But it IS Medea...

One of the things my students and I talk a lot about in class is the concept that the characters we are portraying, more often than not, are going about their lives not aware they are being observed by an audience.

Of course, as we have previously discussed on this blog--Genre matters, so that may not always be the case. But when it is, when one is filling a character's skin with some form of naturalistic life, a few things are true.
1. YOU, the actor, know this is a play.
2. and WE, the audience, of course understand that we are at a play
... but of course...
3. THEY, the character, do not.
The character is a person, who is just going about the business of living their life.

The lesson?

So why does this matter?
So often in the world of acting, an actor is tempted to use the judgement of an "outside eye" upon their work. There are absolutely times when this is appropriate and helpful. But for most, it is not. An actor may be overly concerned about their physical appearance, or that their beautiful tears are being fully received by the audience. They may be tempted to "show off" for critics, friends, or an adoring public.

Or perhaps the opposite! They may be nervous, self-conscious, maybe fearful of going "over the top." Or perhaps fearful because their character is repugnant--so they want to make certain the audience knows they the actor are perfectly nice it is merely their character that is a total jerk.

These things matter because the play is not about the actor. It is about the character's story and we as actors are there to serve. Serve the story, and serve the character. So if King Henry, Blanche DuBois, and Mama Rose don't know they are in a play, than they most certainly don't care that your mother-in-law is in the stalls from Milwaukee.
Henry is too concerned about rallying the troops and saving England...
Blanche is preoccupied with sneaking her next glass of bourbon right away...
and Rose is far too busy getting her bus-load of Newsboys to the next vaudeville house to give a damn about your hang-ups.

And thus because these characters do not know they are in a play, the actor can pursue the character's wants, needs and objectives without becoming concerned about their fears, anxieties or egos. They are free to serve.


Now this might sound a little crazy, but this, one of the greatest acting epiphanies of my artistic career thus far is not an original idea. It came from Jean de Segonzac, a marvelous film director whom I have had the joy of working with on both Law & Order: Criminal Intent as well as Law & Order: SVU.

In the SVU episode "Lost Traveller," I played Nadia Gray, a Romani mother of a nine-year-old boy found dead in Brooklyn (played a-dor-a-bly by Cameron Ocasio). She is obliterated by the loss of her only son, and her seeming inability to find justice within the system.

The episode featured a climactic, emotionally shattering confrontation scene (with the glorious and supportive stars Mariska Hargitay and Danny Pino, as well as Donny Keshawarz playing my husband).  
From-the-viscera screaming.
Weeping from the pits of universal despair.
Electra. Antigone. Medea-type turmoil.

I didn't want this to be another over-the-top melodramatic turn in any ol crime show--I wanted to tell this woman's story with the very best of myself.

The fact was: I had never done anything like it on camera before.
And I was terrified.

A few minutes before shooting, Jean approached me in his quiet, gentle way. Checking in.
Then after a few moments, there was a silence between us. He must have sensed my trepidation.

     "Everything alright?" he said, the soothing trace of French-Canadian in his utterance.
I sighed.
     "Yes..." I replied, "...it's just...ugh, I'm a little blocked I guess. I want to do this woman justice. And I don't think I know how to portray this on camera without... I don't know... acting with all of me and risking looking like I am in Medea..."

Jean looked at me through his glasses and nodded his understanding. He looked away for a moment in thought. Jean is one of those directors that makes an actors feel absolutely trusted and believed in, as if he knows (perhaps far better than you do), that you already possess all the answers.

A thought struck him and he smiled solemnly. Then he looked back at me and said

     "But it is Medea... this woman doesn't know she is on a television show. Her son is dead. And no one is helping her. Don't worry about anything other than that. You just live it truthfully, and I will catch it. Sound good?"

...

Well.
My brain promptly exploded,
          and then we went about doing exactly that.


A lesson I have never, and never shall, forget.

