Damian's First Snow

London.
January.
Freezing.
7:00 am.
There are things to do, sleep to catch up on. Places to sing tonight.

On a quick, stumbly sleepy trip to the bathroom I notice an overly bright morning...
It couldn't be.
It doesn't DO that here.
I haven't seen this since Detroit.
This is the real deal. Serious stuff.
Incredible!
It IS!

Al: (whisper) Damian... Daaaaaamian...?

Damian: QSndkjX%*ehliruw@##en....

Al: ... I am so sorry to wake you... but something VERY SPECIAL has happened... and I don't want you to miss it...

Damian: Huh? What it is?

Al: It's snowing. And the snow has stuck.

Damian: What?!

Al: I know. I think you need to see it.

We get dressed. We shuffle to the doorway.

Al: Ready?

He nods.
I open the door onto Carlingford Road. And there before us is a virginal, untouched blanket of pure white snow. It is exquisetly beautiful. Every little branch, every little crevice has been touched and decorated. There are at least six inches on the ground. His eyes twinkle and fill with wonder and emotion. He looks like a little boy. I remember this feeling so well. It seems so far away now.

Damian: Can we go out in it? Can we play in it?

Al: Of course! Let's get properly dressed!

We do. Coats, scarves, mittens, big boots! And cameras of course. Hardly anyone is even awake.

I teach him how to make snowballs. And then we decide to make a snowman. Of course. The secret is a good central snowball and patience in the rolling technique. No respectable snowman was ever made in haste.

A young woman and her son appear in the window of a flat across the street. We wave to them, they wave back. This would never happen on a normal day, people are very reserved and cautious here. But today, on snow day, that is different.

We find pebbles for the Snowman's eyes. Sticks for a mouth and a scarf and mittens of course.

Damian: Let's get a picture.

We do.
We've been out an hour. It's cold.
A morning made of magic.


Oh BOY.

New year, new beginnings

Sheffield.

A much-needed new year, new begining. I feel relief. I feel powerful. A massive shedding of a heavy and obsolete skin. Perhaps the skin once contained lessons, hard, adverse lessons now absorbed into my inner skins, there forever.

I feel ambitious-- I feel solitary. I feel free and powerful and solid. Bold, in control and strong. What a difference. how weak and uncertain was 2006... i have and shall continue to learn from those dark days. I shall endeavour to grow further, take calculated risks. I feel such potential taking hold of me-- such wonders await! I shall be audacious! Any mistakes made through audacity are easily corrected with more audacity.

"Everyone admires the bold; no one honours the timid."
-- Robert Greene

* * *

To London this weekend partially to take things back, partially to visit JNF and partially for a very stupid audition. Had a wonderful visit with JNF, we exchanged flawless Christmas gifts (a beautiful red vintage handbag, a gift certificate for a rubber stamp, and three winnie the pooh prints circa 1929).

Life has taken an inexplicable... quailty. I find i am taking pleasure in more of life. A flower, I will find myself overwhelmed by it's beauty. Or find myself irrationally excited about a meal, seeinga friend, browsing in a shop, the pleasure of a day off, reading, folding freshly laundered clothes, the smell of "clean"... is this happiness? Is this what it feels like? For I have never felt it before except in short burts. (That Proustian orange at the Birmingham Airport in 2003...)

The other day I observed D in his sleep, smelled his musk and just sat there gazing at his gentle face, and I was filled with... a feeling. It can only be described as delicious, anticipatory, wonder-- the bursting joyful kind a child feels when offered a hot cookie. I could even smell oatmeal raisin when this feeling began and I wanted to bite him. I could not wait for him to wake up, so we could spend the day together...

What is this? 

Life is full even when it is hard... the sense of wonder is profound.

Happy New Year 2007

A beautiful meal followed by festive fun (loosely translated that means, Millionaire and Twister... til the wee hours...)

Next year in the holy land...

Backstage Madness

Um. Enough said.

Sheffield Oboe Player

"Nobody stopped to hear him
Though he played so sweet and high
They knew he had never
Been on their T.V.
So they passed his music by
I meant to go over and ask for a song
Maybe put on a harmony...
I heard his refrain
As the signal changed
He was playing real good, for free."
-- Joni Mitchell

He busked nearly every day on the high street in Sheffield. I would leave rehearsal to get dinner, and there he would be; playing with his gorgeous, dark tone. Sometimes the classics, sometimes folk, sometimes those recognizable songs buskers always play.

Once, I saw him call out to a kid, a young boy of about eleven or so. Hey kid, he seemed to say, would you hold my oboe for a minute while I grab a Mars bar? I'll give you a quid when I get back. The kid seemed to think this was a great idea, and so the Oboe Player carefully handed him the instrument and took off to the newsagents.

