Your Gender Politics Cannot End at the Wings: Seeing Richard III at Seattle Shakes

Sarah Harlett as Richard III and Suzanne Bouchard as Buckingham. Photo by HMMM Productions

Last night I went to see Richard III at Seattle Shakes, produced in partnership with upstart crow collective. Last year I saw Part 1 of Bring Down the House, which enthralled me, as it did most of Seattle. At the time, my concerns over representation on creative teams was nascent and not fully formed. So forgive me for not having written about this before.

From upstart crow's website:

upstart crow collective was co-founded by Betsy Schwartz, Kate Wisniewski and Rosa Joshi in 2006. We are dedicated to producing classical works with all-female casts for contemporary audiences. Focused on telling story and living characters honestly on stage, our work is text centered and visually imaginative.

What an amazing, admirable mission. Really inspiring for me (user of she/her and they/them pronouns) to read and then absorb their work. Shakespeare has always felt too elite, too wordy, too distant for me. Even when I've designed for Shakespeare, the dated gender politics frustrate me, especially when I'm responsible for clothing the female-identified characters -- often in modern dress -- to fit in with the tropes of womanhood: virgin, mother, whore. So to get the opportunity to take in the power and politics of the histories told by some of the most formidable performers in the area who would not otherwise get to play these lords and princes and kings: awe.

And then I look the production team page.

And my heart sinks.

First, let me be clear that I admire and respect every single designer who worked on this production and really loved their choices and designs. This is not commentary on what was represented on stage by their artistic vision. I also recognized that the same creative team worked on Richard III also designed for Bring Down the House. And that there is great comfort in not having to re-establish visual language and vocabulary when taking on adaptive work that is risky (yes, all female-presenting performers doing Shakespeare will probably always be risky even if you've proven it's amazing).

However... why is the design team still a representation of our male-dominated theatre field? Set designer, lighting designer, co-sound designer.... all  male-presenting if not -identifying designers. Costumes, props, and co-sound designer are holding down the other part of the identity pool, but that's pretty normal for our industry. Check out this HowlRound report from 2015 if you'd like statistics to back this up.

Yes, this frustration about the utter lack of representation at the creative table comes from a selfish place. Let's just get that out there. I see my male-counterparts get asked time and again to do scenic designs and I look at my resume--MFA, Award-winning Designs, GENERAL AWESOMENESS--and ask why not me? And then I get the call to design costumes for that same show and I'm like, cool, my chromosomes dictate where my skill lies.

But this goes beyond me. And gender. While it's easy to be frustrated that theatre, as a field, is lead by cis-het white dudes when you're definitely not checking many boxes in that identity, it's even more angering that, in the name of equity, diversity, and inclusion (EDI) as well as novelty and marketing buzz, theatres are mounting these amazing productions that examine how stories can change, grow, and deepen when the bodies presenting them (aka performers) are as diverse as the population in 2018.

And that is really important.

However, the people who are creating the world of these gender-swapped, racially diverse stories ALSO have to be a part of the under-represented groups. The voices around the table making decisions about architectural angles, ephemeral lighting, and subconscious-gripping sound cannot continue to be (cis-het, white) men if we're truly going to end white supremacy and patriarchal control of our art form.

I look at the production team of Richard III, and my first frustration comes from the male-domination in those creative roles. And then I look on stage and see the choice of director Rosa Joshi to pit the transcendent Porsche Shaw as Richmond, savior of England, against the gripping, equally-talented Sarah Harlett as Richard III, twisted monarch, and I cannot help but see (and feel) the politics of 2018: a Black leader (dressed in white, shout out to the costume designer) standing above the slain White leader (still dressed in black), declaring victory and peace for England.

The conversation expands, knowing full well that the racial and cultural identities represented on that list of creatives are dominated with whiteness.

The set design, along with lighting and sound, create the container of the production. It sets the tone, the visual language, and the boundaries of the world that the story exists in. When producers and producing companies do not consider who is making those decisions -- sure, to be molded by a director who often does sit at the intersection of multiple marginalized identities, but damn that's a lot of burden for one artist to bear -- they are continuing to bound the story by cis-het white male privilege and thinking (and art). It's hidden to the audience, the donors, the media. But not to the performers and the members of the creative community. We see this inequity, we can feel the oppression of decisions that impact our identities (in June 2018, American Theatre Magazine published an article that discussed how the white-gaze plays out in lighting design -- where designers have to light all skin tones).

If we are going to turn a corner as an artistic pursuit, our equity and inclusion politics cannot stop at the wings. We need to infuse our creative teams -- and our admin teams -- with the voices of everyone who resides in our universe in 2018, but specifically with the ones that we haven't been hearing or listening to.