Arlington

I want to talk about something.  
     before I tell you about something

There are a great many professional philosophies out there about this Business of Show. Constant messages about the importance of "who you know;" about networking, PR, media presence, branding, meeting a revolving door of the correct people, and being in the right place at the right time.

Personally? 

My professional philosophy has always been to let your work be your calling card.
It's a classic. 

Last year, when I participated in Arlington in the "Inner Voices" series down at Urban Stages, I realized that the project had fallen in my lap through a series of positive working relationships, and the work was some of the most terrifying, challenging, and rewarding of my life.

Why?

That tiny little production brought me previously unchartered artistic territory, and some wonderful new friendships. It lead me to some of the most satisfying projects of my career thus far, plus, was the pivotal piece that challenged me to recognize (and confront) my inner conflict of being-or-not-being a "singer."

But, most crucially, it taught me a lesson about success.

I was headed home one night after a performance in our tiny theatre, having recently deposited my humble downtown paycheck, when the following thought hit me like a ton of bricks: I have never in my life been happier. Never. I was working on a piece of art with dear friends in a city that I had carved a wonderful life in, out of (what at times felt like) air, and THIS--THIS WAS SUCCESS. It didn't matter who ever saw this work. It didn't matter what I was or was not being paid. It had nothing to do with reviews or professional buzz; nor my theater's real-estate, or geography.

It was about the nature of the work,
It was about the people I was working with,
And how I felt about myself within the context of all of this.

To summarize:

Success is not about what you do. It is how you feel about what you do. 

And by that definition, Arlington was, in every way, my life's greatest "success." It was an absolute touchstone moment in both my life and career.

And thus, it feels incredibly right to be revisiting the piece again in an extended form.

In a way, it feels like a reward. Not for artistic prowess, mind, but more of a nod from the Universe. A confirmation that the pure motives of a pursuit of excellence, of loving your work, of working hard, and of truly allowing your work to be your calling card...? Well, it proves that integrity always presents you with the very best of gifts.

Please join us at The Vineyard Theatre. 

*

It's a sunny day and Sara Jane is valiantly trying to keep it that way. Her young husband, Jerry, is away at war - and though Sara Jane believes in the cause, nothing has seemed quite right lately. Especially the last few messages from Jerry. At least she has her piano - and Jerry's bourbon - to keep her company as she tries to figure things out. But how far will she go to keep the impending storm at bay?

ARLINGTON is a stirring, funny and powerful new work from playwright/novelist Victor Lodato and award-winning composer Polly Pen. (An inaugural version of ARLINGTON was commissioned and presented by PREMIERES in New York City; Paulette Haupt, Artistic Director.) The Vineyard Theatre (108 E. 15 St.) has announced previews set to begin Wednesday, February 12 prior to its official opening night on Sunday, March 2. 

Carolyn Cantor will direct, featuring set design by Dane Laffrey, costume design by Jess Goldstein, lighting design by Tyler Micoleau, and sound design by Dan Moses Schreier. The Production Stage Manager is Megan Smith. 

For performance and ticket information to ARLINGTON, call The Vineyard box office at (212) 353 0303 or visit www.vineyardtheatre.org.

Genre Matters

A few weeks ago a student of mine asked a very legitimate question about naturalism on stage. He wondered why when he went to see "Newsies" on Broadway everyone wasn't the pinnacle of naturalistic acting-- why things may have appeared exaggerated or the term I would prefer which is enhanced.

My answer?

     "Genre matters."

A satire is not a tragedy is not a musical is not a comedy is not Commedia is not a farce is not a history is not naturalism. 

That would be like comparing altos to oranges. 

So what is a genre exactly?

Genre (from 19th century French, "kind" or "sort") is defined as: a category of artistic composition characterized by form, style, or subject matter; whether written or spoken, audial or visual, based on some set of stylistic criteria.

