Hakuna Matata

We are a little less than three weeks away from the opening of my current choreography project, and it's time to start panicking.

Or not.

All the pieces, save one, are already set and have been worked at least once. There have been very few absentee holes during rehearsals, and thus very little catching up/rehashing to do. I cannot begin to explain how much smoother things go when the proper people show up at the proper date and time (and to fellow performers, I don't have to). Somebody wiser than I put it elegantly that showing up is half the battle. To that I would add showing up *on time* is half the battle...we're all still working on that one HA.

We still have this week and next to refine everything we have done so far. We definitely have our share of the usual chaos--too much talking, lots of wandering off, a few 'tude issues, some slight disorganization--then of course there's always the chance that I'll go up on own choreography (with everything swimming around in my head lately, it's happening a-scary-lot). But I'm actually, dare I say it, quite pleased with the progress.

But ask me again next week. ;)

I am not alone

Just wanted to share this link to a great blog post on hellogiggles. It's about the artist-mommy dichotomy, and it resonates with what I've written about here (and with my life in general).

http://hellogiggles.com/motherhood-muses-and-no-room-of-ones-own-part-1#comment-108586

I'm a Real Boy!

Er...girl.

That's right folks, yours truly now has cred on IMDB. (It's for Evolution Creek, the indie movie I had a small role in a few summers ago, which is in post-production).

Let me tell you, this place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. In order to enter my own birthday on my own page, I had to link the the url of an official court document identifying me! Shoot. For that, you can believe I'm any age you want.

Irrational Irritations

Let's face it--there's a lot to hate about trying to make a living as an actor (or dancer, or writer, or artist). Fear of rejection, 65 hour weeks with no overtime, breaking out from wearing cake makeup a few too many nights in a row...you know, important stuff.

Then there's the other stuff. You know, the little inane things that for some reason make you disproportionately irritated. At the top of that list for me is the program bio.

You're in the rehearsal sweet spot--past the getting-familiar jitters and before the off-book deadline--when comes the dreaded email. "We've got the ASM/House Manager/my mom putting together a program for us! If you could just jot off a quick bio to add that would be GREAT! KTHANKS!" Seems like such a small request. Yet when first asked to do this, I immediately wonder if there isn't an urgent priority I need to attend to right away. A ringing phone, or a fridge full of moldy food that needs cleaning out, perhaps. Then invariably I receive a follow up email a few weeks later with the not-especially-scary threat that anyone who doesn't turn in their bio TODAY will NOT BE IN THE PROGRAM! Then I feel bad (even though, honestly, how horrible would it be if I wasn't in the program?).

In order to combat my serial procrastination, I finally starting collecting bios into a document as I write them, to cull from later. This was working out pretty well, until the devastating loss of my thumb drive (and all the data on it) earlier this year. So when faced with the prospect of writing another one (entirely from scratch this time!), I thought it high time for reflection. It would seem that the root of the problem is solidly planted, as so many are, in judgement.

Performer bios generally fall into one of several categories. A few notable examples:

The Resume

Broadway: Miss Saigon. Touring: Little Shop of Horrors, Urinetown. Regional: Tibalt in R&J at More Professional Than Yours Repertory Theatre.

Most often seen at the Alliance and other sundry "real" theatres. Has the distinction of being both envy- and yawn-inducing.

The Newbie

I first became interested in theatre when I played Gabrielle in High School Musical 5 at Somekinda Academy. I take voice lessons, piano lessons, tap lessons, and private acting lessons at Sucka School of Performing Arts. See you on Broadway!

Believe it or not, this bio type appears for more than just school plays. Painful in both its syntax and naivete.

The Non Sequitur

Jeff recently came off a stint of battling the arch super villain Nefesto and his band of Wily Ninjas on the Planet Portojax. Besides saving the world, he also enjoys Rollerblade streaking and making model bridges out of miniature snow globes.

My husband's preferred style.

The Heavenly Shout Out

Thanks to mom, daddy, my agent Randy (you rascal!), and most of all, to Jesus. Mighty is the Lord who bestowed upon me so many gifts and talents! PRAISE HIM WITH SONG.

A regional flavor.

But even more so than judgement, I think it really comes down to perfectionism. It's like if I can't write a bio that comes off as both impressive and witty, I have to turn in my actor and writer cards.

What do you find oddly annoying?

Breaking the Ice

Over the past six months, there's been a lot of hopping back into various and sundry saddles that I'd temporarily abandoned. Exercise, sex, not eating two helpings of dessert come to mind. Oh yeah, and work. (I know, shocking how quickly one can get used to not having a job, right?)

