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.

How To Succeed in Show Business... if You're a Girl

The Seagull opened on Friday and in celebration and thanks I brought cupcakes in for my carpenters that afternoon. I had been promising them these baked goodies for about two weeks when I had decided I wanted an excuse to bake again. I used them as leverage when they were not doing things right, but always in a tongue-in-cheek kind of way. But as we neared opening and their desire to have cupcakes was synonymous for the show to be over and done with, I felt that the exchanges about the baked goods started to construct a mother-children relationship between myself and the carpenters. It felt troubling, but I still brought them in and shared with not just the carpenters but the lighting designer and her MEs, the stage manager, and the costume designer and her shop leaders.

Then, last night, I was reading Tish Dace's article "Designing Women," which discusses the role of women designers on Broadway and the uphill battle they have faced to become part of the men's club that controls the designer role sheets in NYC. Dace profiles Jean Rosenthal, the mother of lighting design, and explores how Rosenthal adopted a "quiet, non-confrontational , and meticulously polite demeanor" to earn the respect of the men that worked for her in order to survive in a "profession hostile to her sex."

Jean's quality of tranquil impersonality was not real. It was self-protective. She had a hard time in the theatre. There was a constant and long-term and even violent opposition to her from the electricians because she was a woman [...] and show business is death on women, especially in the technical end. She had to weather it, so she cultivated a great invulnerability, along with her courtesy, to deal with this. (135)

Dace discusses Rosenthal's personality traits in depth because it played a large role as to how she became as successful as she was in a male-dominated business with this new form of design. She quotes Rosenthal (and a number of designers in the article) as admitting that part of their battle was knowledge; a female designer has to know everything forwards and backwards, or their precarious status will topple with ridicule, distrust, and disrespect.

Of course this got me thinking about the process for Seagull and how my experience echoed Rosenthal's tacts, even though I was working in the supposed bastion of equality that is educational theatre.

I have always felt that as a female designer, "knowing your shit," as they say, is a huge component to surviving the process. That is the primary reason that I chose to attend graduate school rather than just trying to hop from assistant job to assistant job, hoping to weasel my way into an actual design position. They cannot argue with another three years of schooling putting more tools into my toolbox. But on the flip side, especially on the scenic end, knowing the design mechanics backwards and forwards as well as carpentry skills, is not always how you want to portray yourself. Sometimes, the damsel in distress is the preferred method, which gets you into trouble in more ways than one.

One of the things I struggle with on a regular basis is remembering (yes, remembering) that I am a very capable, knowledgeable carpenter. I have been wielding tools since I was in grade school, and my ability to construct and assemble various items both in and out of the theatre is, in my opinion, as good as any man because of my years of experience. But at some point in my undergraduate work, at the great institution of equality that Grinnell is, I started to act like I was as incapable as many of my peers who hadn't spent years working in their high school scene shop. My mentor, the design professor who designed both lighting and scenery for the school, a talented, opinionated woman, asked me to her office one day after watching me work in the shop with the fifth year intern (who was male) and told me to stop acting like I didn't know what I was doing. I was shocked. I hadn't realized that I had reverted, and after our talk I became painfully aware that I seemed to have this mental block for owning my aptitude and skills. To this day, even during small home projects, I am sometimes pleasantly surprised to be capable of simple tasks.

I think this adoption of a damsel in distress notion goes hand in hand with the need, as noted in Rosenthal's story, for the female designer to be a polite, reserved member of the artistic team. Despite the passionate volatility that is often associated with artists and designers, we female designers must remain courteous and calm. I know this for a fact because we had a number of discussions about "how nice and kind" I was to the carpenters on Seagull. And how much they appreciated that I didn't yell and curse whenever I was unhappy (and, trust me, there were plenty of times that I was fairly unhappy). Instead, I would parody other angry designers that had worked on shows at UNCG, never once really getting angry. (The closest I came was when I saw another foot print on the black-painted ground row only a few hours after we had painted them to cover other foot prints. I cursed and threw my damp rag on the ground, but I was only heard by the person standing next to me, not the entire theatre.)

Then, sitting in tech, my adviser leaned to me and gave me the same note he intoned during the Angels in America process last semester: You're in charge. You can be angry when things look horrible. I struggled with it during the previous process in part because I knew that I could get angry until I was blue in the face and the first-year run crew was never going to have the crisp, urgent movements of a professional run crew, but also because I didn't want to come across as "the angry, demanding designer." This time I still shied away from being terribly vocal about the things I didn't like, but I did feel capable of discussing the issues with the other designers, both of whom were women. I did also find a mode to deliver my thoughts to the stage manager and run crew that I felt didn't come across as a tyrant but also expressed my demands as important because my design was important.

I worry about the passive role that is set before me, both by my own doing and the gender dynamics that exist in this male-dominated field. I have watched women designers (and directors) in regional theatre settings and feel comfortable with asserting they have adopted this "quiet, non-confrontational , and meticulously polite demeanor" in order to garner the respect of the men under them. When I analyze my adoption of this tact, coupled with how I rewarded my carpenters (all male, save one) with cupcakes, I feel the natural role I am filling is that of "Mom." And while I am generally a very maternal person in all of my interpersonal interactions, I don't think this is a good role to hold as a professional scenic designer.

Is there a balance? Can I be less polite and calm and still get people to do the work for me? Is it more than a tact to survive and more a personality trait? What came first, the chicken or the egg?

I suspect I will be pondering these questions and my demeanor as designer for many years to come. But for now, I suppose as long as I also get rewarded with a cupcake and my set is by far the best I've done in my career, I can't complain too much.

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Dace, Trish. "Designing Women." Women in American Musical Theatre: Essays on Composers, Lyrcists, Librettists, Arrangers, Choreographers, Designers, Directors, Producers and Performing Artists. Bud Coleman & Judith A Sebesta, Ed. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2008. 130-154. Print.