I want to be hired. But more importantly, I want to see the world through intersectional eyes.

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.

Catharsis: The Royale @ ACT

Show: The Royale: A Play in Six Rounds; by Marco Ramirez

Theatre: ACT; Seattle, WA

Tickets: ACT Pass

Date & Time: Sunday, September 26, 2016 @ 2pm

Okay, an important bit of information is that I went to see this play after spending around 24 hours over 4 days taking an ArtEquity intensive. For four days we worked on establishing a basis for understanding and identifying white supremacy, oppression, and inequalities due to gender, race, sexuality (to name a few) in society that have been perpetuated for hundreds of years in our country. It was a very intense experience and to finish it off by watching a play that drives each of those points home was, as my title alludes to, an extremely cathartic experience.

The Royale is inspired by the historical, groundbreaking boxer Jack Johnson who was the first black heavyweight champion from 1908 to 1915. Ramirez's play explores Johnson's story leading up to his first fight against the fictional white heavyweight champion Bernard "The Champ" Bixby. The script deftly runs Johnson's desire to be the best boxer alongside his struggle against racism and Jim Crow Laws, pitting his egoism and selfish lifestyle against his dedication and love of his sister. The play itself is beautiful and cutting at a time when our nation is struggling with extreme violence against men and boys of color. During an interview with press, Johnson tackles the fact that his athleticism and talent are explained away by the fact that "his kind" are prone to violence, so of course he would be drawn to boxing.

But, as is the case with many plays, it is the entire package that makes this a memorable show. Because I follow these things, I was excited to follow the interviews and write ups about director Ameenah Kaplan's approach to the show. Kaplan was part of the original company of STOMP and, per her wikipedia page, has been drumming since age 12. Her relationship with movement and percussion shine through the staging of The Royale. As she says in the interview found in the program, "...rhythm.... It calms, it soothes, and it informs." The rhythmic performance of the script, from the boxing moves to underscoring important lines, most definitely informs the story and pushes this play beyond a simple "based on the life of" and into the realm of immediate, necessary, and heart-rending.

I also must comment on Carey Wong's beautiful set. If you know anything about my own aesthetic, it will come as no surprise how much I believe that the bare stage of this show with just four stools is exactly what this show needed. The barebones of a boxing ring, the platform allows the story, the words, the people to take precedence over the visual world, which is exactly how scenery should act. It also makes the moment when the boxing ring is created for the final face-off of Johnson that much more powerful. The caging of "the grizzly bear" is complete and the audience can't help but be struck by Johnson's courage in the face of societal and personal demons.

But more than the excellence of this production, which ACT rarely disappoints on, is how important it is that this story was chosen for the main stage season of a LORT company. When so many seasons at the leading theatres in Seattle and the country are written and directed by and starring predominately white males, to have a production that celebrates and analyzes the racial injustices of then and now while celebrating talented artists that are often relegated to second string companies is important. My ArtEquity training is showing, but I have been so disappointed by the lack of diverse stories available to my communities by the theatres I work with and/or admire. The day before I attended this performance, I was fortunate enough to attend The Black Women Wisdom Summit, curated by Valerie Curtis-Newton and hosted by The Hansberry Project and Intiman Theatre. During the rich, honest conversation between the 11 black women playwrights and Curtis-Newton, a simple truth of the lack of diverse representation became clear. Dominique Morisseau said it best (and do go read the article/transcript from Seattle Weekly linked above for more pearls of wisdom):

"Whose universe? Saying that work should be 'universal' is code for work that should be appreciated and understood by a white audience. So universal becomes code for white, and then we’ve got a white universe, and I’m like, hold on. The thing about universality is that we are all a part of the universe, so every work is universal. And if you aren’t writing from a specific place, where are you writing from?"

This question of "where are you writing from" can be broadened to include directors and designers who shape the world on stage, and the artistic teams that are programming what worlds are on the stage in the first place.

If you are on the fence about seeing this show, go! It runs through October 9th. There are a ton of ways to get discounted tickets at ACT that you may not know about. Including Pay What You Can on Sundays, $20 on Tuesdays, and $15 tickets to students/Under 25! You will not be disappointed to spend your money to see this production.