Genres are formed by conventions that change over time as new genres are invented, and the use of old ones are discontinued. Often, works fit into multiple genres by way of borrowing and recombining these conventions, a Venn-diagram of theatrical chemistry! Meaning: a history might also be tragic, or a farce might be simultaneously musical and satiric.

Wikepedia (as always!) helps us expand our understanding here:

Genre began as an absolute classification system for ancient Greek literature. Poetry, prose and performance had a specific and calculated style that related to the theme of the story. Speech patterns for comedy would not be appropriate for tragedy, and even actors were restricted to their genre under the assumption that a type of dobber could help.

In later periods genres proliferated and developed in response to changes in audiences and creators. Genre became a dynamic tool to help the public make sense out of unpredictable art. Because art is often a response to a social state, in that people write/paint/sing/dance about what they know about, the use of genre as a tool must be able to adapt to changing meanings. In fact as far back as ancient Greece, new art forms were emerging that called for the evolution of genre, for example the "tragicomedy".

Genre suffers from the same ills of any classification system. Genre is useful as long as it is remembered that it is a helpful tool, to be reassessed and scrutinized, and to weigh works on their unique merit as well as their place within the genre. 

Genres tend to shift with widely observes social norms, and to reflect the sociological "spirit" of an era. Genres also, regardless of the art form in which it is utilized serves as a kind of "shorthand." Most of us read, watch television and go to the cinema in some form or another, and the shorthanded difference between reading a "Romance" versus a "Sci-Fi Fantasy," or, shelling out £16 for a "Thriller" versus a "Rom-Com," is as crucial as salt on the popcorn.

So. "Genre matters." 

Then I said this:

Truth.

Friends I Admire (and Why) - Part 4

Beverley Klein

- So mischievous, and fun, and smart, and sensitive all at once!
- Smart as a whip.
- She spells her name with a third "E." Classy.
- No matter where she lives, Bev always seems to have a comedic, omnipresent seemingly un-fixable leak in her bedroom. 
- She's a true "chum" (to use her extremely British, and accurately descriptive word). Nothing in the world can rip us to bits! Distance. Time. "Age difference." "The show being over." I feel as close (if not closer) to her today than I ever have, and more so all the time... So there. True chums.
- About a year or so after (brilliantly) playing Golde (my Hodel's mother) in the last West End revival of "Fiddler on the Roof," Bev and I walked into a hair salon so she might take a peak a few products. The owner of the salon looked at us for a minute or so then asked if we were mother and daughter. Beverley and I looked at one another and got quite verhklemt (as Golde and Hodel might say), both somewhat bashful about how touched we were to be considered related in real life. It was a sweet little moment.
- ...And it illustrated something I loved so deeply about her: Beverley is a strong woman—she was born in Post-War North London, she doesn't suffer fools, she speaks her mind, and doesn't like when a lot of fuss is made about nothing. But there is a tremendous difference between strength and imperviousness. Beverley is neither hard nor soft—she is neither and both. For Beverley Klein is also a woman of deep feeling, profound emotional intelligence, and warm, true connections to people, things and causes that matter; and that lovely sentimental side creeps up like a swelling inner ocean at only the most sophisticated of moments.
- She has the best and most beautiful

1. Smile
2. Mouth
3. Teeth
4. Sparkly eyes, and
5. full-throttle LAUGH

Ever.  

- I call her "Bluma." She calls me "Scmulie." It's our thing. We're "Blu and Schmu."
- Beverley is on that emergency list of people that if I suddenly decided to have some sort of "shotgun wedding" and I had to call 10 people and tell them where to show up...well, suffice it to say Bev would be on that list. And she'd not only show up. She'd show up early, in a cute outfit, and probably offer to sing "Always a Bridesmaid."
- This woman is talented beyond reckoning. I would go anywhere to witness her perform. Watching Beverley work has been some of the most valuable hours I've spent in the theatre. She taught me almost everything I know (but didn't quite learn "in my bones" as a youngster, if you will) about objectives, motivated action, getting inside the skin of a character, and honoring their story above your own ego, and perhaps best of all, searching your soul and asking what you specifically have to "say" about a character.

