Gesamstkunstwerk: The Total Work Of Art

The Flying Dutchman @ The Seattle Opera, 2016
Directed by Christopher Alden, Set & Costumes Designed by Allen Moyer, Lighting Designed by Anne Miletello

Last night I had the pleasure of going to see The Flying Dutchman at Seattle Opera. At times both awe-inspiring and sleep-inducing (specifically when the super-titles go out during the Third Act and you can't understand German), the production was just what I needed.

I began my love-affair with opera in high school, taking part in Seattle Opera's education program that brings high school students from area-schools in to see dress rehearsals of the productions. I found this opportunity late in my high school career, because it was, oddly, administered by our Latin teacher and senior level English teachers. However, as a theatre student, the opportunity to see the scale and scope of opera was eye-opening and as much a pivotal point of deciding to be a scenic designer as anything.

Not surprisingly, my exposure to opera trailed off while in school in Iowa, but was reawakened when I moved to Dallas, Texas and took up a part-time job in the box office at The Dallas Opera. As a part of my work in the box office, I was encouraged/required to attend dress rehearsal performances of the shows in the season. The first production was Verdi's Macbeth, directed by Bernard Uzan and designed by Robert Israel. Interestingly enough, a new production that premiered the year before at Seattle Opera.

Paying witness to the entire 2007-08 season at The Dallas Opera played an important role in shaping my design aesthetic as well as reminding me how much I wanted to be designing. The term Gesamstkunstwerk, popularized by Wagner to explain his aesthetic ideals, translates to "total work of art", "ideal work of art", "universal artwork", "synthesis of the arts" etc. Wagner in particular used the term to explain how all art could be unified through theatre in his essays "The Art and Revolution" and "The Art-Work of the Future". More than Wagner's (and subsequent aesthetes') use of the term to speak about control as an artist, this philosophy appeals to the artist in me that loves theatre (and opera) for it's most important and unique quality: collaboration.

Sitting in the audience of Dutchman last night I noticed a few things that only my particular brain would pick up on. The first was the rapt attention paid by a full and age-diverse audience. I've seen opera in San Francisco, New York, Greensboro, Dallas, and Seattle. Last night was one of the more multi-generational audiences and I think that had much to do with the fact that this production, originally devised in 2010 in Canada, brings the opera not only in content into modern times, but also in aesthetics and quality. Compare the above image with the below, from the Seattle Opera's rental page for their 1980s Dutchman.

The Flying Dutchman, Seattle Opera 1989/90
Directed by Stephen Wadsworth, Set Designed by Tom Lynch, Costume Design by Dunya Ramicova

The new, arguably Brutalist, set design by Allen Moyer I saw last night is striking, not only because of the dynamic yet sparse use of the stage, but also because that box and the wheel and the staircase are it (plus cameos of some chairs, tables, and a sail). That's both ships, the women's work space, the meeting hall. It is everything. After 2.5 hours I wanted there to be a little more dynamic use of the space. But to the average audience member, the simple nature of the space on stage allowed for the sung-story to take center stage, which, in turn, allowed for the emotional turmoil of the characters to be a stronger point of reference than many traditional stagings of opera allow. Furthermore, a simple design like that encourages the audience to play an active part in constructing the visual narrative of the space. It commands imagination. And, the creative team's choice to do that means that it trusts the audience not only to fill in those visual blanks, but also to be a part of the evening of storytelling in a way that, I'd argue, otherwise makes opera feel stuffy and flat to a generation that suckles so heavily at the teat of Hollywood. It expands the collaboration of the the art form to include the audience. It is a more total work of art.

Working part time at The Dallas Opera and other Dallas-area theatres, many of the traditional theatre people thought I was working on the productions at the opera and they scoffed at the "opera people" and the aesthetics of opera. I rarely corrected them, but I did talk about how exciting it was to sit in the dress rehearsals and see such grand designs. My excitement fell on deaf ears. Designing for opera exists, in live performance, at the pinnacle of little-to-no budgetary and scale constraints, which is generally why productions go into the vault to be rented out or revisited so often. Unfortunately, the recycling of past productions has also bred an expectation among a segment of opera patrons for "traditional" and "classic" designs. (I spoke to many TDO subscribers who were not fans of the 2007 Macbeth we'd brought from Seattle because of it's, also, Brutalist/modern design.)

In turn, the expectation of recycled performances bleeds out into the lay-persons perception of opera. Because it's not only the designs that are recycled. Often it is the staging and the impulses behind the show. Any performer can tell you that replaying the same thing over and over again is a monumental hurdle to overcome when trying to breath life into a character. Add onto that the language barrier that usually exists when viewing opera and, well, a night at the opera can feel tedious, maybe even deadly. This attitude towards opera is only magnified when dropped into a den of theatre people who already have Opinions about theatrical form and what is "worthwhile" on stage and off.

My point, however useless as just a freelance designer in Seattle, is that the poor opinion of opera (specifically by theatre practitioners) is really misplaced. As evidenced by the positive response across a multi-generational opera audience as seen at The Flying Dutchman last night, there is a desire to see new and innovative work. But, more importantly, there is much that even older productions can teach designers. I think back on the production of Faust I dragged a poor, unsuspecting date to at San Francisco Opera in 2010. It was a very traditional design and staging. It was hellish (pun intended) to sit through the three hours of the production and stay awake. However, the style of stage design that uses forced perspective as well as a heavy-handed color-coding for costume design is what I'd read about in the history of theatre design. To have the opportunity to peek back into working history, on occasion, is a reminder of where we've come from as a field of art and, thus, where we need to keep going.