But one of the hardest things to get back into is my creative extracurriculars (the resurrection of this blog was the first step). Going back to work was emotionally the biggest hump, but the blow was softened by the necessity of doing so. I need a paycheck to keep us fed and clothed. Frolicking away at rehearsals for a pittance--if I'm lucky!--not so much. The mother part of me felt selfish for even considering doing a show. Not while Tennyson is so tinyhelplessneedy....and us apart for most of his waking hours too! I mean, can I really abandon someone who both thinks the sun shines out of my ass and is incapable of wiping his own for several extra hours a week? This is the girl who used to have problems leaving the cat alone for more than two hours.

Patrick doesn't see it like that. He thinks that doing our own thing sets a good example for Tennyson. While I remain skeptical that's he's getting much out of our "good example" as a tiny baby, I can't argue his second point: it's only going to get harder. Plus, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss that part of myself.

Still, when an email came my way asking if I knew any choreographers who might be willing to take on a kids' show, I balked at first. But after giving it some more thought, I took a deep breath...and asked for more information. And then a few good things happened. The directors of the project happened to be acquainted with my work and managed to scrape together a slightly larger stipend. I also discovered that the show is for none other than my old middle school. It seemed like a sign from the universe. And that is how I came to be standing in my carpeted living room with the coffee table pushed back, a pencil in my teeth and script in my hand, making up a hip hop piece to strains of Bach and baby snores from the other room.

I won't even attempt to deny that this has been a ridiculously stressful undertaking. On top of all my aforementioned misgivings (not yet conquered), I just survived another round of layoffs at my regular job, leaving me with seriously choppy waters to navigate and two people's worth of work to do for the same amount of money. Finding uninterrupted chunks of time to choreograph 12 (!) musical numbers has been difficult, and the rehearsals themselves are challenging (hello, middle schoolers). Also, it's Christmas (do I even need to qualify that statement?). But the moments of real satisfaction, contentment and pleasure that's come with my first little project has made it worthwhile. While I won't be admitting it to the hubs anytime soon, he's right--one day I think Tennyson will think it's really cool that his mom did her own thing. After all, how many babies already have a resume credit pre-birth--Tennyson played Shelby's in utero baby in Steel Magnolias. And I bet he'll think it's pretty cool that he contributed to mom's choreographic tapestry--in tummy and later in arms.

She's baaaaack....

Just when you thought you'd gotten rid of me.

For those of you who know me personally (which I'd wager is everyone), my hiatus hardly needs explanation. About three weeks after my last post, I came down with the worst stomach bug of all time. Except it wasn't a bug, it was a baby.

Baby

Being a mom is a great gig. You might say the best ever. But does that mean I'm ready to chuck life as I know it off the deck with last year's jack-o-lantern and Christmas tree? Well, yes actually--if Tennyson wanted me to. But I know he doesn't.

Have you seen the cartoon How the Grinch Stole Christmas? (Of course you have. I bet there are some of you who have already watched it this year...I roll my eyes at you). Near the end, his heart swells so much it busts the xray window and he lifts a whole town's worth of Holiday decor over his head. Well, that's how Tenny makes me feel. I admit that when he was first born, and throughout my entire pregnancy, my primary feeling was terror. I was practically paralyzed; I can't quite explain why. So for a year, I did pretty much nothing but read a 50/50 split of terrible YA supernatual romances and consumer reports on baby gear. But as Tenny has grown, I realized that narrowing my world made no sense. Sure, lying in a crib like a starfish while your goofball mother stares at you for untold seconds is dandy when you're five months old, but eventually it will get old. One day soon he'll want his own adventure. And as the hubs says, nobody wants boring parents.

But I don't have to wait for Tenny to tell me that in so many words. When he was still just a tadpole swimming around in bellytown, I did manage to fit in one artistic endeavor between Baby Bargains and Sookie Stackhouse book 43. Gestation weeks 19-31 were spent choreographing a children's show loosely based on the Arabian Nights. It was during rehearsals that I first felt the baby move. Tennyson was a very chill fetus overall--I used to worry he wasn't moving enough--but my, did he love to dance. Whenever I stopped to take a breath (which was more and more often, as the weeks went by), Tenny would wiggle and jab as if to say "do it again!" He got bigger and stronger over time. Sitting in the audience on opening night, he heard the familiar strains of the opening number and bicyled his feet in excitement. And, considering he's Patrick's and my child, do I even have to tell you how he reacted to applause?