"Mikey" and I... age 17/18

Michael Arden

- I've known him through not one but two name changes.
- I love the way his brain works (in super-hyper-blinding-mind-boggling creative overdrive)
- I love the way he sees the world (with hope, humor, compassion and wonder)
- He is the most multi-talented human I have ever met in my life. (Who is smart, acts like a genius, sings like a God, writes prolifically, produces, directs, composes, plays piano AND is that good looking? I... just don't know...)
- He was my Prom date. In fact, I would wager we've been to more High School Proms together than  anyone else in history (aaaaand that would be 3).
- He was also on my arm at my Broadway debut. Full circle beauty right there.
- We were Georg and Amalia. Archibald and Lilly. Charlie Brown and Lucy. Tony and Maria. You get the idea...
- He was the sole voice singing at my father's funeral.
- He came to The Woman in White twice (even though, as he said "I already knew her 'secret'...")
- We have this thing we do where I quite enjoy putting my nose in his belly button for personal amusement.
- We also have this other thing we do where the presence of the other makes us obliged to eat ALL THE FOOD ON EARTH.
- He believes in me. And because I admire him so much, it helps me believe more fervently in myself (particularly on the days when it feels very hard to).
- No one—and I mean NO ONE ON EARTH—makes me laugh like Michael Arden.
- He's the friend that... WRITES YOU A PLAY when he's 18. In fact, writes you a play and then 11 years later writes a part for you in another play. 

...and at Broadway debut in 2011

- Michael and I met at summer camp in 1999—paired together in our advanced acting class (that incidentally also contained still-friend, colleague, and Tony-nominee Santino Fontana as well as "Chosen Sister" photographer extraordinaire Arielle Doneson) in a "content-less scene—" (where you use vague standard dialogue to apply any number of circumstances.) Well all I can say is that it was magic.
- I don't think either one of us had ever in our young lives met another person with whom we had felt such an intense creative affinity, and I will go so far as to say I have never quite found anything quite as intensely in sync as it ever again. Michael and I were the kind of partnership that required little to no discussion; a silent, utterly synchronicitic link that allowed us to flourish profoundly in our formative years. I have met so many incredible artists along my life's path—as I know he has as well—but there is something to be said for the person you first shared that spark with, the first person to explode your sense of what is possible, and in doing so, not merely create beautiful things together, but make you better at everything you ever attempt to create again. 


More friends I admire:

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Thank you, 2013

Dear 2013,
Thank you.
You were, in many many ways, the best one yet.
Here's to more adventures.

More...

Healing
Teaching
Circus time (though probably no more circus folk)
Las Vegas
Blizzards
VERY serious homemade educational videos
Singing
Creation
Polka dots
Parsifal
Business with the sea
Margaritas
Snowmen with friends
LA
Opening nights at Carnegie Hall
Orchestras
SERIOUSLY SANGING
New York City
Allowing
Miami
Renewing old friendship
Creating new friendship
Letting go
Getting better
Random acts of kindness
Dreams coming true
Tying up loose ends from the past
Multitasking
Big big birthdays!
San Francisco
"Aunt Al"
Quality time with family
Finishing of novels
Spontaneous road trips
Skinning dipping in the middle of the night
Photographs
"Slutty Slutty Lemonade"
Weddings
Putting 'the past' in the past.
Slumber parties
Lip-syncing
Reunions.
Smoothies
Trips to the Cider Mill
Kick ass parties at my house
Drives to Cape Cod.
Solo adventure days in new cities
DIY
Brand new material
Difficult choices
Wonderland
Detroit
Saying "Yes" and "Why the heck not?"
Giving Thanks
Learning all over again
Learning about constructive confrontation
Scene work
TRUTH
Taking real time to reflect.