I hope that more new productions of contemporary and older operas are developed by opera companies across the country. I think about the excitement around developing Moby Dick, which premiered 2 seasons after I left The Dallas Opera. The newness about it, though an old tale, breathed new life into the opera companies that have chosen to produce it. It got people in the door to not only see what a newly written opera looked and sounded like (in English!), but also suggested that the art form was maybe not dying after all. And, not unironically, I hope that it will get recycled in a city near me some time soon so I can see a live performance of it.

Are Musicals Trying to Kill Me?

South Pacific @ Seattle Musical Theatre

I had a wonderful meeting with a Producing Artistic Director yesterday who is considering me as a designer for his next season. As is the case in many of these meetings, I was asked to talk in-depth about the process of one my most recent projects. Given that it just closed, the topic at hand was my costume and co-scenic design of South Pacific. More than just a conversation about how it went, I was asked a question I've been asked by many non-theatre people: How did I manage to do a show with so many costumes with such a small budget, no help, and a tiny stipend? Well, most non-theatre people ask simply, how do you do that? But behind both questions is the same implied question: Are you crazy?

My husband, who has seen me through five years of freelancing as a scenic and costume designer, has, on numerous occasions, questioned my sanity when I tell him about a costume design I've been offered. He knows, as a former pit musician, that musicals are not small. He also knows, as the poor soul that has yet to have a dining table to actually dine at regularly since meeting me, the work needed to costume 10-30 people in multiple, dance-worthy costumes is no small feat. And he has, on more than one occasion, tried to talk me out of certain projects because, he says, the work I do on musicals might kill me.

But the reality of the situation is that while musicals can be deadly theatre, they are not actually out to kill me.

Musicals, like any show, require organization and communication. If those two things are in working order, death is not a given.

Organization is in the hands of the designer. I read the script, I create character and costume plots, I make lists, tables, graphs, on and on and on. Organization is at the heart of any successful completion of a project. Even those artists that are messy and scatter-brained have an organization somewhere in their head. Often, though, because bringing elements of a theatre design (be it lights, costume, or scenery) from idea to fruition is not only affecting that artist, many theatres have shops and staff and assistants that help keep those artistic souls on task, or at least organized, despite themselves.

When you're a freelance designer at the community or fringe theatre level, you're often on your own. Especially if you're the costume designer. Rarely do companies have costume shops anymore, or if they do, they're not staffed. Here, use this space to sew, by yourself, in the wee hours of the night, if the machine works...? So, organization is key. Part of being organized is time-management and budgeting for the show. Again, in (more) professional theatres, designers are not responsible for these. As a freelance designer, it's a one-woman show. As any work-from-home-type will tell you, a schedule is key to getting up and doing your job every day. I can't tell you how many times I've squeezed in an hour or so of sewing in my PJs before heading off to my day job because, if not then, when? And when it comes to budgeting for the show, well, that's just common sense. Keeping track of expenses as you go allows you to manage your expectations as new ideas come from your director. But, more importantly, it either keeps you off the hook in accounting for the money you were advanced or keeps the company on the hook for reimbursing you. Be it a show of thirty or a show of two, organization is how I, as a designer, can manage any given project. Part of that organization is being able to accurately manage incoming project requests. Can I actually pull of a 25 person show in 2 weeks? Not unless you pay me enough to take a leave of absence from my regular job. Etc.

And now that you're ready to quote Robby Burns at me with "The Best Laid Plans...", I did mention another piece that was required: communication. Say it with me: COMMUNICATION. Unlike organization, this is not solely in the hands of the designer and this, my dear friends, is what is like to stab you in the back and kill you dead while working on any show.

A designer can do her due-diligence in this department by attending all production meetings, responding to all outstanding requests, asking questions about things that need to be asked, send e mails, warn producers the show is going over budget, contact the stage manager when actors don't show up for fittings, publish inspiration boards for the entire cast, etc etc etc. A designer, however, cannot force the director to respond to her e mails about character tracks for the ensemble. Or the stage manager to send out rehearsal reports. Or the choreographer to answer questions about dance shoe needs. Or the accountant to send a budget advance. Or the production manager to make keys available to stock. And the list goes on. These are the things that make designing a show with no shop, no assistant, no stitcher, no dresser, or no help apt to kill you. Or me, as these are all things I've experienced, often on the same show. And, on a musical, where the demands on costumes can be exponentially greater due to choreography, blocking, and, so often, the scope/time-period of the story, these little communication issues start to magnify really quickly. So quickly.

So when asked how/why I keep costuming musicals with the implied whisper of "you're crazy", my response is often this: I am good at what I do. Musicals are by no means my favorite genre to work on and I welcome a nice one-era, afternoon at tea drawing room show. However, when you've proven yourself a master of 75% of the mathematical equation of costuming a show (let alone actual design skills), you're going to get called back because the producers can tell when things fell through because of a disorganized, non-communicative designer or some other piece of the puzzle. Musicals also pay well because, hey, they are a lot of work. Now, when you find me taking on another musical for less than a grand without any help, then, honey, crazy and likely to die, I am.