Bowery Boys Will Be Bowery Boys

                 I grew up in New York where for years a certain series of films were shown every Sunday at 12:00 PM on WNEW Channel 5.  These showings formed a common bond among my northeastern comrades that we share and cherish to this day. It was our affection for the low-budget offerings of a group of middle-aged men who'd once been legitimate actors on Broadway, radio, and in big-budgeted films. They had different names throughout the years: the Dead End Kids, the East Side Kids, and finally, and to me most importantly, the Bowery Boys.    

            The Bowery Boys films are love 'em or hate 'em affairs.  I've heard people recoil at the very mention of the name, while others offer a warm smile, remembering watching the boys on those glorious carefree Sunday afternoons. I saw all the films numerous times, and I eventually got to understand the interesting chronological arc that the films took.  In the beginning they were more like the Warner Brothers films.  They were little noir films featuring serious plots, threatening gangsters, and a little comedy.  I enjoyed these films, but also enjoyed the all-out comedies that the series morphed into.  The people responsible for putting these films together were true veterans.  William Beaudine was one of their regular directors, as was Ed Bernds, who, along with Elwood Ullman, wrote some of the better episodes. The latter names are more famous for writing and directing several Stooge shorts, and their familiar mark is there and easy to spot to the trained eye (unless it's being poked at the time).      

            The actual boys were discovered on Broadway in the Sidney Kingsley play Dead End.  The original group consisted of Billy Halop, Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall, Gabriel Dell, Bobby Jordan, and Bernard Punsley. In 1936 Samuel Goldwyn bought the film rights and shuttled the kids west for the celluloid version.  He was to regret that decision.   Not that the film wasn't a hit, but the boys were a tad unruly. Warner Brothers picked up their contract when Goldwyn gave them the old heave-ho, and in time came to also regret that decision.  They went on to appear in several serio-comic films made in the raw Warner style, featuring top stars like James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Pat O'Brien, and not so top star, Ronald Reagan. Their off-screen hijinks did not endear them to the Warner family and they were let go in 1939.

            Then it gets sketchy. Billy Halop, Gabe Dell, Huntz Hall, and Bernard Punsley went to Universal for a series of B movies for the Little Tough Guys/Dead End Kids films, and one went to MGM.  Leo Gorcey actually had a short-lived contract for the studio's B unit.  When Bobby Jordan ended up at Monogram Studios as a member of the East Side Kids, he got Gorcey on the Sam Katzman bandwagon, as well.  Gorcey then got Huntz Hall and Gabe Dell in on the act, and the rest is history.  Gorcey eventually tired of working with Sam Katzman and decided to team up with his agent, Jan Grippo to produce the newly-titled Bowery Boys series himself. It was a very wise move because the films were made fast, cheaply, and they all made money.  In fact, at one time Leo was the highest paid actor in Hollywood, by the hour.  Huntz Hall was also made a partner a bit later on.

    Leo Gorcey was master of the malaprop. Nobody was better at this odd form of comedy than him. They flowed out of him in a natural and charming manner.  You never questioned it, or looked down on him for mangling the language.  He was who he was. On radio he was a sidekick to Groucho Marx on the Pabst Blue Ribbon Show.     He pretty much took over Chico's role with Groucho, and actually garnered many of the show's biggest laughs. For the Bowery Boys he was a stern and strong leader.  The cast of supporting players changed fairly often but one could usually see William Benedict as Whitey, David Gorcey (Leo's brother) as Chuck, along with Benny Bartlett, Buddy Gorman, and others in the fairly interchangeable lesser roles of  “the Boys.” Even Gabe Dell showed up occasionally, and always with a different profession.  Gabe was a reporter, a song plugger, a cop, and various other things during the course of the series.  Gabe always seemed to be outside of the gang, though.  Even in the East Side Kids series he was often one of the villains.  Apparently Gabe wanted more than the few lines the supporting gang members got.    

            Last, but certainly not least, there was lovable Bernard Gorcey (Leo and David's father) as sweetshop owner and surrogate father, Louie Dumbrowski.  He must have stood five feet one in his stocking feet, but as a performer he was a giant. He can be seen in Chaplin's, The Great Dictator in a nice supporting role, and he was even allowed to get a few laughs.

            The films were a mixed bag, but most are entertaining at the very least.  My favorite is Blues Busters.  Sach (Huntz Hall) gets a tonsillectomy and finds himself blessed with a very Bing Crosby-like singing voice. This is just one of the many transformations Sach dealt with during the course of the series. In other films he becomes a super-athlete, develops the ability to see the future, is privy to a magic lamp (with Eric Blore as the Genie, no less), finds strength in different areas of his body for his wrestling career, and due to an electrical shock has the ability to pick winning numbers in Las Vegas.  Among the supporting cast in Blues Busters are Craig Stevens, Phyllis Coates, and the one and only Adele Jergens. The supporting casts in most of the films are a wonderful array of people who make you smile: Sheldon Leonard, Tim Ryan, Donald MacBride, Douglas Dumbrille, Ellen Corby, Lloyd Corrigan, and Joan Shawlee are just a few who graced these minor films with their major talents.