Whilst the Oboe Player was away, the kid examined the oboe as if it were a relic! Or made of gold! He didn't dare try to play it, but he did fiddle with the keys a bit... it was pretty adorable. The Oboe Player returned a minute or so later with a mouth full of mars bar, a crumpled wrapper, and a pound for the kid.

And then, picking up the oboe, he began to play again. He closed his eyes. It was Goosens. I knew it because Lilly played it for Concertos at Interlochen. And the kid stuck around, he listened too. And then, without making a fuss, whilst the Oboe Players' eyes were still closed and concentrated, the kid put the pound the Oboe Player had given him, into the small pile of change inside the oboe case. And he sat on a nearby bench until the piece was done.

Sometimes I have a really short attention span...

...I really do.

Auntie Al

So. Aside from excessively bad hair (due to a combination of a bad seat on public transport and less than desireable humidity levels in The Smoke), these are some pictures of Auntie Al and Neice Hannah in action. Note: white fuzzy jumper thing was chosen with great effort, finally finding it a lovely baby gift shop/pharmacy/communist propaganda & leaflet distributor (a mish-mash sort of a place...)

Anyway! She is pretty incredible, and I cannot escape the delicious feeling of belonging to someone. I can be there for her and take care of her if she is ever in trouble or needs Aunt like advice.
I might be the crazy Aunt: the one with a very strange nocturnal lifestyle who reads The Fountainhead as a bedtime story.
I might be the cool Aunt who brings you along to West End rehearsals or lets you sit on the set whilst filming.
I might be the faraway Aunt. I AM the faraway Aunt, let's not be pedantic.
Anyway. It's great. And it is just the beginning.

Photography: Redheads

Redheads
Continuous study 2004-Present

Models: Alley Scott, Sherry McNamara, Juliet Alderdice, Joanne Cummins

Flying over Greenland...

Flying over Greenland....
... it feels as though I am in the middle of a poem.
The craigy fijords of frozen water, accentuated by miles of clean, immaculate white.
Expanses of icy land.

The scene has inspired a sense of gratitude, awakened a well of emotion deep within and kissed it gently with frosty breath. And this pool of warm feeling has nestled up against the frost, frozen over, and displayed tiny shards of ice patterns, like a blush.
It is all renewal, all possibility.
It brings cold tears to my eyes.
The kind that freeze on your face, and sting.

Greenland has filled me. With gratitude, with hope.
Take heart, Al. The wonderous icy mountains have selected you, said hello.
This vision that has been seen by few has reminded me there are things at work greater than one's self.

Here, there is clarity, purity, peace.
Here, above the top of the world.

Jake

My cat. Oh my beautiful cat. How I miss him, how he has restored so much that has been lost. How he takes care of CV.
So, meet Jake.

Jake, everyone. Everyone, Jake.

Hello.
Meow.
All that.

Letter to Kit

Kit,

Apologies for 10 days to reply.

I went up north to the woods to see Interlochen, see D & R, reflect on the passing time, teach the "kids," (a phrase I am not entirely used to...) I didn't know what to say. I decided to do it in two parts. One, to make a list of things I have learned over the "years," Two, to answer their questions.

A sampling:

Things I've learned:

1. Wearing panty hose with a dress may feel a little, well, bulky but honestly it is pretty slutty not to and we all know that is how you get yeast infections...

2. Life isn't fair. You are entitled to nothing. The sooner you get over that, the better.

3. Never wear shoes wear the toe points up at the end, unless you are auditioning for the role of an elf, and even then use extreme caution.

4. Never sing medleys. Ever.

5. Less really is more. Always.

6. No matter how much you may think you love someone, NEVER EVER merge your money with theirs. If they take out a mysterious life insurance policy on you, you are not being "paranoid" if you are concerned for your life.

7. I don't believe in luck. Not really. Doors open all the time, but if you haven't worked your entire life getting ready to storm through them when they open themselves for you, then forget it.

8. If you are beige, don't wear beige.


Then I answered their questions.
The questions were laborious and I will not print them, but the answers were:
1. Los Angeles, California, 1983
2. Yes
3. Abolutely not.
4. Ben and Jerry's half baked
5. The northern line, people who are rude to children and the elderly, people who are rude in general, people who say foyER, people who don't understand the very obvious boundaries of personal space, arrogant cyclists who can't decide whether they wish to be motorists or pedestrians, and don't even get me STARTED on the London Aquarium.
6. Weather and making salads
7. I'm fine, thank you.
7a. No.
8. Frankly, I don't think that is any of your business young man.
9. Sixteen
10. Someone once asked me what the capital of South America was. And I had this "music teacher" (note the quotation marks please) at RSAMD, who tried to convince me Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote West Side Story. Not only that, but that it was in fact their greatest work. But I have said some real stupid zingers in my life too. Take my uncool story about working with John Cusack. [insert story here]


What can i say?