--

And now, some stats:

# of Actors: 5
# of Female Characters: 1
# of Non-white Characters/Performers: 4

# of Artistic Team Members Listed on Title Page of Program: 9
# of Female Artistic Team Members: 4
(including: Director, Costume Designer, Asst Lighting Designer, and Production Assistant)

Then is Now: Daisy @ ACT

Quarter-Inch Scale Model of the Set Design of Daisy
designed by Shawn Ketchum Johnson

Show: Daisy; by Sean Devine

Theatre: ACT; Seattle, WA

Tickets: ACT Pass

Date & Time: Friday, July 29, 2016 @ 8pm

I went into this show 100% skeptical that I'd enjoy myself. A play about the advertising campaign to elect Lyndon B Johnson in 1964? Didn't we JUST do this at The Seattle Rep and Oregon Shakespeare Festival with All the Way and The Great Society? Why are playwrights so obsessed with this time in American politics? As a 32-year-old, the pitch of the parallels of the political climate of LBJ's terms with today feels more like a half-ass attempt to make a story that appeals to the majority of the aging theatre audiences appeal to my demographic and younger.

Which means that I was pleasantly surprised by this evening of theatre.

It started by attending the ACTPass Member Party on the roof of ACT. As a former audience services employee, I was totally down to be on the receiving end of the carefully constructed social event to entice members/subscribers to feel invested in the theatre beyond the usual ticket purchase. That is why I was able to snap a picture of the set model above. Peppered around the room that the gathering was held in were costume plates, scenic drawings, and models for Daisy and the shows that had come before (Stupid Fucking Bird and The Mystery of Love and Sex). As a designer, this kind of insight is super cool to me and I always nerd out over seeing the art that will be full-scale, 3-D that evening. I was not the only person inspecting these artifacts, so I know it's not just my specific brand of nerdiness that this appeals to.

Once we sat down to see the show, I was immediately impressed with the scale of the wall of TVs that was created for the show. An innovative way to both incorporate the media that the story of the play centers around, but also allow for projections that indicate place, time, and other story elements that advance the story. Interestingly, my date for the evening, a friend from high school, and I compared notes about the first TVs we remembered being like one of the TVs in the back wall. Despite our generational distance from 1964, we still felt a connection to it. This got me to thinking about the kind of nostalgia that I worried that this and plays like All the Way and The Great Society produce in the average theatre patron of the large theatre houses. Looking around the audience last night, I can attest that we were two of the youngest people sitting in the theatre. Even during the usual last-minute rush-ticket seating, the average age of the audience pushed well north of 50.

And that's unfortunate.

Unlike Robert Schenkkan's plays, which really operate as historical dramas of the LBJ presidency, Daisy, while based on true events, analyzes the human component of people grappling with the changing political landscape of the 1960s, specifically the terror that gripped the country on the verge of a war with Vietnam. The play centers around the ethics of a ground-breaking commercial that aimed to paint Barry Goldwater as a nuclear-trigger-happy candidate for president while not outright saying that. The advertising team struggles with the manipulation of praying on America's worst fears in such a blatant way. See the ad below:

As the dramaturgical material in the program and throughout the lobby, it is eerie how many people of America viewed Barry Goldwater as a crazy, off-kilter candidate who could not, should not be the Republican nominee, let alone the next president of the United States. This ad, nick-named "Daisy" by the team, was a calculated move to incite fear at the alternative to voting for LBJ. The team went on to receive harsh rebuke by the public and other politicians, but also to receive praise for the change in advertising tactics that the spot marked.

This glimpse into history is enough to make this play worth a viewing.

But this world-premiere at ACT of a play that they helped develop in the Icicle Creek New Play Festival, is one of the most deft productions I've seen at ACT. From the set design (see more work by Shawn Ketchum Johnson) to the staging, this piece gives me hope that theatre in Seattle is not just stagnating.

That said, I still took issue with some things. In order to diversify the cast, the one non-white actor was a composite character made up of newspaper journalists and civil right's leaders. The female character in the piece existed because the playwright up and changed one of the real-life ad-men into a woman. I appreciate the effort, but let's be honest with ourselves about how the choice to program a play about this time period means that the diversity of gender and race on stage is going to be lacking. To completely change historical characters so that the diversity numbers check some boxes is as much a pandering to the audience as it is a disservice to the people that the story is about.

Also, why isn't this play being peddled in such a way to attract a diverse audience base? As it stands, if this play only primarily reaches the typical ACT audience base, it is a piece of nostalgia (per my anecdotal experience of listening to the audience sitting around us). Without a wider audience base that is younger and more racially diverse, then the lessons to be learned about how we are doomed to repeat our mistakes through inaction at the polls this fall are only things written about in the program and The Seattle Times. And yes, I believe the marketing efforts and ticket prices are as much a point to review as the production itself.

The show runs for another week. I recommend heading out to see it if you can. There are a ton of ways to get discounted tickets at ACT that you may not know about. Including Pay What You Can on Sundays, $20 on Tuesdays, and $15 tickets to students/Under 25! You will not be disappointed to spend your money to see this production. AND you'll likely be more terrified of what we are facing in 2016.

