The Avant-Garde is deader

by Cynthia Wands

“the avant-garde is deader than last year’s short-in-front, long-in-back skirts”….

Deader?

Than last year’s skirts?

I appear to be far far away from the Avant- Garde and those who write about it.  I came across the above mentioned quote from an article today:

The Clyde Fitch Report: The Death of the Avant-Garde and Other Urban Legends

I remember sitting through weird performance arts pieces over the years: John Cage concerts at Wesleyan University, and Merce Cunningham dance performances in New York, the incredible THE WAY OF HOW performances in Berkeley in the 1980’s, Rachel Rosenthal shows, and strange happenings in the Ivy Substation and Highland Grounds.  But I never considered them “Avant-Garde”.

They seemed to be honest constructs from the artists to the audiences. Even if I didn’t appreciate the monotony and self absorption of a John Cage concert (a four hour concert with kitchen utensils was the last and ultimate test of my endurance with him), I learned a lot about courage and authenticity from those weird performances.

I don’t feel that I’m much in sync with the referenced “performative events” (I guess they aren’t called performance art pieces any more). And I can see, I’m really okay with that.

Wall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reading

by Cynthia Wands

A few weeks ago I went to a staged reading of a script that I have watched develop over the years, and it was gratifying to see how much life and vulnerability that the actors gave to the script.

Most of the actors had been involved in reading pages from this script for some time, and they brought a lot of nuance and humanity to the reading of the characters.

I didn’t understand when I watched/listened to the reading why I experienced the two women in the script to be such completely different characters than what I had understood them to be. It was only afterwards when the director pointed out to me that, unlike the previous readings I had seen of the script, the two principal actress had exchanged roles.

This had been the director’s idea, and I was surprised that I hadn’t recognized the switch in the actresses – I saw very different characters because of this casting change, and they was very intriguing.

But what I missed, and what I had hoped for, was a script that could deliver that kind of surprise and dimension in the writing.  Several times conflict would simmer up from all the talking onstage, and yet it wouldn’t quite boil up to a resolution or crisis. Poignant, hurtful, insightful things were said. It just didn’t matter much what they said.  The characters went off at the end of the play pretty much as they started.  I do think the playwright is a very good writer, but this script seemed to miss the mark for me.  I left somewhat chafed and dissatisfied.

Maybe it’s because I’ve gone through such a sea change in myself and my life this past year, that I want to see/hear/experience rousing life changing theater.  I’m grateful to have the chance to have witnessed the growth and development of this script – and I learned a lot by not liking it.

Gothic Nude Goddess_edited-1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chance favors the connected mind

by Cynthia Wands

I recently went to a yearly ceramics sale with a dear friend of mine; and had one of those intoxicating, life-flashing afternoons where there was discovery and laughter and afterwards, really good middle eastern food.

Granted, I’ve been house bound for a while, and the chance to go out and play hasn’t presented itself like that in some time.  But it reminded me of….rehearsal.  A really good rehearsal.  Where actors are making connections, and giving the gift of their talent and mind and spirit to create these phantoms on stage.

But I know, this was a ceramics sale.

Ceramic GCC1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was a large noisy line of shoppers waiting to get into this sale, and once the doors were opened, I lost my friend in the crush of people foaming around the tables. It was thrilling to see such beautiful ceramic pieces, the glazes, the whimsy, and the various degrees of artistry and taste. There were some really crappy pieces too. I saw candlestick holders shaped like giraffes, and copper colored bowls, and strange plates.  I picked up a bright blue teapot with “hello kitty” skeletons painted all over it and considered buying it. But then I paused, and put it back down on the crowded table, and someone behind me scooped it right up.  I’ll never see that “hello kitty skeleton” teapot ever again.  But what a thrill of discovery and connections.

And then I heard this talk today on Ted Talks.  There is a bit of an overlong story about a Russian spaceship, but, overall, the exploration of where good ideas come from really sparked me up. Almost like a rehearsal. Or really strange ceramics.

 

“None of us owns art. Not even the artists who create it. And yet, we all own it, and it shifts as we shift.”

Three hands of art: why it matters

by Cynthia Wands

On Saturday, ArtsWatch’s Bob Hicks spoke on this basic question to the national sales meeting of Pomegranate Communications, the Portland-based publisher of fine art books.