Which leads me to the point. I am not the same Janie Hitchcock who started this blog 31 posts ago. I've created in the most primitive sense of the word, and like food coloring in your Thanksgiving taters, Tennyson colors everything I do. So you might occasionally see, say, a Janie Young post rather than a Janie Hitchcock post. But you needn't worry that this will be one of those blogs that only a mother could love. I'm still an artist too, even if I now have spit up on my dance clothes. There's enough room in my life and my heart for everything.

My girl Emily Deschanel, fellow peformer-in-pregnancy

P.S. -- Stay tuned for not one, but two upcoming projects.

UPCOMING PROJECT

Type: Stage - Straight Play
Title: Steel Magnolias
Role: Shelby
Company: Northside United Methodist Church
Location: 2799 Northside Dr, Atlanta, GA 30305
Date: November 12 and 13 (only two performances!)
Time: TBA
Cost: TBA

The Male Diva

Patrick and I have done several shows together over the years. It's rare that we actually get to act opposite each other; often our characters are peripheral to one another. But it's still a great bonding experience to be able to commiserate over the daily grind of rehearsals, our reflections of the casting choices, the idiosyncrasies of this director compared to others we've had, etc. That's the perks. I've dragged Patrick to many an audition based on that feeling.


On the other hand, there's the irrefutable fact that this is Atlanta, not New York. There are about 20 girls to every guy at most auditions I go to. Of course it's rare that a female and a male will be in direct competition for the same part, but the odds of getting cast - at all - are decidedly in a boy's favor..almost regardless of talent.

This is particularly true, or at least particularly irritating to me personally, when it comes to musicals. I love my husband very much and think he has quite a gift. But out of the two of us, I am the much better singer and dancer. This isn't bluster; Patrick would tell you the same thing, as would most of our mutual friends. Moreover, while the thought of singing and dancing fills me with joy and anticipation, it fills Patrick with chagrin and nervousness bordering on panic. (The same way I feel when asked to do improv, a skill at which Patrick shines. So you see, we're evenly matched). That situation is hardly unusual. There's many a girl who's felt the disappointment of a rejection email only to discover later that half the boys in the show didn't even have to audition.


But how many of those girls are married to one?


I recall a situation like this a few years ago when Patrick and I auditioned for The Fantastiks. He learned about the audition from me, and I more or less dragged him there. I painstakingly chose a piece from my thick songbook that I thought matched the tone and musicality of the role I was trying to portray. Patrick's audition song repertoire consists of Cole Porter's "You're the Top" and "If I Only Had a Brain" from the Wizard of Oz. And since he can't read music or sing with a piano, he only sings those two accapella. I wasn't cast and Patrick got the lead, and I was genuinely happy for him. Then I found out later that the director had acknowledged Patrick's lack of vocal prowess, but cast him planning to teach him to sing during the course of rehearsals. When the theatre went bust before rehearsals started, I felt terrible for Patrick, who had really been looking forward to the role. But secretly, I couldn't help feeling a little vindicated.


I've never had trouble being simultaneously happy for Patrick's victories and sad for my disappointments. So when Patrick was cast in a principal role in our latest show, while I was relegated (once again) to an ensemble role, I had a good laugh and an eyeroll over the situation and gave him a big congratulatory kiss. But later that day, Patrick mentioned offhand that he would never have accepted an ensemble role; that in fact it was his policy to only play leads because playing in the ensemble is a waste of time.


Well.


I hope you'll be forgiving and understanding, reader, when I tell you that I flew off the handle just a little bit. I thought it was pretty rich, coming from someone who isn't good at singing and dancing, who doesn't even like it, to insist on lead roles. And as a husband, he would have done well to remember that his wife plays ensemble roles constantly. It's very condescending to say that ensemble work is not worth the time and effort it would take when I am giving that very time and effort--in the same show! Not all of us have the luxury of playing only lead roles; if I waited around for only big parts I wouldn't get to act nearly as often. Patrick has this luxury, essentially because he is a good looking man who knows his way around a stage. And it has gone to his head.

I know it sounds like I'm picking on poor Patrick, but I'm merely using him as an illustration. I know for a fact this is not a unique thought pattern. Unfortunately for him, being used as an example is another side effect of being part of a show biz couple...particularly one who blogs.

I have to wonder, what kind of male actor are we encouraging here in Atlanta, when he doesn't have to audition, it's not important whether he can sing or dance or act, as long as you carry the Y chromosome? And if by some chance you don't get accepted in a lead role, it's completely understandable and even admirable to reject a lesser role, and in some cases even drop out? You might think I'm exaggerating the situation a bit, but consider that in the show I'm currently rehearsing, every single one of the guys is playing a principal. There are no male ensemble members.