            Leo, as Slip Mahoney, is the funny straight man, always jumping at the opportunity to capitalize on Sach's odd and sudden gifts. In the earlier films Huntz Hall was quite clearly a supporting player, but as the series developed he was relied upon more and more to deliver the major laughs. Hall always claimed that while at Universal the great Shemp Howard befriended him.  He always gave credit to Shemp for helping him find his inner comedian. Hall is a natural and can make me laugh by simply walking into a room. The character Sach is the classic man-child.  He's pretty much in his own world and it's only from a blow to the head from Slip's hat that he's reluctantly brought back to reality.  Slip Mahoney is the generally kind-hearted, self-important Napoleonic leader of this motley crew.  He thinks he's intelligent, which only serves to stress his stupidity even more (Oliver Hardy Syndrome).  He's always working for those in need, but because of his lack of real brainpower his good intentions usually blow up in his face (but don't worry, it always comes out nicely in the end).

            By the time of Crashing Las Vegas (1955), Leo was in deep mourning for his Dad, who was killed in a car accident that same year.  He was inconsolable, and also very drunk.  In the film you can see his faraway look, hear his slurred words, and watch his restless bouncing up and down on his heels.  He left the series right after shooting wrapped.

            Now it was up to Hall to finish out the contracted films.   But who could replace Leo Gorcey?  For many, Leo was the Bowery Boys.  Enter Stanley Clements as "Duke Kovaleski".  Sach without Slip?  Unthinkable, yet there was this new, dapper straight man appearing out of the blue. Stosh, as he was known to friends, was one of the better child actors of the 1940s, usually playing good-hearted street toughs.  His most famous role in this capacity was in Going My Way, where he was paired with a gangly Carl “Alfalfa” Switzer.   He eventually grew into adult roles and married everyone's favorite pouty-lipped bad girl, Gloria Grahame.  How did Duke mix with the Boys?  Well, the shock of Slip's absence is somewhat softened by the abyss-like hole left by Bernard Gorcey's Louie Dumbrowski.  Louie was irreplaceable, as can be discerned by the casting of "replacements" Bill Elliot as Mike Clancy, and then Queenie Leonard as Mrs. Kelly, the landlady.  Interestingly the weak casting made it fairly easy to accept Duke as the group's leader.  The bad news is that Sach had to carry more of the show than he was used to.  Huntz Hall used to complain that the films without Leo were turkeys because they had him playing both parts.  I disagree, somewhat.  His role was padded, of course, but Duke was there to hand out the threats, and even carry them out once in a while.  Sach was most of the show, but Duke and the boys held their own in their limited capacity. Clements also added a certain class to the series.  He was better dressed than Slip, more intelligent, and he seemed more capable of functioning in the real world, a world that Sach only lived on the fringes of.  Were the films as good as the Leo/Slip opuses?  Definitely not.     But one must also consider that the already threadbare budgets were cut to the bare minimum, and the direction was left to ex-assistant directors like Austin Jewell.

            When I mentioned to a friend that I was planning on writing a piece about the Bowery Boys, he recoiled and asked,  “But weren't those movies crap?”  No, I don't think so.  They were entertaining programmers from a simpler time.  The fact that they made forty-eight of them in 12 years (forty-eight !!!!!) is testimony to their comic success and an indication that there was a definite audience for them.  I recently re-watched all the films in a row and when I got through the final film I was ready for more.  The Boys didn't aspire to art.  They didn't crave to be taken seriously.

They made funny films, plain and simple.  As Slip Mahoney might have said, “The flacks shriek for themselves.”

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Nick is a native New Yorker raised on the classics....films that is.  He has appeared on Broadway twice (GREASE, THE PRODUCERS), and has been in every form of show business except ballet.  He has written and starred in REAL MEN, the Musical off-Broadway...and co-wrote, composed the songs, and the lyrics.  He has also co-written the book, THE ANNOTATED ABBOTT AND COSTELLO, and teaches show biz history via Zoom.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

An Announcement and a Tap Step

“Reminder -- auditions for the musical comedy Anything Goes is after school today. Students should meet at the stage and bring tap shoes. Be prepared to tap,” announced the principal of James Madison High School over the loudspeaker during my first hour biology class.

As soon as I heard the word TAP, I asked my classmates near me what that was all about. The girl sitting in the desk behind me explained our school was putting on a show that involved a lot of tap dancing and described it as a 1930s The Love Boat. It was my first year in high school, so I was still making my way but was certain I had to be part of that show. I had been dancing since the age of seven and tap was my favorite. After performing Ronnie the Robot Who Can Rock & Roll on the stage of my first dance recital, I was hooked!  Dissecting frogs was the furthest thing from my mind and all I could think about was approaching my choir teacher, the musical director, to inquire about the audition.  First hour bell rang and I ran into the Girl’s Glee choir room. I needed to speak to Mr. B before we started singing the notes to the Sound of Silence.

“Lynn, we already had auditions the past couple days. Today is the callback.” I am sure he could see the look of devastation on my face as I pleaded and shared my  tap dancing experience, so he promised to try to work it out.  “Well, I know you can sing so you passed that part of the audition.  I’ll talk to the director. Just come to the theater right after school and I’ll introduce you.”

Seventh hour accounting class could not come quickly enough. The minute the school bell rang, I scurried through the halls, dropped off my books in my locker, flew down the flight of stairs and swam through the sea of students to get to the lobby.