I’m very much taken with this article on the Oregon Artswatch site.  Some of the comments really landed front and center with me:

“An artist of any kind is a witness to the universe, and because the universe is both micro and macro, what she sees can be wide or deep, large or small.”

My world has been pretty small this year, with much focus on medicine and treatment and recovery.  I’m watching other artists/writers delve into the enormous outside world and pursue projects and contacts and new arenas, and I marvel that they have the stamina and courage to risk such exposure.

And then I read something like this article, and I get to see that art is everywhere.

Three hands of art: why it matters

 

Bird Pins

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Self Production Series with Anna Nicholas: #2 Be a Lion…

#2. How I Decided to be a Lion.

by Guest Blogger Anna Nicholas

“Be a Lion, Be a Fucking Wolf, Take No Shit, Set Goals, Smash Them. Eat People’s Faces Off. Be a Better Person. Stay the Mother Fucking Course. Show People Who the Fuck You Are. Never Apologize for Being Awesome.” All right, one shouldn’t eat peoples’ faces off nor use the F word so freely. But if I hadn’t yet decided to produce my own play, reading this quote would have nailed it for me.

See for too long I thought there was a formula for success and once I found it, I’d become the successful artist-person I wanted to be. So in my search I read Wayne Dyer, Marianne Williamson and Eckhart Tolle. I absorbed the “7 Habits of Highly Successful People” and found no success. I bought into “Start With the End in Mind,” yet, mindful of that hoped-for end, nothing happened. I absorbed The Forum and watched The Secret. I even entertained the idea of Scientology until the negative aspects of that cult made it impossible to consider seriously.

I embraced the idea that there was actually something I could do or avoid doing that would ensure I would become a successful writer. I made a poster in power colors on which I pasted pictures of beautiful ranches and vacation spots I wanted to travel to and award daises where one day I’d accept a prestigious prize; all with the goal, promoted by the self-help gurus, that if I envisioned my—future, success, goal—what I dreamed of would happen. So I envisioned. I worked on my craft, kept writing and envisioned some more and believed and trusted and went out in the world and tried and tried and tried. And nothing.

All that envisioning started back in the early 80s and I’m over 50 now. You do the math. That’s a lot of years hoping for something to happen and not much of what was on my power poster has appeared. Some might say I didn’t envision hard enough or I was envisioning incorrectly but I figured out that for me–all that hoping was in fact handing off the responsibility for my success to somebody or some thing other than myself. It also ultimately made me feel “less than,” which is the opposite of what the positive thinking bandwagon makes a good deal of money promoting.

I really thought there was something I could do, someone I could become, some sort of mantle I could don that could make the people in control of who gets picked artistically pick me. This was true whether I was auditioning for a part I really wanted or, once I began writing, submitting a play that would capture the hearts and minds of the pickers who were in control of choosing what plays got put on. I just needed to figure out what that was and my name would be at the top of their list. Obviously all of this, over time, has proved to be completely fallacious reasoning. That’s not to say keeping hope alive isn’t important; I just wish I’d figured out earlier that I needed to be the lion because I wouldn’t have wasted so much time hoping somebody would step up and roar for me. Well fuck waiting for something to happen; time to make some noise.

Coming up next: Selecting the play.

Method Writing

By Analyn Revilla

I created my first chapbook and shared it among my fellow writers in my method writing class. “Process” is the philosophy and the practice of the class. It was not about the product. The reward of the process was the product, and for the class it was putting together a chapbook that contained a collection of writings we had done during the class. The philosophy was to write from the deep voice and to express this voice using tools.

I looked over the pages I had written over the past 10 weeks of the class. I couldn’t find any real gems that stood out or was good enough to publish into a chapbook. I found my journal entries were scattered themes, and showed my tendency to avoid getting into the story of who I am. But I had to mine what I’d done, or make something new with what I already knew. I felt frustrated and fear that the raw stuff wasn’t good enough. I lashed out my feelings in unusual ways, and learned something about my behavior patterns when I feel at a loss. It felt like school when I would cram the night before an exam and wished that I had gone to class and done the homework.