---

And now, some stats:

# of Actors: 6
# of Female Characters: 1
# of Non-white Characters: 1

# of Artistic Team Members Listed on Title Page of Program: 12
# of Female Artistic Team Members: 3
(including: Costume Designer, Assistant Costume Designer, and Dramaturg)

Bubblegum Part 2 : The Mystery of Love & Sex @ ACT

Time to put this idea into practice.

Show: The Mystery of Love & Sex by Bathsheba Doran

Theatre: ACT in Seattle

Tickets: ACTPass Membership

Date & Time: Sunday, June 19th @ 7pm

One of the things I've been told I need to do with these is to lay out my expectations of the show. In that vein I must divulge that I went into this show a little unsure. This was the show that was labeled "bubblegum" by a colleague a few weeks ago. I tried to go into this viewing with an open-mind, but that critique was there and to pretend it wasn't is a disservice. Keeping that in mind:

Overall, the show was good. Despite being three weeks into the run and the last night of a long week of shows, the energy of the cast was there. I was wholly impressed with the commitment to the characters on stage by the actors. I'll admit I spent an unnecessary amount of the first act trying to remember that I'd just recently seen Emily Chisholm in Outside Mullingar at The Rep last season. But I tend to obsess over things like that until I can re-read the program looking for an answer.

Since I chose to lead with the assessment of the energy of the piece, that might point to whether I, too, imagine it to be bubblegum. To be clear, the explanation of bubblegum theatre is: "Sure it has flavors of racial struggle or LGBT oppression or meta-theatrical-revolution. But then you chew on it for a couple hours, it loses all flavor, and it ends up being tossed out with the program." I found myself saying to my husband at intermission, things felt too superficial. There were so many issues being tackled by the play--race, religion, sexuality, politics, socio-economics, gender roles, etc--that no one thing felt, at that point, to be given enough attention to feel worthwhile. I still felt that way at the end of the show, my opinion countered with the observation that, well, isn't that life? Do we actually spend every waking moment dealing with one or two BIG issues or are they all converging at the same time, bouncing off of one another, and changing with every passing moment and interaction? True. And perhaps it's my cynicism, but I want theatre to gob-smack me a little bit more and not feel so nicely tied up in a bow at the end.

And here's an important thing to ask: Am I the intended audience for this play? Or is the intended audience your average person who makes their living outside of the arts and who might, in fact, not question gender and sexuality politics on a daily basis. The average person who needs to unpack their feelings about being titillated by the nudity of the young female character in Act 1 but feeling like the nudity of the young man in Act 2 is gratuitous. Maybe the average person who thinks it's unlikely that both young characters explore homosexual relationships and have no interest in exploring a heterosexual relationship with one another. Etc.

No, I'm not really the intended audience member. The goal of this production is not to wow the theatre artists in the room. If it had been the set probably wouldn't have been such a simple answer to the many locations called for in the play (6, if you're counting, ranging from dorm room to backyard). It was elegant and effective and I think quite well done, but it was, for me with my set designer hat on, a little too static (despite multiple moving pieces). If it had been about the theatre artists in the room, they probably would not have used the door sound effect that I've heard in other productions in the Allen Theatre because for some reason when an actor walks into the vom* we won't intuit they go through an imaginary door in the imaginary walls unless we hear the sound of it open and close. Really, if it had been about the theatre artists in the room, would the play have been presented at all? Or, if it had, would it have been done in a post-apocolyptic, gender-bending manner that so many theatre artists employ to inject something into your average play? Maybe. Maybe not.

So again, the play was good. I laughed. I thought some things (often quickly brought out of deep thinking by the jokes). I even teared up at the end thinking of the meaning of friendship as the bow was tied nicely around the story. However, it isn't going to stick with me long term and maybe that means it's bubblegum. Or maybe it's just a production that exists. I feel neither robbed of my evening nor galvanized to make changes in the world at large or in my small circle of relationships. I could take it or leave it.

And, readers, that's not okay.

Leaving aside my feelings about the aesthetics of the show because, let's be honest, I picked apart the Tony-winning costume design of Hamilton so clearly I'll critique anything, the play itself should move me. I'm still a person who is married; who has questioned her sexuality; who is navigating the building, destruction, and definition of friendship; who has divorced parents; who went to college; who who who who who.... I am seeking, as implied by the title, to solve the mystery of love and sex. For me to have this "take it or leave it" feeling about the play just as an audience member, well, then I, as a theatre-maker, ask: "Why?" Why spend the resources to put that show up? It checks a lot of boxes: contemporary female playwright, diverse cast (25% is black!), dealing with Big Issues of the day (LGBTQ, race, religion, gender), and strong female characters to name a few. But a production should do more then check some boxes, which, when all is said and done, is about what this play has accomplished. Perhaps that's harsh. But let me leave you with this last observation: 35-50% of the house last night was empty and a noticeable amount of people left at intermission. Ticket sales, my friends, are hard to argue with.