Mr. B was already in the auditorium leaning over the middle row of seats whispering to the director and choreographer. They both turned around to size me up which made me nervous and a bit uncomfortable. Pam, the choreographer, led me to an area in the hallway to see if these feet could truly move. She asked if I knew the time step and when I replied which one, a smile from ear to ear graced her face. This moment was the turning point in my high school career. In my life!

The next morning the cast list for Anything Goes was posted near the office and the wannabe Broadway stars were flocking around the bulletin board searching for their names. Under the lead role was a list of six angels and there was my name.  I did not even realize that I was given this great part.  All the girls who were cast in the ensemble were praying to be one of Reno Sweeney’s Angels.  Chants of  “Who is this Lynn Bertoni?” echoed the hallway and I looked around and played dumb. Nobody knew who I was because I never set foot on that stage to audition, but once we learned our first number and I aced the shuffle ball change flap heal step, they understood.  Rehearsals were my escape from the hustle and bustle of school.  My theater friends became my second family and I have never encountered such a kind, caring and accepting group of peers in my life. I belonged! 

The following year I was cast in the lead role of Nellie Forbush in South Pacific and Sugar in the musical version of Some Like it Hot my senior year. Our school was chosen to perform at the Pabst Theatre for the City Wide Theatre Festival.  Only three schools were selected so this was a huge honor. 

All my life, I wanted to become a performer as I pretended to be on a Broadway stage with the living room curtains as my entrance. My dad would play cards at a local tavern and prop me up on the bar to sing Raindrops keep Falling on My Head; Geyser cheese popcorn and M&Ms served as my reward. We often would sing for nearby nursing homes during Christmas and I relished those times. 

My father was known as the singing fireman and sang the National Anthem at numerous Brewers games so performing was in my blood. Big dreams of moving to New York or Hollywood swirled around in my head for as long as I can remember.  However, finances did not allow me to attend NYU, so I had to settle for UW-Milwaukee as a theater major. 

After the first couple weeks of my freshman year in college, I realized this was not the life for me.  After working as an usher at Melody Top, I saw backstage and did not want to make the sacrifices one makes in show business.  Family was important to me and soon I was looking for a profession that had more security.  I took a year off of college to find myself and during this hiatus, I waited on tables and worked in community theater. That year I played Miss Adelaide in Guys & Dolls and met my first and former husband. As I did four years earlier, he missed the first audition and a mutual friend, who felt I would get a callback, persuaded me to ask the director to allow him to audition at callbacks.  He did and was cast opposite of me as Nathan Detroit.  During that year, I did a great deal of soul searching and knew I needed to earn my college degree. My advisor informed me that all my theater credits could be applied to an area of concentration for a BS in Education. In order to see if this was a good fit, I had to serve 80 hours of observation in a classroom. The minute I set foot in Ms. Brown’s 4th grade classroom at Hartford Elementary School, I knew it was where I needed to be.

In 1986, I was hired to teach 5th grade at Cedar Hills for the Franklin/Oak Creek School District and continued my teaching career in the district for the next 36 years. The arts brought so much richness to my life that it was my calling to do the same for my students. Stated at the top of my resume was my mission statement with my plans to implement the arts into my teaching, so when I was asked to organize the talent show, I was elated.

Besides the typical acts of singing, playing an instrument and baton twirling, I choreographed a dance number for every grade level and would rehearse during my lunch period. My principal even became part of the show and did not hesitate when I asked him to wear coconuts and a grass skirt to perform Honey Bun with me from South Pacific. The talent shows were a smash and became an annual tradition. During my seven years in the elementary classroom, I had my students performing in Thirteen Colonies plays, Revolutionary War Newscasts and Westward Movement Silent Films.  I wrote and directed interactive US History lessons and was asked to teach Social Studies in middle school and implement the same lessons for the World History curriculum. My new principal took notice and offered me the drama and speech position and 8th grade is where I spent the next 29 years. I hit the floor running and was so enthusiastic to bring theater into the lives of middle schoolers.  They were not as enthusiastic. It took awhile for my reputation to follow me.  At first, kids were screwing around and could not follow a direction to save their lives. 

Drama class was considered a blow off class and the attitude of how hard could it be to say some lines and move on stage was evident. Getting them to attend after school rehearsals was a joke!  My passion and perseverance finally prevailed and my two drama classes put on quite the show. It took a few more years and with strategic scheduling to avoid track, basketball and cheerleading practice, drama class became very cool.  After five years of buying the rights of shows and placing so much responsibility on a few students with the leading roles, I decided to write and create shows for more kids to shine in the limelight. Thus, students would audition for a skit in the overall production and not feel the pressure of learning so many lines. It provided more roles and opportunities and ultimately spread the theater bug. I would coax theme ideas from students and write skits to create an hour long production. We produced Laugh In-a 60s Show, Friday Night Live, Vaudeville, Hooray for Hollywood, Night at the Improv and my last was This 70’s Show in which I developed a skit based on Cheech & Chong’s Sister, Mary Elephant.   Each student portrayed one of the teachers in the school and when Sister Mary Elephant said roll call, the audience roared.

My favorite and very heart-wrenching show was written in 2001.  The year before I planned to write a show titled Salute to America to incorporate some of my skits from my elementary days and this theme could not have been more timely.  I also wanted to teach my little thespians about war, poverty, immigration, and discrimination.  They learned much more while playing the roles of Abraham Lincoln, Clara Barton, Amelia Earhart, Franklin Roosevelt, Linda Brown, Martin Luther King Jr, and Cesar Chavez because they got to live it. The production ended with a slide show to honor those who lost their lives during the attack on America. There wasn’t a dry eye in the audience during the encore when the entire cast sang America the Beautiful and gave their final bows to This is My County.

