. Stretched out. Got dressed. Good breakfast. Nice drive there, but this day…this day was different. I had a feeling in my stomach. Of dread. The day before, I knew nothing. But today, today I knew what was about to happen. And I, in no way, trusted myself. But, on we went. ‘Easy Street’, here we come! Lift was good. I was a pro at this! Got to the top--the top of the mountain that I had skied many times the day before. Turned the corner, looked down. And FROZE. My legs had no idea of what to do. People zooming past but I froze. And then I started crying. The meltdown on the mountain had begun. I tried to move, scooted a bit. But just couldn't go. Or let go. Isn't interesting how just a little bit of knowledge will keep you stuck in one place? Anyway, I tried to follow Jud, but just couldn’t go. I cried, I yelled at him for bringing me up there, I started scooting down on my bottom—but that wasn't really working. The people on the lifts got a lift and a show! And I didn't care. I was going to die on that mountain (it was a very dramatic moment). I had to keep taking my goggles off because they were fogging up from crying. I tried getting up and kept falling over and then no energy to get back up because I was crying—I mean, sobbing. It was quite a sight, I'm sure. Jud standing there, all the while, trying to give me pointers. I certainly didn't want to listen. But he stayed. And then, after probably 20 minutes or so of this, I'm not sure what happened—something in me?  Something in the fact that he was still there?  Something in the knowledge that I had to get down? Something in the knowledge that I did it just the day before? I don't know. But I stood up, had a moment with myself, looked straight ahead, and went forward a bit. I stopped. Then turned a bit, went the other way. The next thing I knew I was traversing down the mountain—slowly, but I was going. Bit by bit, and then somehow, I was down the mountain. It wasn't like I just said "Okay…GO…" and I was down, which may be the way for some. For me, it was slowly, bit by bit. And the most bizarre thing—when I got down, I had the thought of, "I want to go again." Why in the world would I do that to myself?  Bizarre. So, I went down again. I fell every time—but less and less. Most importantly, I kept going. Learning something about it each time down.

On that day, I realized that looking straight down the mountain didn't work, but focusing on just the task at hand—that I could handle. I learned that if I keep going, eventually I will get through.  And, at some point, I might even enjoy myself! I learned that it’s okay to be cautious, smart in fact. It's okay to be a bit afraid. It's most important that you take that breath and you try. And if you fall, learn how to get up. And surround yourself with those that love you, care for you, believe in you, will stick up for you when others try to push you down, and you will actually enjoy the scenery as it goes by. You might even be able to improve your technique each time you go.

Just like building a theatre. Just like anything in life, really. Those things that are most worth it will be hard, but they are possible. I’m certainly not ready to do blue slopes yet, but I am willing to go back again and get more bruises in the process. Thank you for being those supporters on the mountain of building a theatre company. We literally could not do it without you. It's scary at times for sure, but it's definitely possible. And the bumps and bruises are worth it. We will keep diving. Taking leaps. Taking chances—with you. Looking forward to seeing you up there on that mountain again and again. Together we can do this!

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