Sincerely,

Al

xo

 
Thank you 2013. X from Alexandra Silber on Vimeo.

Ask Al: 'Hydrogen'

So often, I get asked a similar version of basically what I consider to be the same artistic question.

Variants include:

• How does one make boundaries between bringing one's own life experiences in to their work?
• Who do you trust? 
• What is enough homework?
• When are you "done?" 
• Where is the "line?"
• What is "good" versus "bad" acting/singing/art?

Wanna know what? I don't know.

A couple of months ago a student pleaded for me to give her a concrete answer about emotional memory. She loves black and white answers--and she is not alone! A lot of people do.

     "Where do you draw the line?" she asked.

I sighed.
Because creation is never about the concrete answers, the knowns, or the black and white.

I looked at her and smiled before I said.
     "I don't know. Where do YOU?"

This is Art.
The Answer is NOT 'Hydrogen.'

Artists must (and generally speaking, human beings probably should) be willing to live in the "grey zone." To not only live there, but set up camp there! To revel in the unknowns. To bask in the reality that artistic creation, just like life, is not a science, it is an art.

Not everything can be weighted and measured, observed objectively and empirically, nor should it have to be. The truth is: there is no formula for creating the perfect work of art.
Would a "paint-by-number" be considered a work of creative art for a visual artist?
Probably not.
It doesn't work that way.
There is no ideal portrayal.
No quintessential composition or peerless poem.
And why? Because art, by its very nature, is subjective.
The lines are blurry. The areas grey.
Because the answer is not hydrogen. 

Thus, when endeavoring to be a better artist, once must accept that there is no perfection to attain. There is no "A" to get.
There is no race being run.
There is no chemical recipe you can whip up to "complete the assignment."
If you think there is, I would wager (and wager a lot) that you are the one creating those restrictions, and that reality around yourself.

If one accepts those truths, there will be freedom.
Where previously there was effort, there will be energy.
Where once there was stridency, there will be allowance.
Not only will your work be better, but YOU will be better.

It's not that Art isn't about hard work--because it is.
But Art is about the right kind of work. 

The answer in ART is NEVER 'Hydrogen.'
The answer in LIFE is hardly ever 'Hydrogen...'

... Except, ya know... when it is.

Such as here:

What is the only element with three naturally occurring isotopes?

And here:

What is the lightest gas?

And here:

What is the element which derives its name from the phrase "water forming"?

And on the Match Game.
...except the answer is actually "peroxide..."
So...
The Answer is Not Hydrogen there either.
This clip is merely amusing.

"Fear not..."

'The Maid-Servant At The Inn' by Dorothy Parker

"It's queer," she said; "I see the light
As plain as I beheld it then,
All silver-like and calm and bright-
We've not had stars like that again!

"And she was such a gentle thing
To birth a baby in the cold.
The barn was dark and frightening-
This new one's better than the old.

"I mind my eyes were full of tears,
For I was young, and quick distressed,
But she was less than me in years
That held a son against her breast.

"I never saw a sweeter child-
The little one, the darling one!-
I mind I told her, when he smiled
You'd know he was his mother's son.

"It's queer that I should see them so-
The time they came to Bethlehem
Was more than thirty years ago;
I've prayed that all is well with them."

