Designer's Notebook: Why We Have A Body at Strawberry Theatre Workshop

Mahria Zook as Renee and Alyssa Keene as Lili.
Photo by John Ulman.

Last night I opened my sixth show of 2017: Why We Have a Body by Claire Chafee at Strawberry Theatre Workshop here in Seattle. I was brought onto this project about seven weeks ago in a hurried conversation with director Rhonda J Soikowski who reached out to me on the recommendation of one of her colleagues. Rhonda pitched the show -- a four-hander that explores the role of gender, sexuality, mental illness, and family and was a sensation in the 1990s. Immediately images of pleated pants and shoulder pads flashed through my head.

Just a month before this call, I had made a decision to be more picky about the shows that I take on. My more stringent criteria was not about pay or working conditions but about the mission of the organization and/or the voices that would be amplified by the project. Coming off of one big musical with over 80% white or white-passing actors in the cast into a three-hander with an all-white cast and creative team, and then going into production managing and designing for Sound Theatre Company's Hoodoo Love by Katori Hall, there was a light bulb that went off in my head. I could only give my energy and life-blood (which is what we freelancer do give) to companies and shows that put their money where their mouth was and elevated under-represented and vulnerable voices in order to disrupt the white supremacy we are all now too familiar with in Trump's America. (Yes, duh.)

Rhonda's call and request for me to squeeze Chafee's non-linear, monologue-filled examination of women writing their own definition and future in a patriarchal world was my first test of my conviction. I had planned August to be a month of recuperation and preparation for the last of my 2017 shows. And yet, this was not a case of not being able to say no, which I definitely am afflicted by. This show was calling to me.

Back in my Feminist Theatre class in grad school at UNC Greensboro, I wrote a paper called "Becoming a Feminist Designer: Troubling the Traditions of Design." In the paper, I dissected traditional theatre design techniques and pedagogy using a third-wave feminist framework. It was the beginning of putting into words something I had long felt in my bones: my identity is imprinted on my designs and adds (positive and/or negative) value to them. And, by that logic, so does the identity of any designer. Thus, who is designing a production is as important as who is directing it, who is acting in it, and what it is about.

But I was only scratching the surface, struggling to apply inadequate language and theory to something much, much bigger than this.

Enter intersectionality.

Coined by civil rights activist Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw in 1989 essay, intersectionality is the complex, cumulative manner in which the effects of different forms of discrimination combine, overlap, or intersect. Now, in 2017, intersectionality is being used to expand our understanding of identity, white supremacy, and white privilege.

I have a more indepth write up about what I'm beginning to coin intersectional design practices (instead of feminist design theory), but the gist of it is that, as a designer, you have to interrogate your own position of power and privilege, interrogate the expected audience's, and then, and only then, do you start to break out the design decisions that build the world or clothe the characters. (Again, more later.)

So, back to Why We Have a Body for which I acted as the costume designer.

In Chafee's stage directions, she explicitly calls out various costume needs like Mary's orange coveralls and Eleanor's bib-waders, but it is in her stage directions for Renee, the married paleontologist caught in a love affair with female private investigator Lili, that demands an understanding of gender performance of the 1990s -- because that's when the play was written (and our production was set) -- and that of 2017. While in Mexico, trying to patch things up with her perpetually off-stage husband, Chafee's stage directions read, "She gives a tiny wave. Picks up his wallet, and she picks up his watch and puts it on. She feels its weight on her wrist...feels what it's like to wear a man's watch. She stares out." In that little ellipses, Chafee is telegraphing the subtext of Renee's navigation of her identity just a few scenes after we've heard her say to Lili, "Maybe I'm a man. Is that a possibility? I feel like a man..."

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.

I'm not going to do a thorough job unpacking this -- this blog post is not intended to be an academic paper -- but can you see the power of identity, gender performance, and power all wrapped up in the act of a woman wearing a man's watch? Layer onto that the very real trajectory of gender expression in the 1990s LGBTQ+ community, what was fueling Chafee's script, and this costume/prop piece is explicitly emblematic of what each stitch of clothing means in conveying character to drive the narrative as well as bring the audience along on that journey.

This stage direction is an explicit demand of Chafee that particular attention had to be paid to the costumes of these characters. As a cis-gender, heterosexual female, I knew I needed to rely on the authorities in the room to guide me. I had to unpack my privilege and experience to know that while I might think something looks right or is the right price, I am not the authority on that.