And now, some stats:

# of Actors: 4
# of Female Characters: 2
# of Non-white Characters: 1

# of Artistic Team Members Listed on Title Page of Program: 10
# of Female Artistic Team Members: 5
(including: Director, Costume Designer, Production Assistant, Asst. Lighting Designer, & Dialect  Coach)

---
*vom: short for vomitorium

Peer Review?

In my last post, Bubblegum, I discussed Peter Brook's indictment of directors/designers and audience members in their role in creating "Deadly Theatre." There was one other part of the chapter that has been bouncing around in my head, begging for more writing (and something else, which I'll get to in a moment): the role of the critic.

It should come as no surprise that Brook believes the critic's role in promoting deadly theatre is in being too soft and not calling for competence when the piece falters. Brook calls the critic a "pathmaker" towards a better theatre, a necessary part of the ecosystem: "like the fish in the ocean, we need one another's devouring talents to perpetuate the sea bed's existence. However, this devouring is not nearly enough: we need to share the endeavour to rise to the surface." (32) Brook knows that this is not easy for the critic or the artists' on whom the critiques are being made.  Nevertheless, it is necessary as a bridge between the art and the audience. "When the status quo is rotten... the only possibility is to judge events in relation to a possible goal" (32).

There have been countless articles and blogs written about critics in theatre today. In Seattle, the theatre community is very on edge about the role of critics as seen in a Facebook comment discussion  in April of this year after Battleground Productions posted "An Open Letter to Seattle's Theater Community", a satirical lambasting of the critics in Seattle "written" by the late George Bernard Shaw. If you happen to be a part of the Seattle Theatre Artists Facebook page, please, go read the comments. Producers, actors, directors, and even our critics joined in on a, mostly, healthy and civil debate about why the critical response to Seattle theatre has been falling short. Ranging from accusations that only the large theatres are getting print space at The Seattle Times and The Stranger to the usual, touchy belief that reviews are too critical to the point of warding off potential audience members, the conversation boiled on for over 72 hours. Ignoring the personal attacks that floated to the surface, one thing was clear to me: Seattle Theatre Artists are really intelligent, thoughtful people who I'd like to hear more from when they see a show.

And then I read Brook's thoughts:

"It is for this reason that the more the critic becomes an insider, the better. I see nothing but good in a critic plunging into our lives... I would welcome his putting his hands on the medium and attempting to work it himself... [Because the] criticism that theatre people make of one another is usually of devastating severity -- but absolutely precise. The critic who no longer enjoys the theatre is obviously a deadly critic, the critic who loves the theatre but is not critically clear what this means, is also a deadly critic: the vital critic is the critic who has clearly formulated for himself what the theatre could be -- and who is bold enough to throw this formula into jeopardy each time he participates in a theatrical event." (32-33)

I have long wanted to write publicly about the theatre shows that I have seen but have avoided for one very important reason: my career. The idea of reviewing my peers, bosses, and potential bosses seemed like a really bad idea if I wanted to advance in this field. Actually, it still seems like a bad idea. However, perhaps emboldened by Brook's words and my own desire to shape the Seattle theatre community into what I know it can be, I'm going to embark on just that. Kind of.

I am not setting out to be a theatre reviewer or critic in the traditional sense of the term. I'm not going to search out or even take press tickets if they are ever offered to me. I am not aiming to tell audiences one way or another if they should see a show, though that may be a by-product of my writing if more than 5 people ever read my work. I am not going to hide the fact that I am a designer or that I have an agenda in both choosing the plays I see and the ones that I think are important. I am not even going to guarantee this project will last very long.

I am going to be transparent about why and how I am seeing a show. I will divulge how I came by the tickets. I will only write about shows that I see after they've opened out of respect for the preview process. I will be clear about any connections I have with anyone involved in the cast or the creative team. I will strive to be honest and thoughtful in what I write, which brings me to why I am going to try this out.

In life, I try, mostly successfully, to be honest and truthful with people I encounter. I don't talk behind people's backs; anything I say about you to anyone else is something I would say to your face (again, I am only mostly successful in this). For the last nine months I have taken a conversation with a fellow designer to heart: the mark of an amateur is that you do more theatre than you see.  At the time, I wasn't doing much theatre, so I decided to go see it. After every show I had thoughts, so many thoughts! If I'd been so fortunate to have a companion who'd shared my evening at the theatre, then the thoughts could be mulled over, dissected, and processed in conversation. And there it would end. What good does that do? If, as Peter Brook asserts, the critic and the artist has the same goal of shaping theatre into the as yet undefined art-form that is not deadly, then why not make my thoughts more public (and polished). And invite my fellow artists to do the same. I cannot tell you how much more I've valued my peers' opinions about my work, even when negative, over the reviews I've read.