In addition to teaching drama and speech, I taught two sections of math. I recruited the toughest high risk kids who were failing my math class to work lights and sound for my shows. The first year I taught drama, I had this student, Paul, who adamantly claimed there was no way I was getting him on stage, so I assigned him to lights.  I had no clue how to operate the light board and this kid figured it out in 20 minutes. During tech rehearsal, I made sure the actors on stage knew how important Paul’s role was to the production as he had the power to turn the lights off at any moment. That following spring, I encouraged Paul to grace the stage at our talent show by playing Abbott in Who’s on First?. Not only did he memorize the lines, he nailed it. His deadpan humor was hilarious and the praise he received from his peers was priceless. I instilled in my students that every job in the theater was critical to the overall production and it wasn’t long before the actors, stage crew, and tech crew became one big happy family. Students of all archetypes: shy, cheerleader, jock, tough guy, gothic, nerd- they became great friends through the theater. And Paul, with a number of others, raised his grade from an F in math class to a B in one quarter. The arts can do that and often are not given the credit they so deserve. T-shirts were made with the show logo with students’ names on tha back and were worn the day of our show. It was such a source of pride in our school that it became the event of the year. Those early rehearsals of me pulling out my hair became rehearsals of pure discipline in which one could hear a pin drop when I gave directions. What my students learned by putting on a show is that after curtain call, everyone is on a natural high and there is nothing like camaraderie.

Unfortunately, due to budget cuts and a new superintendent, who wanted to make her mark and implement remedial math and reading classes, drama class was no longer. After 14 years of proving the impact the arts had on these kids, it meant nothing to the administration. A new middle school was built in 2008 and clearly there was no consideration given to building a stage. There was a black box placed between the gym and cafeteria. No lighting board, no make-up room; no costume room. No drama productions. The only space given to the theater department was a storage room that was filled with wrestling mats.

Still, I managed to keep the arts alive in our school through drama club, talent shows and field trips.

I have been in contact with former students through phone calls, letters and Facebook. One student, Sobe, contacted me 23 years later through Messenger to tell me when she was a student in my 5th grade classroom, I helped give her a voice. Another student, Summer, who was struggling with self-esteem, sent me a card to let me know she was attending college that Fall as a musical theater major and my words inspired her. I held her after class and insisted she sing as an audition for the talent show during lunch.  Summer sang “All of Me” in that talent show because I told her she had a gift she needed to share with others. At my retirement party, my daughters surprised me with a video of my former students' testimonials. They shared their memories of playing Thomas Jefferson, tap dancing with umbrellas to Singing in the Rain, performing with future community theater groups, twisting in a poodle skirt, loading the bus to Chicago to see Motown, watching inspiring films, YouTube videos of young performers, along with a host of artistic moments they recalled as part of my daily lessons.

 The arts have truly changed my life and put me on the path to such a positive and incredible journey. Not only did the arts bring joy to my life and spirit in my soul, the confidence I gained led me to win Mrs. Wisconsin-USA in 1994 and Mrs. Wisconsin-America in 1998. With this title and the pageant world, I was able to bring attention to the importance of the arts in education. As I reflect on my life of 59 years, it is difficult to imagine those years without my involvement in the performing arts. I did not flee to New York or Los Angeles as originally planned, but I still was able to make the arts an integral part of my life as well as my three daughters’. I sent my girls to the Milwaukee School of Arts which was not in the best area of town. They may have been secure in a little suburb school, but I knew in my heart my children needed exposure to all of the arts. To this day, they remind me that attending a school which centered around the arts made them more worldly, empathetic, and stronger human beings.  My first leading role in the musical South Pacific as Ensign Nellie Forbush even holds some connection to all three of my daughters. Courtney is a nurse, and my twins, Natalie, married a Frenchman and Nellie bears the name.  All three girls have taken the creativity the arts offer into their own lives.  Courtney has a side cookie business called, Life’s a Batch. Natalie lives in France and works as a translator for her own business as well as a copywriter for a company and Nellie is an art teacher and is active in the Milwaukee art culture. They are by far my finest production. The arts are in all of us and if we, as a society, do not embrace and support the arts, life may only be noise coming from the loud speaker, just making another announcement.

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Lynn Bertoni-Shaw is an actor from Milwaukee, Wisconsin and has earned a Bachelor’s in Education with a minor in Theater from UW-Milwaukee along with a Masters from Aurora University, Illinois.  During the past 43 years, she has worked in both professional and community theater in the Milwaukee Metropolitan area and Chicago. Although Lynn loved performing on stage, she dedicated her life to the classroom as an educator and recently retired after 36 years of service. She has earned the titles of Mrs. Wisconsin-USA and Mrs. Wisconsin-America and this led her to an appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show in which she agreed to spend a night in the Boone County Jail, Indiana to talk about her pseudo booking experience for the episode “Avoiding Arrests.”  Retirement offers Lynn the flexibility to develop her craft while pursuing greater involvement in theater, film and motivational speaking. In addition to Lynn’s life as an actor, teacher and mother, writing has been another passion and she plans to write her novel in the near future.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Shelby’s Odyssey: A Wild Ride of Romance in all of its Artistic Forms