On the night of preview, I gave the actress a new watch -- we had been using a personal piece that I didn't want to risk during the show -- and while it fit as a 1990s men's gold watch, on stage it read more as a woman's watch. I saw it that way, from the other side of the audience. But, more importantly, Rhonda (the director), who had told me in my initial phone conversation about the personal connection she has with the play as a "lesbian of a certain age", told me it wasn't right. Because--and this is why intersectional design is more than just applying an understanding of the intersections of oppression and power but is in fact about navigating the intersections of the history of that oppression and power as defined by modern, regional, and generational understanding of our world--what a 2017 audience knows as an undoubtedly "heavily coded masculine" watch (which were the exact notes in a rehearsal report for the watch) is an almost comically large metal watch.

While there were so many other in-depth conversations about the costumes as they pertained to the presentation of each character that I could go into, the story about the watch is the epitome of how design must take into account everyone from the playwright to the director to the audience, and also the designer herself.

It was a such a wonderful opportunity to hone my definition and understanding of the intersectional design process with a play that demands it. I'm grateful that I said yes and I hope that, in my more curated 2018 season, these opportunities will multiply. But I am also excited to start formulating and sharing out this philosophy with the world.

--

See Straw Shop's Why We Have a Body by visiting the brown paper ticket page.

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.

Pericles or How I Learned to Stitch

As promised, an entire blog post dedicated to my design of Shakespeare's lesser known play, Pericles, at Shady Shakespeare this summer.

The summary of the story is that King Pericles goes on a journey to find a wife and ends up visiting all kinds of strange lands. The director for this show, Shady's resident dramaturg, had been working on the concept of Pericles being set in space rather than the Mediterranean for seven years, and finally it came to fruition in this production. Each land Pericles encounters represented  a sci-fi/cult-classic/other planet from many well-known movies and TV shows, from Flash Gordon to Star Wars to Mortal Kombat.

I became the Costume Designer for this show after the concept had been fleshed out in design meetings. And while I did create the sketches and make some artistic decisions, I cannot take credit for much of the over-arching concept of what lands would be represented and by whom. The whole thing was an adventure that rivaled the epic story Shakespeare wrote.

Pericles' home planet of Tyre was that of the venerable Star Wars Jedis. He wore the many-layered Jedi tunic, obi, shoulder armor, and robe. And his most trusted advisers were modeled after very iconic Jedis from the many movies.

He visits the land of Ming the Merciless as well as a Klingon planet.

As you can see, the costumes were the most important part of telling the story of where Pericles journeyed--the scenery was a unit set and had only a few elements that changed.

Perhaps my and the audience's favorite part of the entire show was the lightsaber fight.

Yes.

Lightsaber.

Fight.

Each Knight was a different kind of sci-fi character, much decided by the actor themselves.

From Left to Right we have: A Tron-ish, Mandolorian-ish fighter; A White Samurai; A Darth Maul-ish Character; A Matrix-inspired Fighter; & Our lady fighter in a bit of goth mixed with Tron.

I'll leave you with one more image that needs no explanation.

Please visit my website for more!

The project was eventful and hard. The performance space was in the Sanborn County Park in Saratoga, and so everything was remote and out of the way. I'm sure I shouldn't assume all summer stock Shakespeare will be like this, but I don't know if this kind of work is really for me. In the end I did 10 loads of laundry and took pounds of dry cleaning to the cleaners.... Can't wait to put this all behind me.

Radio Silence Over

You know how it is, you put something off for so long that getting back to it becomes harder and harder. Especially as a blogger, where do I begin in the time that I've been away. How long do I push the rewind button?

So much has happened.

I finished up the drop I last wrote about and never got any kind of production photos.

I supervised the costumes for Broadway By the Bay's The Marvelous Wonderettes and taught children at Pied Piper Players's inaugural summer camp.

Teaching children about theatre is the most rewarding, and I had my first experience working with a child with Asberger's. It was a challenge, but I felt very good about how everything went.

This is the cast and staff of Charlotte's Web. I love this picture of everyone and you can see the awesome backdrop the kids designed and painted!

And our small but mighty cast of How to Eat Like a Child. You can't see it here, but they also designed and painted two legs. This was a great group.

Possibly the most exciting bit of work I did this summer was a design for Pericles at Shady Shakespeare Theatre Company. I have some great images from that show and will be uploading them in a blog post all their own.

So, this summer was a success in the freelancing world, although I nearly dropped dead the week that Pericles was teching and we were finishing up the second session of camp. I've got some fun projects on the horizon, most notably working on BBBay's A Chorus Line and a few actual designs. I'm also going to try to get back to blogging. No more excuses because we're all caught up!

Oh, also of note: Working on my biggest design yet: My wedding!!!

Ask and You Shall Receive or How I Became a Freelance Theatre Artist

So that we are all on the same page, let me recap that I'm wrapping up week three of my open-ended hiatus from CTC. And I've got my form all ready to send to unemployment. And I've still got bills to pay. And CT and I've pretty much decided we're going to (have to) stick it out in our one room apartment for a little while longer.