So, after years of contemplation, I'm going to take the plunge and write publicly about the theatre I see. One might call it reviewing, but I hope it will be not only more than but also different than that. I don't plan to write formulaic-ly about the shows--touching on every design element, the directing choices, the stand-out performances--but instead to discuss the things that strike me and also how the show fits into the regional and national dialogues about our art form. And, because I have an agenda to make our industry representative of our society and more diverse in gender, race, culture, ability, among others, I'm going to touch on that when I write. This will probably take the form of a statistical breakdown, but we'll see. Much of this will be a "we'll see." I hope good things will come of it. Perhaps my fellow artists will join me in this endeavor. In fact, I'll be looking for someone to write about my upcoming show at Sound Theatre next month. In the mean time, stay tuned!

___

Brook, Peter. The Empty Space: A Book About Theatre; Deadly, Rough, Holy, Immediate. Touchstone: 1995. Print.

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.

Musings on Hamilton

Go Listen to the Pop Culture Happy Hour Podcast about Hamilton. Do it. I listened to it on the plane ride home and I was nodding along to it the entire time. It's nice because they have a musical nerd and a rap nerd and then normal people. It was a pretty perfectly well-rounded discussion that hits it on the head.

One of the questions I had to answer for myself when my husband and I decided to plan the trip and buy tickets on the orchestra level, was why it was important for me to see the show in NYC, on Broadway, with as much of the original cast as possible. I am pretty sure that my desire comes from both a place of fandom as well as a theatre-maker. As a fan, being able to see the people responsible for the show in the flesh was beyond words. When Lin-Manuel Miranda walked out on stage, the entire theatre erupted in joy, myself included. We knew he was going to be on stage (the program tells you who is performing that night and no other announcements about understudies or swings was made), but it was still pure delight to actually see him. To know that he was going to spend the next 2.5 hours with us sharing his precious musical with us. Truly amazing. Of note, we were fortunate to have the entire original cast perform on Wednesday evening except for Jonathan Groff because he recently left the show and a new King George III (Rory O'Malley of Book of Mormon fame) had been brought in recently. There really aren't adequate words to explain how cool it is to see the people who you've been listening to for months as disembodied voices. It really is the most amazing thing.

In the podcast, they use the word "kinetic" to describe the show. This is a very apt way of explaining what is, for lack of a better term, missing when you listen to the cast album. I'll admit I don't have a ton of recording-to-live experiences to draw upon, but I'd wager Hamilton's particular staging and choreography are in fact very special. The soundtrack tells you the story, you get the wit, the brains, the allusions to musicals and hip-hop/rap styles, and the beautiful music and arrangements. But that's only a part of what makes up musical theatre. The choreography, the blocking, the interactions between characters, the space, the costumes, the lighting... that's what you don't get until you're sitting in the Richard Rodgers Theatre, in the room where it happens.

As a designer, in my opinion the creative team pretty much nailed it. I'd say that the set isn't super special, but it is perfect for the show. It isn't a revolutionary set design, it is form following function, and also pretty to look at. It will be interesting to see how it changes for the tour. While not necessary, the nested turn-tables play a large role in how the show is blocked and how the furniture, which makes each different scene, is moved to and from the wings. For that alone I'll want to see the national tour. However, since the pictures started to come out from The Public, I've had some issues with the costume design. Overall, again, it's a form following function thing. It's pretty, not flashy, it tells the story. The mixture of period costumes with natural hair has grown on me, but sometimes it feels like it falls a little short of being more of a workshop feel vs. a fully realized play. I don't know how I'd have done that part differently, but it is ... something that makes me pause in heaping praise on the costume design. The thing that bugs the crap out of me in regards to the costume design is the ensemble, specifically the women. They had two base costumes:

one that mimicked the male ensemble, with waistcoats over their leggings and with boots

one that had them wearing corsets over their leggings, with high-heels

I get it. It's a way to allow the women to be women in some scenes (crowd scenes, Thomas Jefferson's staff, etc) and still be able to dance. An when they are wearing just the waistcoats, they're soldiers. In this costume, gender is erased from the narrative the way that the casting erases race. Cool. Totally get it. HOWEVER, women in leggings and a corset is ... sexy? It feels more incomplete than the male costumes. It looks more like they are wearing underwear and the guys are all wearing clothes (notice how the men now have shirts on under their waistcoats and we're not seeing their muscle-y, dancer-arms?). It's a small thing. It's a nit-picky thing, but it's also the thing that really shows that the entire creative team is male. And, to be sure, we don't know that Paul Tazewell (costume designer) didn't try something different, but... the final product is allowing the male gaze into the conversation when, in other places, gender is neutralized. So, that's my one complaint that, even seeing the entirety of the costume vision, still remains.