I own two t-shirts that I wore as inspiration to get through the journey of making my film SHELBY’S VACATION.  They will sound patently obvious… and yet, they are so true, as cliché’s are.  One has a quote from Winston Churchill: “Never, never, never give up.”  The other has Diana Nyad’s motto (and the title of her book about her swim from Cuba to the Florida Keys) “Find a Way.”  I actually heard Diana talk at the LA Times Festival of Books.  She was riveting.  It took her five tries to do that swim and she accomplished the 110.86-mile journey at the age of 64.  She found a way.  If she could do that, I could find a way to make my film.  And I didn’t have to worry about being stung by box jellyfish… although irritated State Park Rangers was a close second.

SHELBY’S VACATION, once upon a time, was a full-length feature script.  I wrote the initial drafts in the mid 1990’s, inspired by a trip I’d taken to and from the Grand Canyon.  On that trip (and all of my Grand Canyon trips), I stopped in Kingman, Arizona, for gas and food.  It’s always windy in Kingman and when I opened my car door, a gust of wind blew through the car (the passenger window was down) and scattered all of my notes and maps (this was pre-internet).  I thought, wow, what a great beginning to a movie.  Our heroine gets completely lost because the universe yanks away her directions!  I ended up sending my main character, Shelby, up highway 395 instead of into the desert, simply because I love the Sierra Nevada mountains. 

The basic elements I crafted in the early drafts have always remained the same.  Shelby, mid-to-late 30s, is heart-broken because once again she fantasized about a potential relationship that didn’t work out – and this most recent time was particularly humiliating because the crush was on her boss, Marion.  She heads out of L.A. to find comfort in nature but loses her maps and directions thanks to the wind and ends up at a rustic resort high in the mountains.  Of course she falls for resort manager Carol, who has her own fantasies (from the past instead of the future) that get in the way of creating a long-term relationship.  Both women go on a journey to learn why they’ve held on to their idealized versions of love.

Having no clue as to how to move the movie ball down the field into production, I put the script away and focused on my stage plays and TV scripts. 

In 2008 I took a vacation to Rock Creek Lake in the Sierra Nevada and thought, man, this is the perfect setting for SHELBY’S VACATION.  So I got the script out, brought it in to my then-writers group, and polished it up.  I’d tried previously selling my film script SIGNS OF LIFE by having a reading with actors and inviting small production companies.  I got some interest but not strong enough to really launch it.  If a straight romantic comedy wouldn’t quite sell, how the heck was I going to sell a lesbian dramedy?

I put the script away again.

Then I got an email in 2010 about a script contest called Chicago’s Pride Films and Plays.  I noticed that the categories were geared toward gay men’s stories.  I wrote the executive director of the contest, David Zak, asking him, “What about lesbian stories?”  He wrote right back and said they would have a contest for our stories the next year. Hooray!

So when I got the contest announcement the following winter, I sent in SHELBY’S VACATION.  Lo and behold, I made the semi-finals and then a few weeks later David’s group contacted me.  They wanted to do a staged reading of the script for a gay pride event in Vermont. Hallelujah!

In July of 2011 I paid for my own plane ticket and made the trip to Randolph, Vermont as my summer vacation.  I had a glorious time.  I got to hear a fun reading of the script, ate samples at the Ben & Jerry’s factory, and I drove all over Vermont to hike in rolling green mountains – with no billboards on the interstate as I traveled!

Filled with passion from the Vermont experience, I returned to L.A. vowing to turn SHELBY into a film.  I dug out three years of MovieMaker magazine and absorbed all the lessons producers who came before me had learned.  I bought THE book on how to do a business plan and then learned the woman who wrote it (Louise Levison) lives mere blocks from me in the Sherman Oaks, so I paid her to critique MY business plan.  I attached my first director… who stayed for just a few months and then dropped out.  I attached director #2, who stayed on board for a few months… and then she, too, left, to focus on a TV stage-managing job.  Director #3 was with me a few months, and then she moved to Washington State.

Finally, I reached out to a friend who sent an email blast to the Alliance of Women Directors (AWD).  I should’ve done so years ago; I got two-dozen responses. I weeded and weeded and narrowed things down to a half dozen, did interviews, did second interviews in-person, and finally picked Vickie Sampson.  Vickie and I had met many years ago in a networking group called Cinewomen, so there was a comfortable energy between us.  She came armed to our meeting with a lot of enthusiasm about the story as well as printouts of actresses who could play the roles.  Vickie had directed some heartfelt shorts, snappy award-winning PSAs and commercials and was hungry for a feature-length film.   Perfect!

That was in May of 2013.  Then the real fun began: Looking for Investors.

I devised a passionate one-page letter, a one-page story summary plus our creative team bios with years of experience in The Biz (Vickie brought along a great cinematographer and I had a couple of line-producer gals with us as well).  I had my business plan; I had my budget (we had a variety of them over the years, but the smallest one I had for the feature version was $270,000).  I made a look-book of photos I culled from my trips to the majestic Sierra Nevada mountains, where SHELBY’S VACATION is set. I set up an LLC, I hired a good designer to craft a website... I WAS ALL SET!