Our apartment. That is not our bed, just our couch.

But in true self-sufficient, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps-fashion, I've been sending out applications and résumés since before I was officially on hiatus. I am happy to report that all of my efforts and frantic e mailing has paid off. Here is how I've been making/planning to make money since April 23:

Week One: Résumé and application blasts to theatres and craigslistings all over the place. By Tuesday I had two interviews with non-theatre companies, one an supplementary education company (read: after-school enrichment center) and one with a print company. The first interview I apparently bombed and the second, the print company, I was hired on the spot. Hooray! I started training the next day, Wednesday. For two days I gave it a go. At $12 an hour, doing graphic design and answering phones and running xeroxes didn't seem so bad. Except I was going to be the only person doing that and was expected to be so awesome I could replace the woman who'd been working for that particular company for over three years and knew all of the account abbreviations and quirks like the back of her hand. It wasn't looking good.

Also on Wednesday, I went to an interview at SJ Rep for a box office assistant position. Many of you may remember I did a stint at The Dallas Opera's box office when I lived in Texas and loved! it! Turns out SJ Rep uses the same ticketing program, had someone leaving the fold, and hey, they wanted to hire me. $9 an hour with hours fluctuating from 10 to 30 a week... well, I thought, it's something. And it's something that is flexible and low-stress enough that I could do other things. So Friday morning I quit the print company, thanked them for the opportunity, and drove to San Mateo to open Pied Piper Player's Once Upon a Mattress.
 

The Queen tries to make Winnifred as sleepy as possible.

Week Two: More résumés and applications including bookstores and Starbucks. Pretty much anywhere I thought I might be employable, I applied. But things that week were pretty low-key and boring. I worked on my friend Margo's website and even my own website. (BTW, now offering portrait and wedding packages!) On Thursday I trained at the SJ Rep Box Office and it was like riding a bike. Sure, there were things that they do differently than the Opera, but it was pretty easy and I felt good about my choice to take the job. And on Sunday I struck Once Upon a Mattress and got the last of my paycheck from PPP and made plans to talk about other work with the company.

Week Three: (That's this week) Everything started to fall into place. Monday I had lunch with the Artistic Director of PPP and we worked out a plan for me to come aboard as the Production Manager for the company, teach during their conservatory, and designing on a regular basis. Tuesday I went to visit family in Oroville.

My sister Hannah and nephew Hunter

Wednesday I worked at the box office. And then yesterday, Thursday, I got a slew of e mails and had two meetings that resulted in 3 gigs (one painting a backdrop, one designing costumes, and one costume supervising) and a call to work over-hire on a load-out for a theatrical supply place in the area. Bada-bing, Bada-boom.

I've done the math. It's not spectacular money for the amount of work, but it's close to what I was making before. And it's on projects ranging from Shakespeare to Gilbert & Sullivan. Which is pretty neat. The thing that has kept me from doing freelance work before is the difficulty at keeping sane. What do I mean by this? Well, in a 9-5 job, even in theatre, there is structure. You go to work, you complete your work, you go home. Sure there are crazy days during tech week and strike, but those are planned in advance, you see them coming, and time is allotted for them and subsequent recovery. As a freelancer, that is on you. Working with five different companies means that you have to be sure that tech weeks aren't going to collide and that you'll have enough time to complete fittings and paint flats and whatever has to happen. And then there is the travel time. And gas. When you work at one theatre you go there and come home. Some traveling may occur for the company, but life is contained. When you work for five different companies you're running all over the city, or in my case, all over the bay area, trying to get everything sorted and done. Sure some work can happen at home (especially costume-related work), but mostly you go to their space and use their tools and then you drive somewhere else the next day... it gets overwhelming.

But perhaps the biggest stress about being self-employed, working gig to gig, are taxes. I've never had more than one 1099 a year, so while a pain, it was pretty straightforward and didn't change my taxes that much. But with this much gig work, I'm going to have to do quarterly taxes or I'm going to end up owing hundreds of dollars I've already spent come April of 2013. I'm not sure why companies can't take taxes out. Okay, I'm sure it has something to do with paperwork and calculations that are far beyond just issuing a check, but can't there be a way to make this easier? Can't there be a way to take the burden of this off the artist? More importantly so that the artist doesn't accidentally spend money that really has to go to the federal government??? For now I just automatically deduct 20% out of the fee and put it in savings. And now with quarterly taxes, I won't get hit with a big OUCH! next year.

So now I can call myself a freelance theatre artist. And really raise my parents' anxiety levels. Woo.