Pffffft... [Gallic shrug] ]Your emails are great. Have no clue when I shall return. I'm hiding in Michigan. Don't tell anyone. Dark days. I suppose I will have to return to do that show I am working on. Well, we'll see.

How is life on the other side of the drink?

-- A x

Sound the call - Installment 4

I realised this morning it was Rebecca's birthday, and I had no way of contacting her.
It made me upset. Her phone number doesn't work. And I'm in the middle of the woods.
So I will send this out to the universe:
...Happy Birthday Rebecca...

* * *

Today I taught. It is a wonderful thing to be allowed the oppourtunity (or perhaps forced??) to articulate (as in out loud) my experiences and thoughts on this art, this business, this crazy profession. And to also be forced, in a way, to view it both realistically and yet, positively. There is nothing like having to find the words... when there are sometimes just empty expanses of dull, cold suffering. It was great for them, but also really inspiring and affirming for me as well.

A lot of them asked me about various colleges, and my thoughts on types of training, auditioning, business detail things. And of course the WIW experience. I don't know if those thoughts are particularly interesting in this kind of forum.

But then some really thoughtful questions about the business versus the art, and one thoughtful boy asked me about failure and disappointment. Interesting. I was sort of caught off gaurd by these two words. They are thouhts that come up so often in the artist's conscience, and yet they can be confused with one another...

I was able to really delve into the serious differences between failure and disappointment, and it was helpful for me to identify how I felt about those things. Sometimes we cannot help the fact that we have completely different reactions to certain projects. Sometimes an audition becomes about something else entirely. One desires the validation far more than the job itself. Getting a job can become about approval from others, at times it can even be taken the extent of a confirmation of your existence and overall worth. This is obviously bad. Really, Silber, what would Howard Roark say...?

Take Project E: Exciting. Huge. An unbelievably big deal. Amazing revival, amazing role, director, choreographer. Probably glory, money and all that jazz associated with getting it. ... Didn't care. Why? Who knows. The world may never know. Auditioned. Got down to the last four with some VERY accomplished people, people I couldn't ever DREAM of being the same room with, let alone up against for a role like this. Ridiculous. Didn't. Care. Auditioned. I was fine (aside from the 10:30 in the morning thing). And I didn't get it. And I still didn't care. Onwards and upwards.

Take Project Five: Small. Barely paid. Unglamorous. Actually a pretty bad piece of writing, and an utterly il-portrayed character when you get down to it. Would have done nothing for me but fill a time gap, and keep me busy. No glory, no artistic merit, no money. Nothing. And I needed it more than anything. I auditioned something insane like 5 or 6 times, I got the impression the liked me quite a bit. And yet I knew I hadn't gotten it. And I was devastated beyond articulation, all belief in myself thoroughly shattered.

Now WHY was this job/situation different from others? Other job prospects came and went without a thought. At first I had no idea,Ii just swam around that day in a fog. I wasn't simply feeling low, but silently verbally abusing myself in the most damaging and toxic of ways. That "VOICE" one gets... the one that tells me I just "don't have what it takes" or "some people have it, some don't and YOU DON'T" and as it gets worse and worse and worse "You are worthless. You are inferior to everyone around you."

And as an artist it is difficult. So many people in life feel a status, a validation and purpose associated with their jobs, however menial or distinguished. One can feel constantly inferior to their friends and non-artist peers because their peers often have a status associated with a job, while we often, do not. The validation must come from you, and you alone.

Referring back to the original question: I suppose I believe, after it all, that disappointment is more often than not associated with circumstances, and the way we choose to view those circumstances; while failure is about The Self, and also, quite often, a choice. One may fail to get a role, but one is not a failure, unless one chooses to be. Ultimately, the only choice we have as artists and thus, sensitive people, is to use these moments as opportunities for evolution and growth. That is what life is all about: choosing growth, choosing to rule over the evil, the negative, the toxic, the damaging. "Timshel," Thou Mayest...
...And we have to understand that they are more often then not, these professional things are totally arbitrary.

At this point I needed a sip of water. And David's kind eyes twinkled from the corner of the room. I needed those too.

The boy looked at me after that longish answer. He paused for a while, then smiled.
"If you HAD gotten Project E or Project 5, would you be able to be here at Interlochen right now?"
I said no.
"Well then, I'm really glad you didn't get them... "


Thank you, thoughtful boy. I owe you one. I did not, in fact, do all the teaching today.