I approached a handful of reasonably well-off friends and got only one “yes,” but I thought it was a solid yes.  I scoured back issues I had of the LN (Lesbian News, a legendary L.A. publication) for gals featured in articles and in ads for their real estate or law businesses.

Then I hit upon what I thought would be the ticket: I found a group up in San Francisco called StartOut.  They provide mentoring for LGBT entrepreneurs starting their own businesses.   I sent several of them my powerful letter – arguing how rarely we see quality lesbian films – THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT to name one of the rare ones back then.  I pointed out that Hollywood so rarely said yes to these kinds of movies that we needed to fund from within our community.  I explained that SHELBY was different than many typical gay films – no one was coming out; no one felt tortured about being gay.  It was a story of two adults figuring out their relationship patterns and why they couldn’t live in the present.  We’ve never seen this story before, I proclaimed from the mountaintop.

And what I heard in return:  crickets.  Over three+ years I approached 40 individuals, either as investors or someone who would know someone. 

Meanwhile, we were networking.  I’ve been going to Outfest every summer (L.A.’s huge LGBT film festival) since the early 1990’s and to ramp up for SHELBY, we worked it, baby, we worked it.  I researched films ahead of time, their producers, their actresses, and then we went up to these folks after their screenings.  We sent my script to some of them, had follow up phone calls, and even met a few at their offices.  Vickie also got great at approaching well-known actresses after screenings at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences.  Sum result: nada.

So after four years of hard work, I had no attached stars, no production company backing and just two potential investors, neither of them 100% telling me what they would put in.  That wasn’t enough to guarantee $270,000.

In July of 2015, I happened to read a lesbian detective novel called LEFT FIELD by Elizabeth Sims.  It was charming, fun, engaging… and at the end of it I thought, HANG ON, I could turn the story of Shelby into a novel; that way I could tell the whole story and not worry about cutting the budget (because I was forever trying to get the budget down).  Then, we could tell the end of the tale in a short film, say, 25 – 30 minutes.  Forget investors, we could raise the money via a crowd-funding campaign.

Vickie agreed it was worth a shot.

I had been leery of doing a crowd-funding thing for a few reasons.  First, I’ve done several of them with my writers/actors group Fierce Backbone and also for a web-series I co-wrote and co-produced (THE CALAMITIES OF JANE) and I’d learned it takes a village.  We had dozens of people involved with Fierce and JANE and it was still a struggle to raise $25,000 for both causes.  You need more than two people to raise that kind of money.  Or so I thought.

I started on the novel (after reading a couple of books on how to write a novel to pick up pointers on how they’re different from movie scripts).  I set myself a goal of writing three pages a day, five days a week, and by the spring of 2016, I was 80% done with the first draft.

For the movie, I cut the 90-page script down to 25. I cut all of the other characters and focused exclusively on the essence of the story between Shelby and Carol – the moment when they meet, the moment when they connect, the moment when they agree to do a ritual to get rid of their bad habit of holding on to fantasies… and of course the ritual itself.

Vickie and I reached out to a handful of actresses we knew and had them come over to my living room and read in pairs.  The script worked!  We picked our two favorite actresses and we were off to the races, or rather, the slog of raising money.

Nagging Mom / P.T. Barnum

We went to a seminar lead by Emily Best of Seed & Spark and she really is the best.  Seed&Spark (S&S) is a crowd-funding platform solely for independent films.  Kickstarter requires that you raise 100% of your goal (we did that with JANE, and it’s migraine inducing); IndieGoGo will give you whatever you raise.  S&S asks that you raise 80% of your goal, and I thought that seemed like a good compromise.  If we’d gone with IndieGoGo and had raised only $10,000, we would not have been able to hire a professional crew and were adamant about that – and about paying them.

Our budget goal was $36,000 and 80% was $28,000.  While Emily and company were full of tips and enthusiasm, they conveyed to us something along the lines of… a short film at S&S had never raised that much before.  I was nervous, but I wanted to prove S&S wrong. 

On April 1, we shot a teaser with our two actresses up at Switzer picnic area in the San Gabriel Mountains aka The Angeles Nationals Forest, which sits on the northern edge of Los Angeles.  It was a small crew – director Vickie, Kimby Caplan our D.P., a sound guy, and a make-up artist.  I got to wear a lot of hats – craft services / lunch / props… and I learned how to do the slate clapperboard.

Vickie did a fantastic job of editing the footage into a compelling teaser.  We shot a bit of me doing a pitch to donors (citing the deplorable statistics of women and LGBT folks in Hollywood) and edited that in as well.  I had to strategically plan what footage to send out at the beginning and then more snippets as our campaign progressed.  Each email blast needed a fresh angle that highlighted why people should support our film.

From the campaign of the web-series THE CALAMITIES OF JANE, I learned to not offer tangibles as premiums for the different levels of giving – it takes extra money to produce things like hats and t-shirts.  So we made the premiums for SHELBY easy to fulfill – nature photos of mine, visits to the set, hikes led by me, downloads of the film.

During the campaign Vickie and I spent a lot of time sending emails out – personal ones, group ones every few days, using the selling points I’d honed approaching the 40 investors previously.  Hey, that experience was good for something!  I read someone else’s blog about their fund-raising campaign, and she said she felt like a cross between a nagging mom and P.T. Barnum. Yep.

