by Cynthia Wands

This has been a year of gratitude. And revelation. I didn’t get to learn the lessons I’ve been longing for:  a new finished script, a staged reading, a Broadway contract, a full production of one of my works.

Instead I learned humility (being bald from chemo for six months is at the top of the list for this lesson).  I learned compassion – especially from the other people in my life who helped me to learn to live again in a different way.  I learned a lot of other lessons in the mixed bag of nuts in my recovery from cancer this year: how irrational/moody/forgetful and detached I can become. How much I can ask for from friends and family and my husband.  I also got a new (old) cat (Puck: a rescue cat who helped save me from myself this year).

But I also want to say how much I’m grateful to this blog, as this is the only writing I’ve been able to do this year. Thank you.

And here is a story that is very close to my heart.  It starts as a story about a man with a broken neck, but it really resonated with me in some of my life lessons.  Especially those lessons about gratitude.

by Cynthia Wands

I found this facinating article:
HOW I INSULTED SONDHEIM (AND THE WISDOM RECEIVED THEREBY)

I’ve had my share of young stupid interactions with performers/artists I’ve admired.  But I loved how this writer shared an awful experience and how he learned from it. It’s amazing to see that even celebrated and successful playwrights have such feelings about feedback to their work.

A Paraphrase from the article.

Nobody cares what you think. Once a creation has been put into the world, you have only one responsibility to its creator: be supportive. Support is not about showing how clever you are, how observant of some flaw, how incisive in your criticism. There are other people whose job it is to guide the creation, to make it work, to make it live; either they did their job or they didn’t. But that is not your problem.

If you come to my show and you see me afterwards, say only this: “I loved it.” It doesn’t matter if that’s what you really felt. What I need at that moment is to know that you care enough about me and the work I do to tell me that you loved it, not “in spite of its flaws”, not “even though everyone else seems to have a problem with it,” but simply, plainly, “I loved it.” If you can’t say that, don’t come backstage, don’t find me in the lobby, don’t lean over the pit to see me. Just go home, and either write me a nice email or don’t. Say all the catty, bitchy things you want to your friend, your neighbor, the Internet.

Maybe next week, maybe next year, maybe someday down the line, I’ll be ready to hear what you have to say, but that moment, that face-to-face moment after I have unveiled some part of my soul, however small, to you; that is the most vulnerable moment in any artist’s life. If I beg you, plead with you to tell me what you really thought, what you actually, honestly, totally believed, then you must tell me, “I loved it.” That moment must be respected.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.