And, I'm going to dedicate an entire paragraph to tell you how the lighting design was one of the best parts of the entire show. Musical lighting is an entirely different beast than doing design for a regular play. It lives in this place that straddles reality and rock show. And this lighting design does just that. The entire ceiling of the stage was solid black with lighting instruments. Usually musicals are pretty light-rig heavy. However, I've never been in a space where I've only seen lighting instruments. In part because many other musicals rely on things flying in and out. I think the only thing that flew in were lanterns. So the lighting designer got to use up the air for all kinds of moving lights, LEDs, specials... the works. And DAMN, he deserves to win the Tony, no questions asked. When describing the aim of lighting design, it is often described as "painting with light." Using light to evoke mood, place, time of day, and enhance the physical world is a tall order. For the most part, as a designer, you want your design to support the story but not be visible. Something the audience appreciates -- hey, I could see their faces or hey, that sunset on the back wall was pretty or hey, when Sweeney Todd slit their throats, the red lights helped heighten the drama -- but for the most part isn't really its own character in the story. And that's not because it can't be but because it's really, really hard. It's better to aim to be a supporting, unobtrusive character because if something goes wrong (the actor misses their cue/light or the cue is called in the wrong spot or, heaven-forefend, the instrument doesn't work) it won't be noticeable. And then there are shows on Broadway in which the lighting design is more rock show than just lighting their faces. Hamilton is one of those and so much more. The designer very much painted with light. During the songs where the hurricane in Hamilton's life is evoked: there was a hurricane on the stage floor. When Hamilton is walking when it's "quiet uptown" those same lights made cobblestones for him to walk on. When Hercules Mulligan jumps out in his solo song and when the Marquis de Lafayette sings his song and when Burr sings "The Room Where it Happened" the lights were bouncing all over the place and would give a Beyoncé show a run for its money. AND IT WAS PERFECT. Perfect. Not too much, not too little, but magical and a way to direct focus and enhance the story. If this was what I was told lighting could do before I started down the road as a scenic/costume designer, I'd have more seriously considered lighting design. That's how amazing the damn thing was. (AND, let's not forget, that the reason it worked was because the stage manager did an amazing job calling the show and the cast hit their mark, EVERY SINGLE TIME.)

Lastly? I have to speak to the ensemble nature of the show. Arguably, typical musical structure really exists as a star vehicle. There are solos for the main characters, supported by the ensemble, then they leave the stage, the story is advanced with some big, flashy ensemble numbers, and then the stars come back on and sing, etc etc. This show doesn't do that. From the cast album you know that Leslie Odom, Jr. as Burr sings most of the show as the narrator. That's unusual to have one person carry both the narration and an actual character story line so exclusively. Listen to the rest of the show. Renee Elise Goldberry as Angelica sings the beginning of "Quiet Uptown"... why? It's moving to have Angelica sing that song about her sister and brother-in-law, but it's not necessary as part of the story, really. You have a sense when you listen to it that there is an ensemble nature to the performances, but when you see the staging, you see how the director has characters not in the scenes pay witness by being on the balcony of the set and in the wings, watching. It's a small thing, and again, most lay audience members aren't really going to get it on a conscious level. But they're going to have a sense that the telling of the story belongs to everyone on stage. Especially with the picking out of ensemble members to play the small but important parts: Charles Lee, Sebring, and George Eaker (they guy who duels with Phillip Hamilton). Those are ensemble members who dance and sing their asses off THE ENTIRE SHOW and then KILL IT in these parts. This is all a part of the nod to the over-arching theme that LMM is playing with right in the middle of the show: "You have no say who lives who dies who tells your story." Or, in the opening song when the cast sings "We're waiting in the wings for you." The breakdown of the fourth wall is there, subtly, but there to remind us that we're not watching a period drama about our founding fathers, we're watching talented, diverse people of the twenty-first century celebrating the life of a man who we've nearly forgotten using the tools we have now.