The money came in – sometimes in big chunks of $250 and $500, but mostly as $25, $50 and $100 contributions.  Our actresses didn’t have a lot of luck finding supporters… and then the one playing Carol dropped out saying she had another wonderful opportunity come up.  Crapity-crap-crap-crap.  But we had to soldier on.  We did not tell our audience yet because we didn’t have time to recast and reshoot the teaser smack in the middle of the campaign. 

I had a couple of favorite elements during the campaign – one was writing personal “thank yous” to each and every person who donated.  Whether it was a big sum or a little sum, my heart overflowed with joy and I loved sending gratitude out. The other thing I enjoyed was putting special thank yous up on Facebook:  I would take one of my nature photos – like a shot from the Grand Canyon – and put a phrase at the top like, “’Tis grand… generous friends” and then I’d list the donors of that particular day in the post.

The June fund-raising was 40 days and 40 nights as I would joke later, and it was a nail-biter near the end to get to 80% of our goal.  But I had a few miracles happen in the last week of the campaign.  I contacted an old pal at a well-known production company – he and I had worked together on my first TV show job back in 1988 and we went to the same college.  He and his wife made a very generous donation.  Then, the day before our campaign was ending and we were still $1140 short of our 80% goal, I ran into a friend in the lunchroom where I work at UCLA.  I told her how exciting the campaign was, how grateful I was, and I didn’t even ask her for money, I was just genuinely sharing my passion.  She asked how much we were short, and then she said, “Hmm, that’s four figures.”  I thought she was going to do a math thing, like, “If you get 11 people to each donate $100, you’ll get your goal.”

She got out her checkbook.  I thought, oh, she’s gonna make a donation and I started to do my, “Hey, any amount is fine,” speech.  Then she handed me a check.  I started crying.  It was for $1140.  Here was a co-worker, who probably doesn’t make much more than I do, and yes, we’ve talked about stories and art before, but I hadn’t told her much about the movie and I hadn’t done any kind of pitch to her for money.  This is what happens when you are genuine and full of passion with no expectations:  a miracle.

So we had our goal, and then there was another miracle:  The following day, I got a text message from a woman I used to see at an annual Oscar party for years and years.  Her partner had passed away the previous winter… and she wanted to make a donation in her honor.  It was another generous amount.  So we actually hit 90% of our goal!

Switzer in the San Gabriel Mountains (where we did the teaser) wouldn’t need a reservation (but we’d get a permit and be legit this time) but Harwood Lodge near Mt. Baldy (the second half of our shoot) needed a reservation so I called the Sierra Club (of which I’m a member and they own the lodge) and the only available time they had was the last weekend in August.  WE’LL TAKE IT, I said.  We decided to film the first week in August at Switzer and I contacted the River Ranger District Filming lady and was all set to send in our film permit application the last week in July. 

Then came a big curveball:  the Sand Fire (every fire in California gets a name).  The Sand Fire broke out north of the San Gabriel Mountains July 22nd.  The fire was several miles away, but as fires do, it romped through vegetation and BAM, in a few days, big trouble.  People lost their homes… and the River Ranger office stopped issuing filming permits, including ours to shoot at Switzer.

With almost no time before our scheduled shoot, we had to find a location.  I’ve been hiking in the local mountains around L.A. for nearly 30 years, so I had some ideas.  One idea that did not work:  Griffith Park – the lawns at street level are manicured, so it doesn’t seem like a real forest, and equally important, the permits to film there are very expensive.  I suggested to Vickie we try some nearby state parks.  We drove up to Topanga Canyon State Park early one weekday morning and Vickie saw the potential – lots of oak trees. To get a permit for a state park, you’re supposed to apply four business days in advance.  We were now less than four days away – we called Mr. V at the Parks Dept. film office and told him we wanted to drive over to where he was stationed to fill out our application RIGHT NOW.  He laughed and said we could come by for tea but the application was on-line.  Oh.  Got it.

Instead of driving home to do it, we drove to a high spot on Topanga Blvd. in the Santa Monica Mountains to get good cell reception and filled out the application using Vickie’s cell phone.  Remember this moment:  Vickie told me what the format was for the dates we wanted:  year, month, day.  And we knew our shoot dates by heart, Aug. 3, 4, 5.  We filled it out and hit “Apply.”

Shortly thereafter, I received a confirmation of our application and another application to fill out, with our credit/debit card info.  I did that, and at the bottom I wrote the shoot dates and multiplied that times the permit fee for each day.  I sent it in and Miss B in the permit office sent me an email asking for another application, for just the first day.  Remember this moment: I wrote back and asked why, and were they going to bill me three separate times for the three shoot dates?  It made no sense to me.  Miss B wrote back and said she’d get back to me, and she copied Miss C on that email.

August 3rd came and we all arrived early at Topanga Canyon State Park, we’re there when the ranger officially opened the gate, yes, off to a good start.

Next curveball.  I knew the parking pass machine dispensed passes for $10 a pop.  I came armed with lots of $10 bills.  Great idea, huh?  I had not read the fine print on the machine.  It would take only $5 bills – what the !@#$%?  So I used my debit card… and after three passes, the machine stopped working – perhaps it thought, “FRAUD.”  I used my credit card… for three passes and then that stopped working.  I cobbled together other cash and cards for the rest of our cast and crew.