I stuck with it, and I found some entries I could rework and dig deeper into. I surprised myself at what came forth. It was a slippery slope, though in the end I got enough material to make a decent chapbook. The five pieces I put into the chapbook were made up of: a new poem, three journal entries (that I polished from its raw form) and one from one of my blogs from way way back (“Play It Loud”). I reviewed the blogs before picking one. I felt dismayed and disappointed in the lack of eye and attention I had put into some of them. I saw my attention was more about the product rather than the process. After getting it out of me, I published it without putting in the extra time and elbow grease to clean up mistakes and edit parts that would be make some ideas more palatable and digestible.

What I learned, in keeping myself within the boundaries of the material, was that I still had to edit and polish the rough stuff. This has been my weakness in writing – going over the raw material and shaping it into something that has worth to somebody. In creating the chapbook I also learned to care about the product. Sounds confusing right? Didn’t I just finish a writing class about the process and not the product? It’s like acting, as described by the teacher. The best acting is acting without making it a conscious effort. Writing with process in mind is being aware of the tools without product in mind, and being consistent to a schedule of writing. When I do this then my writing will lead to a product.

The relationship of my chapbook to my blog is I need to pay attention to what I’m bringing to the writing of the blog. What I’m sharing with you are the truth of my stories, how skillful I am to write from a deep voice and some basic grammar tools. I remind myself to take care of the basics and then I’ll have something of worth to share with you.

“I Am A Poet”

By Analyn Revilla

A glance into her eyes made me avert mine away. She’s acted crazy before.   She began, “I had a conversation here yesterday with three women. There were four generations, about ten years apart. I think I was the oldest. I’m 84.” I listened. Her charcoal rimmed eyes were droopy and her lips were red matching her manicured feet. I sat naked on my towel and she sat in a full bathing suit across from me in the dry sauna. She was away for two and a half months because she fell. Her body though thin and maybe brittle looked supple and strong for her age. Our flip flops dried on the wooden floor, we dripped chlorine and salt through our pores.

“I’m at an age when I fall a lot. You see, I move like a teenager.” After a pause, she spoke slowly and deliberately. “Well, my family took my car away, and it’s the worst – the worst thing anyone can do to me.” I was transported back to being fourteen, and living in Edmonton. Determined to get my driver’s license, I snuck out the Toyota Celica all over the flat city. It was the only way to get out. I knew how she felt. “It’s like taking your freedom away” I said. “Exactly,” she said. And because I understood her, she was compelled to expose herself to me. “I’m bipolar”. I could’ve told her, “I’m alcoholic”, and let her make up her mind. I didn’t know the medical implications of being bipolar, though I’ve heard people use the word a lot. She takes 5 different pills daily. But sometimes she forgets to take them. I finally understood why she acted crazy in the past.

“It bothers me that doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. I’m not an idiot. I’ve written books that were published”. She looked down at her body between the mental lines as though picking the exact words to convey her truth. Finally she said, “I’m looking for someone to drive me around. I’d pay of course, and generously. I just need someone two days a week so I can do my banking and errands. Do you know anybody who might be interested?” I ride a motorcycle. “I’d offer to drive you but I don’t have a car. I can ask around” I said. “Ok”, she got up to leave. “I’m Analyn. What’s your name?” She stood sideways by the opened door while the heat of the sauna escaped with her, “I am a poet” she declared then walked on.

Why go to the theatre?

By Kitty Felde

Years ago, my mother and I shared season subscriptions to the Mark Taper Forum. Few plays stick in my memory – “Children of a Lesser God” and “The Robber Bridegroom” come to mind.

But it wasn’t the plays that my mother loved.

As a mom of seven who lived in the suburbs that straddled LA and Orange County, my mother relished the trips to “the city” where she would put on her bohemian clothes and devote as much attention to the audience as she would to the plays. “I’ve never seen such ugly people in all my life!” she’d say.

My mom’s been gone for more than 20 years. And as I sit through too many mediocre productions, I think back on what it was that she loved about going to the theatre: the drama, the spectacle, the unpredictability of real people. She wanted to be surprised, delighted, amused, amazed. How often do we get that onstage? Is this why theatre is in danger of dying?