- Dorothy Parker

Friends I Admire (and Why) - Part 3

Frances Thorburn

• Just the most creative, deeply feeling, and beautiful soul I've ever met.
• Frances Thorburn has THE BEST LAUGH I've ever heard.
• She is self-proclaimed to be "delightfully bizare."
• She writes stunningly beautiful music and poetry. 
• When she is proud of you--you feel it in your cells.  
• Did you tune in for "Dum Dee Tweedle?" Well... she is the direct inspiration for Tweedle Dee. As in: ...I basically copied her voice. Her adorable self, with her Glaswegian brogue and signature enthusiasm for mischief. 
• One time, we discovered that strawberries look like tongues!
• She has endured, without question, the most senseless, profoundly difficult circumstances and still managed to soar. 
• She loves her food. Particularly blueberries! And "quiche for one!"
• Psssst.... Franny's a bit of a Scottish celebrity doncha know. Well... at least she is to me. What do I mean by that? When I was a still a student in Glasgow I attended the theatre all the time, and Frances Thorburn ALWAYS. MANAGED. to be in the cast. I am not exaggerating! That lassie was everywhere! "Frances Thorburn" became synonymous with "Scottish Theatre Actress." So when I saw her on the first day of rehearsals for Fiddler on the Roof, I freaked! I knew so much about her work. I tried to play it cool (but we all know how that goes for Al Silber...) Thus began the Tevye's Daughters' catchphrase: Frances Throburn: Scottish Celebrity.
• When Franny and I first met, we were both in the throws of a great deal of personal "shrapnel--" by which I mean, in recent years we had both dealt with extremities of human experience. We were both raw and quite tender. And even though we had a lot in common, we also handled and viewed life with a lot of outward differences. We both worked quite hard to overcome our natural social tendencies, cultural differences, as well as a strength-and-sensitivity balance to forge one of the most successful, fruitful and important friendships in our both of our lives. Franny is one of my best friends on earth. I have never felt far from her-- no matter how much time passes, no matter how far away we are geographically. She is truly a sister--and I am certain it was because of the efforts we made all those years ago.

Nick Westrate

• He is the Lenin to my Trotsky. (Meaning: we are partners in 'crime'-- prescribing to the same artistic philosophy, but we go about it in different ways. I wanna talk it all out and feel my feelings, and Nick likes to do all that plus blow up the building...)
• My true “teaching partner.”
• He is the friend who tells you the truth even when it may be hard to say and hear. 
• He is one of those friends you learn from all the time. Nick Westrate is the friend that 'makes me better.' 
• He supports the artistic endeavors of his friends at every level, in the most gracious manner possible. (He gives you that standing ovation [if you deserve it], and has applauded me both in the West End and waaaaaaaay downtown...)
• He took a bus to come to my father's funeral....so... 'Nuff said.
• He has a cat named Jane. Her full name is Queen Elizabeth Nancy Pelosi Pussy Jones. Jane for short... Of course.  
• Believes there is nothing a good dirty martini can't cure.
• He fights with all his soul for causes he believes in. Fights to the death.
• He is from Southwest Lower Michigan... which means he knows the 'Glove Love...' WORD.
• Without a doubt, the peer artist I probably revere and look up to more than any other.

Alley Scott

• ALWAYS 'there' (at both, say “the hospital” as well as at, you know: Carnegie Hall)
• World class snuggler. 
• We are Team AMS! We are both "Alexandras" with middle names beginning with M, and surnames beginning with S... thus, we are "Team AMS!" Our motto? GO TEAM! 
• She is THE BEST HIGH-FIVER I have ever seem in my life. She High Fives with more enthusiasm then a head-cheerleader on a caffeine trip. 
• Throws one helluva party. 
• Enjoys a Christmas Tree ornament collection (that is, for the record, mighty impressive.)
• She is 1/3 of "The Alexandra Sisters."
• One helluva cook. (Her philosophy is "Fat. Salt. Sugar. Done.") 
• In fact, she is that friend you call 24 hours before a party you are throwing for waaaay too many guests and emit your emergency cry for help of "MUSKRAT!" Then, instead of just talking you off a ledge? She offers to COOK ALL THE FOOD FOR YOU...  
• She is the most extraordinarily gifted visual artist.
• ...as well as insanely photogenic.
• She is that friend you can call upon to 

1. drive you to the airport at 6am on a Thursday
2. or last-minute read with you at an audition 
3. or pick up your mail from the hateful Queens post office 
4. or drink a bottle of tequila with... ya know--BECAUSE, 
5. or cry andcryandcryandcry and then laugh with, because if she has driven you to the airport at 6am on a Thursday there is nothing left to hold back.