I constantly hear actors say that "not everybody can be the lead." Usually, it's coming from somebody who consistently gets cast in principal roles. Well, take it from someone who's had a share of both, that statement is true, and I would add to it, "thank goodness". Just as the show doesn't work without its stars, neither does it work with only stars. And there's no room for divas at all.

A Series of Surreal Miracles

Just wanted to share this charming New York Times 'Celebrations' announcement of the marriage of a costume designer and a choreographer. (click the blog title to view). If you subscribe to the "meant to be" school--or even if you don't--you'll love the part about the key.

It really is a muscle

Yesterday was Patrick's and my five-year "dating" anniversary. It's not something we really celebrate per se, but every year we do like to offer a little tip o' the hat to the day. Five years isn't a very long time, relatively, but I found myself reflecting on what a different place I'm in now than I was then--mentally at least.

That became even more apparant in the afternoon when I had my first meeting with the volunteer coordinator for the Girl Scouts, with whom I've signed up. Because of my past work with the Atlanta Workshop Players summer camp (which was in the forefront of my mind yesterday since our dating anniversary originated there), combined with a year and a half doing kids' parties and classes at Imagym and three+ years teaching dance all over the place, volunteering with the GS seemed like a good fit.

When I say past work, I'm talking two, no more than two and a half years ago tops. It was about that time I started working a big girl job, and it was about that time, looking back, that my creative muscle started to atrophy. It was probably strongest while I was still in school. I know that not only intrinsically, but also by the excitement that lit up my volunteer leader's face when I told her I had a degree in theatre--I could just see her brain whirring, thinking of all the clever ideas she just KNEW I'd have.
It was still getting regular workouts the first couple years out of school and during most of my two year engagement. At Imagym especially, I constantly had to think up ideas to keep 30 kids with a pea-sized attention span entertained and non-destructive. I used some of those same ideas in dance.

But as soon as I entered the workforce of the masses, a slow decline began whose full effects I didn't feel, or at least fully acknowledge, until yesterday. It's not totally out of commission--as this blog's existence proves. It just evolved inwardly a bit. For instance, I did a lot of writing, including a frenzied period of working on my latent novel (it's not dead, just resting I promise), and I created the individual roles in shows I did. I continued to dance, but once again, it was more about nurturing my inner life than pushing out newness into the world. Muscle-maintenence, rather than muscle-building, if you will.

And just like how, one day, you go to bench the 185 that used to be easy and nearly crush your sternum, yesterday I got knocked over the head with my weakness. The project I'm going to be working on with the Girl Scouts isn't leading a troop, at least not yet (they like to try and make the parents lead troops. Evidently enrollment is better when that's the case). Instead, I'm going to be helping plan and implement a monthly event for middle-school girls whose troops have disbanded or who haven't ever been a scout, which is meant to get them involved again. My job, among other things, is to think up ideas for these events. (Sound vague? Imagine how I felt). As an example she told me about the last one they did before the school year ended, which was a fashion show kind of deal. She threw out some ideas for general themes (sports? animals?) and showed me some of the materials from the fashion show. The ideas were so adorable. God, would I even have thought of it, had I been in charge then? I think I started sweating at that point.

The real coup came when she was explaining a name game she did as an intro with the girls, and used my name as an example, "my name is Janie and I like..." I was supposed to fill in the blank with something starting with J. And I totally blanked. I'm pretty sure a fly flew in and out of my open mouth right then. The only thing I could think of was jujubes, and at that moment I wasn't even sure if that was a real item or if I'd just made it up. She ended up supplying me with "jumping." AGH! JUMPING?? COME ON JANIE!!!!

The kicker is that we used to play that game at the gym at practically every birthday party.

When I left all I could think of was running home and asking Patrick what kind of stuff he does with his improv kids. Then I gave myself a swift mental kick to the rear. This is why I volunteered. Somehow I knew, whether conciously or on some deeper level, that a part of my life, my personality even, was dormant. This is about more than getting experience for my grad school entrance essay. This is about flexing the creative muscle.

Creativity has one very important difference from a bicep, however. It feeds off others. No, not like a vampire (True Blood's not till Sunday people). Rather than draining one thing to nourish the other, creativity lives in symbyosis with its source. In a word, inspiration. For instance, my initial impulse to pick Patrick's brain--it needn't be to copy his ideas. Perhaps one thing he says will spark an idea in my own brain that I can develop into something bigger, and ultimately, useful. Perhaps Patrick might even be inspired by the idea I have. At my big girl job they call it collaborative brainstorming. I sometimes worry creativity is a use-it-or-lose-it deal, but it's really not true. As long as one cares to come up with good ideas, one has the ability to do so. I just need to hit the gym.

By the way, I've never benched 185.