This year, I saw one truly amazing production. It was an import from England, the Kneehigh Theater, on tour in DC. The company took an arthouse classic, “Brief Encounter,” David Lean’s film about an affair at a train station and made magic onstage. The movie was based on a one-act Noel Coward play from the 1930’s called “Still Life,” but I can’t imagine the original was anything like the Kneehigh production.

The story was simple: ordinary people stuck in middle-aged ennui who hit it off in a train station tea room. But out of that simplicity, the company invented four different ways to put trains onstage – including smoke and sound, and a marvelous toy train that circled the stage. The most dramatic was a film of a racing train, projected onto a scrim that was half the height of the stage, stretched out from wing to wing by a cast member running past, with another cast member closing down the scrim as the train chugged by.

There was levitation in the play – characters being lowered from the upper levels of the set by fellow cast members. There was music and dancing. There were puppets playing the heroine’s children.

It was the most magical theatrical experience I can remember.

It perfectly fit everything my mother loved about going to the theatre: drama, spectacle, unpredictability.

That’s what I want to create: a reason for people to come to the theatre, to be surprised, delighted, amused, and amazed.

What was the most magical, memorable night in the theatre for you?

The Self Production Series with Anna Nicholas: #1 The Decision…

#1. The Decision to Self-Produce or I’m Self-Producing my Play… Agh!

by Guest Blogger Anna Nicholas

After more than 30 years of loving theatre, writing plays, studying the craft of playwriting and having my plays selected for readings and workshops; after years of submitting those plays to theatres large and small around the country (and England) and receiving many a glowing (albeit boilerplate) rejection; and after fellowships, labs and a couple of prizes along the way, I decided, however foolhardy, to produce my own play.

“What—why—how—?” People asked. And not just people—friends; trusted allies in the slog through life. All good questions, but ones that ultimately only served to strengthen my resolve. As to why I felt compelled to do this, the reason that comes quickest to mind was: If I chickened out, then it wasn’t clear—despite all the aforementioned time and effort and minor success that I’d had with my plays—that anyone else was going to. Oh, yeah, it could happen; and I live in hope and engage in many forms of positive thinking that it would. But in practical terms, it was looking more and more unlikely. And it became very clear that if I wanted to see a play of mine onstage before I needed a walker, I was going to have to produce it myself.

As I said, I’ve been writing plays for over 30 years and had some lucky, early success when my first play was produced and directed by Dorothy Lyman. Then life intervened. I had a child, we moved, the child had ambitions, which kept me busy and not pursuing my own goals. But now, with my son grown and off to college, I found myself starting over. In starting over, however, where exactly does one start? It’s not that I’d ever stopped writing, but I’d dropped out of the game and most of the principal participants had changed in the interim. Dorothy closed her theatre twenty years ago and moved back to New York. I didn’t have any friends with theatre companies and though I hung around a few before I jumped into this madness, no one was buyin’ what I was sellin’. So there was another reason I needed to do it myself.

Over the next few months, I’ll be writing about the journey of how I came to be brave (or silly) enough to self-produce, along with recounting the minefields, pitfalls, fears and yes joys! that have occurred along the road to getting my play on its feet in front of a (mostly) paying audience. I’ll give you the what, why, how and where, as well as all the angsty decisions about money, selecting a director, finding a co-producer (you didn’t think I was stupid or brave enough to do everything myself did you?), choosing a theatre, actors, the union, designers, publicity or lack of it, and bad reviews. My goal is not to scare anybody but to give other playwrights the confidence to produce their own work, to arm them with some information about how they might do that and the resilience to see it all through.

 

A perfect storm

by Erica Bennett

I wrote this little angry comedy last month. Not typical for someone who has been consumed by the rage of a woman done wrong for over four years. And yet, there it is. In the space of two weeks, I wrote a 60-page script almost up to the deadline.

It, too, was spurred by rage, but this time of the “I’ll show them” variety. And, you know what? I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, despite the negative inspiration. For rather than slogging through forced language and style and all of the other rules I set for myself as a playwright, I simply let the grieving old woman inside me loose. I fell in love writing the male character. I wrote the son I never bore, and wish I had. And, I wrote a female character to the voice in my head of a tremendous actress I know.

In reflection, I think what I did was successfully open up the myopic vision I had of myself as a playwright and may have found my voice.