• She is my emergency contact. That sh** is real.
• She is both left-handed AND a red-head... and you know how I feel about aaaaall of that...

More friends I admire:

Part 1
Part 2

The Laugh

(3 seconds after the reception)

The Funeral Reception of Doom did—eventually—end.

dessert at Fran's: WORD.

After an hour or so, our numbers dwindled. The remainder of our group (which included my mother’s friends, as well as a handful of mine who had gotten the entire weekend off from college), piled provisions and headed over to The Steinman’s house for what could only be described as an epic dessert wake. It was time to cut loose at our very own “Second Funeral Reception,” which eliminated the crazy people and included everyone’s very favorite thing: dessert.

 Those Upstairs People needed to get lost before we all kicked off our Sunday shoes right onto their shiny Cadillacs. Before a rogue Sunday shoe knocked some ancestral luminary over and broke a hip. I quashed the impulse to shout, Look, I know all of these bozos came to this funeral thinking they were going to corner me and force me to apologize, but I’m not going to do that. 
Furthermore I actually need to go somewhere. 
Somewhere important. 
Like Fran’s house for cheesecake...

That evening at The Steinman’s was the reception I will always choose to remember—when everyone relaxed and smiled and celebrated not only Dad’s life, but life itself—friends gathered together from every corner of the country, eating delicious food, telling stories, recalling memories, and performing parlor tricks as only theatre people can. If one had looked into the window of The Steinman’s house that evening, to see our faces you never would have guessed it was a funeral—exactly the kind of party Dad would have hosted.

But that had to end too.

After we helped Fran clean up and pack away the treats, everyone had to head back to their hotels, schools, or lives, and only a remaining few of us ambled back to 1367; full, and numb, and literally everything in between.


*

With our numbers dwindled and our bellies full of flambé, the remainder of us at 1367 gathered in the very seats the Enemy Forces had occupied hours earlier.

After a while we decided we needed “real food.” So Mom made guacamole. (What? That is real food.) Utilizing thirty or so avocados, she whipped up her—pardon the expression—killer recipe and put it in a giant salad bowl (accompanied by two bags of donation tortilla chips someone had given us), and we inhaled this all on the hand-painted Haitian coffee table my parents acquired in Port Au Prince circa the late-70s.

Besides Grey, Lilly and Kent, only Jessica and Jeremey were to remain at 1367 for the night. Jeremey was occupying the place with a sense of real ownership—I suppose at the time he knew the place far better than anyone. He belonged there.

Jessica did too—she was the unofficial 'Mayor' of our inner circle and my other dearest friend. Jess and I had a proclivity for long journeys taken together deep into the night. The previous summer we’d roomed together while working at the Interlochen summer camp, and had driven to lakes for midnight swims, to the “E-Z mart” for emergency Popcicles. No to mention a magical drive to Honor, Michigan where we stared at the stars on the hood of her vintage pickup truck.

We decided to take a walk in the oddly warm October evening. It smelled of first fires and Michigan musk, the kind of evening that makes you think you are within the pages of a nostalgic novel. The sky was like a painting—deepest purple at the edges with a brick-colored moon, and leaves dried, glittering like precious metals of gold, amber and ruby. In hindsight I think Jess was trying to give me permission to let go with her, to give me safe passage away from the public stage of grief and family and even our friends.

But the truth was, even if I had wanted to let it go I didn’t know how.

Saying as much, she took my hand and we walked in silence before coming upon the local High School Homecoming dance, which we promptly went to (for about twenty minutes), laughing our heads off at the oddity of it all before turning back. To this day, we fondly recall the night of my Dad's funeral where we...ya know, went to Homecoming.