The ensemble nature of the show is related to the little lines in the album that some people have nitpicked. Three examples: When Hamilton says "That's true" after the tidbit about how Martha Washington named her feral tom cat after him. When Jefferson says "Don't act surprised you guys 'cause I wrote 'em" after he references "Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness" during "Cabinet Battle #1". And when Adams says "Which I Wrote" after Jefferson (?) mentions the Bill of Rights a scene or two later. They all feel a little weird when you're just listening to them out of context on the album. But when you see how they are delivered to the audience (in the case of the first one), to a cast member who is just off stage with no lines (the case of the line from Adams), and a combo of both (in the case of Jefferson), you see, I'd wager, the evolution of the show through being performed by living breathing, talented actors. I can't say (maybe it is clear in the book that just came out about the process of writing the show), but I'd say these are examples of how the final script is often created in workshop and performance because, hey, theatre is not just what's written on the page. Theatre is an alchemy of the collaboration of so many artists coming together to tell a story and that is what makes it special and important as an art form. And that, specifically, is how Hamilton has become the phenomenon it is. When you read the articles and statements from artists about Lin-Manuel Miranda, from the beginning of his career with In the Heights, the guy is generous and humble and welcomes people in to his process from beginning to end. And he's brilliant with words and music and form and everything.

In the podcast that I linked to above one of the people mentions that sometimes she gets annoyed with the overwhelming response to the show, how it has become such a huge, commodified cultural phenomenon that exceeds what most theatrical turning points (Rent, The Lion King, etc) have been granted by the world. It can be annoying, but then she reminds herself that it's giving power to people like LMM and Leslie Odom, Jr. and Daveed Diggs and Renee Elise Goldberry and and and for their next project. It's gilding them with praise and granting them a place in cultural history that transcends Broadway and theatre and will propel them, as amazing artists and, more importantly, generous souls to help change the world we live in. And that is what makes all of this so incredibly exciting to be a theatre-maker during the time of Hamilton.

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.

Sew, This is What You Have To Do

My apologies for the silly pun in the title, but how could I help it? What is this blog entry about: sewing. Specifically, the importance of being able to sew if you are a scenic designer/painter/carpenter/prop master. Yes, seriously, even if you have a penis.

So I learned to sew from my mom when I was young. She actually sewed me clothes and costumes and barbie outfits. Yep, my mom is pretty awesome. This is her the spring after I was born (it's the most readily available picture I have of her and I like it):

I never really thought much of sewing until I got to college where I had to sit through the "costume" portion of stage crafts. Basically, we sewed on some closures (button, hook and eye, skirt hook, etc) and learned to use the sewing machines and serger. I was pretty proud of my ease with all that, and low-and-behold, after successfully completing Intro to Stagecrafts, I got a job in the costume shop. And my knowledge of basic sewing blossomed into the awesome power to whip stitch, cut patterns, and be awesome. Yeah, that's right, working in the costume shop makes you awesome. (I apparently like the word awesome tonight.)

Even when I transitioned into the scene shop at Grinnell, I kept working in the costume shop because I was a work study student and I wanted to work anywhere but the dining hall. This lead to an tell-tale event my junior year. I was assigned to assist a visiting scenic designer. I had not met him until the first production meeting, which was at 4:30pm on some weekday, after my weekly shift in the costume shop. Before the meeting, I was happily hand-sewing a strip of fabric to the inside of a kimono collar. I had about 5 inches to go and the meeting was just down the hall from the costume shop, so I figured why not take the project with me and finish sewing while all the grown ups talked about the show. During the introductions, the scenic designer shook my hand and said, "I see that you can sew." He had a bit of a glint in his eye, and the next day I found out that my primary job as his assistant would be to hand sew the tatami mats (we were doing a Japanese play, can you tell?). I never set foot into the theatre during the entire process because he kept sending me down to the costume shop to sew props. I am still a little bitter about it, mostly because it was my first assist on a scenic design and I really didn't do much scenically.

However, since then I have put my sewing skills to great use in a non-costume way. From building a crazy quilt for a production of Intimate Apparel:

To sewing 6 32'x5' lenghts of white polyester together to create "Antarctica" for Angels in America:

To repairing a scrim after an actor rammed a piece of scenery right into it during a performace.

But other than being able to put my sewing skills to good use, my knowledge of sewing and fabric and even costume construction means that I can make better decisions as a scenic designer. For instance, when I came up with the idea for Pericles last year, I was drawing upon my experience with the variety of fabrics I had worked with in creating dresses and flowing costumes. I could articulate how the design of fabric panels spoke to the costume designer's ideas about Diana's costume. Overall, I would not have felt so confortable including such a dramatic design element without the knowledge that my years of sewing for pleasure and theatre had taught me.

This is all to say that, be you male or female, learn to sew! And stop complaining about it. Right now I am working at a theatre where I am a team of two in the scene shop. So when I designed a creepy tree branch border/leg combo, it's on me to make that happen. No problem! And, it hasn't been. I went and picked up the fabric and sewed the two pieces together, and tomorrow I will cut the branches out and attach some bird netting as a cheaper stand in for scenic netting. Yeah. All because my mom taught me how to sew a button when I was five. Thanks mom!