Last to arrive home were Grey, Kent and Lilly— they’d dropped everyone off at their buses, airports or various hotels.
     “We come bearing more food” Grey droned. They entered holding enormous bags of food from their various drop-off points, though no bags larger than the ones beneath their eyes, “luckily the German couple down the street also plied us with fancy 17% alcohol lager which I will now be setting a direct I.V. up to if anyone else is interested…”
     “Me...” muttered Kent, and the boys withdrew to the kitchen to do exactly that.

Lilly was silent as she entered the front doorway, soundlessly removing her clogs, sighing as she tucked her short hair behind each ear with her precise wood-winder’s fingers. She made her way up the three little steps from the entrance to the main living room. She looked exhaustedly over all of us, looking exhaustedly back at her. No one spoke. It was hard to discern what Lilly was about to do.
Then, in her own bewitching way, Lilly did something that in hindsight seems so achingly inevitable it is a wonder we ever hesitated to wonder otherwise:

She laughed.

It started modestly— a little chortle in her distinctive way, all charm and delight and Virginian sunshine fed by exhaustion, sorrow and utter disbelief at all that had transpired. The look on her face as the laughter escaped her open mouth was brighter than any sunlight, and it flooded through the living room, drenching us with its radiance. Lilly laughed and laughed, hysterically cackling into her hands until she ugly cried.
How could we not join her?


Something had tilted. This was it— the end of the line. You are here the imaginary sign proclaimed! We had reached it— this burnt out, fully smoked, nothing-left-but-the-filter, cigarette stub of this raw, preposterous week had come to an end.

Lilly’s laughter spread, and caught us all. The room erupted, everyone clutching at the arms and legs of another member of this ragtag crew, not ceasing, but growing, the sound of it mounting as tears flooded down our faces and we hit our chests in a desperate attempt to breathe.

     “What’s so funny?” the boys asked, entering from the kitchen.
Soon they were guffawing too. Overwhelmedness took us over, and, in safe company at long last we were free to share in a seismic earth tremor of sleep-deprived hysteria.

We all knew we were gathered for a sober purpose, but holy hell did it felt good.
Even at the end of this horrible day, we found a way to laugh.
All together.
To eat guacamole.
Because that is how any day should end— whether it be a funeral, a hanging, a luau, your quinceañera or just Tuesday.
And though I have never been part of a street gang, I would wager that this kind of camaraderie felt pretty close— the kind of feel good we-sure-weathered-that-storm-together type togetherness that put one in the mood to play chicken and steal a stop-sign.


I never would have believed it, but as I rolled on the floor, face aching, lungs positively burning from the sheer strength and necessity of the laughter, I knew:
     somehow,
     someday,
     it was all going to be alright.

100%

 

Give all you have today. 

That is all you can give.

But do give it all. 

Wolfgang & Wonderland

LIVE TODAY at 3 pm EST (GMT-5) on www.dso.org/live: 

I am so excited to return to the Motor City to create the role of The Narrator in this world premiere of 'Dum Dee Tweedle' on tomorrow's live webcast. It's a crazy and amazing role (featuring my first-ever use of Glaswegian accent for Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee!), and I cannot wait to share it with you all! 

Watch & listen free, Sunday at 3 pm EST (GMT-5) on www.dso.org/live.
[Live from Orchestra Hall is presented by Ford Motor Company Fund and made possible by generous support from The John S. and James L. Knight Foundation.]


Maestro Leonard Slatkin leads the live webcast of 'Wolfgang & Wonderland!' 

DSO Concertmaster Yoonshin Song plays Mozart's second violin concerto, and an all-star cast performs the world premiere of Pulitzer Prize winning David Del Tredici's Alice in Wonderland-inspired 'Dum Dee Tweedle.'



Music Director Leonard Slatkin's championing the use of technology here in Detroit and across the pond at Orchestre national de Lyon to share live presentations of music with the world is a marvel. 

Read his latest HuffPost Arts & Culture blog about live webcasting and the orchestra's "move to the Internet."