Mid-way through the parking machine tap dance, a very stern-looking Ranger Supervisor came over to me. “LET ME SEE YOUR PERMIT.”  I felt smug and whipped that sucker out.  He looked it over and snottily said, “You have too many people here!”  He practically threw it in my face and said he was reporting me to Mr. V, the man I’d been in contact with over the phone.  He stormed away and my stomach went into Knotsville.

Okay, I knew on the permit application it asked how many you had in your crew – under or over 14.  If you had over 14, you had to have a ranger monitor and a bunch of other stuff.  We had a teeny bit over 14, like 17.  I thought I’d go with the “spirit” of the rule – the under 14 was for “small” productions and we were a small production.  To me it was true.

By the way, when the Ranger Supervisor looked around at all the cars, some of them belonged to other hikers, not our group, and so he didn’t even count how many people we had.  He just yelled.  To be safe, I sent a few of our volunteers away, to get our total personnel number down.

It was a 12-hour day but we got beautiful footage. Our actresses and crew were superb. 

And then I began to worry.  I’d never heard back from Miss B or Miss C about charging my card for our next day’s filming.  I’d sent a follow-up email and made a phone call to remind them.  Still nothing… but Mr. V called in the middle of Day One and said I did not have a permit for the Day Two.  I was livid and told him the whole story about the application on-line where we filled out the dates, how I’d TRIED to submit the credit card application with all three filming dates.  He had no sympathy and said Miss B was in Billing and knew nothing about the actual permits.  OH GREAT, NOW YOU TELL ME.  But he said we could fill out an “addendum” to film tomorrow.  Great!  I had our line producer, Kristina, fill that out, and whewwwww, we were good for Thursday.

We came back Thursday, right there when the gate opened again.  I had gone to a grocery store and a drug store the night before to get a boat-load of five dollar bills to feed into the parking machine today – you will not defeat me, “Take that, Parking Machine Monster!”

Half way through the day, Mr. V let us know there have been “complaints” about us – that we had too many people again.  I actually had met one of the rangers who came to visit our shooting site, and he was very friendly and seemed okay with us.  I told him we picked up other people’s trash, we had a small footprint, and we were leaving the place better than how we found it.  Apparently having a couple of extra people was too much for the color-in-the-lines bureaucrats.  Mr. V said we were denied a permit for Friday - no addendum, no nothin’.  So, I spent the rest of Thursday with my stomach in Knotsville again, trying to find another location.  I was at least lucky enough to have cell phone service at Topanga Park to make calls; many people did not; it was spotty even for me; my favorite place was under a tree in the parking lot, which I began to refer to it as my “office”.  Well guess what:  you can’t get a film permit at the last minute.  Then I discovered private ranches – no permit required!  But they were exorbitant (hello, $7000, for one day, really??).  Finally near the end of Day Two, I made an executive decision.

The Sand Fire was mostly contained by this time BUT the Forest Service wasn’t issuing film permits until the FOLLOWING week.  We would lose our D.P. by then.  We had to shoot Friday.  And we would go back to Switzer where we filmed the teaser.  Without a permit.  I didn’t like going renegade, but I literally had no other option.  I told director Vickie… and I said we need a story in case a ranger came by our Switzer spot.  Vickie said she would pretend to be a college instructor with a class.  Perfect.

One more curveball:  our sound guy wouldn’t do a shoot without a permit, so we had to scramble to find a sound person during the evening of Day Two for Day Three.

Switzer Redux

Early on the morning of Day Three, I handed out Adventure Passes for parking to the cast and crew as I stood on Angeles Crest Highway… and then drove on up to Switzer picnic area.  The crew unloaded camera equipment… and DUM DA DUM DUM DUM:  the Ranger Lady showed up around 9 a.m.  That morning I’d almost put on my MovieMaker T-shirt.  Instead, as a safety precaution for confrontation, I’d picked out my Grand Canyon “Just Hike It” t-shirt so I’d look like a hiker and not a film producer.  That moment had come.  Brayton, our Key Grip, and I hiked right past the Ranger Lady as she picked up trash.  We talked loudly of hiking in Alaska (his home state) to sound really authentic.  Meanwhile, when Director Vickie saw Ranger Lady, she calmly introduced herself as a college professor teaching students how to photograph nature.  Luckily not every piece of equipment was out of the van yet (yeah, nothing says “college students” like a SteadiCam harness and a jib…) and only a few of the crewmembers were with Vickie at that point. The Ranger bought it.  After she finished with the trash, she left, and didn’t come back the rest of the day.  Whew.

We spent a glorious 12 hours filming our actresses (we still had Laura as Shelby and by mid-summer Brynn Horrocks had joined us as our new Carol) running around in the woods “play fighting” with sticks.

We wrapped about 8 p.m., as it was getting dark.

Ignorance is bliss

If I’d known the Sand Fire was gonna break out…

If I’d known 17 people was a deal-breaker with the State Parks film dept…

If I’d known my boss at work was gonna pitch a fit when I asked for time off in August when we had to move the shoot from June (August is a big month for my department)…

What? I wouldn’t have done the film?  Ignorance is bliss.  You go with the info you have at the moment and keep your fingers crossed.

In spite of all the curveballs, we were ready for our second location, Harwood Lodge.

Harwood Lodge – a slice of heaven, a dream come true

Finally at Harwood, I could have a good time and do less worrying.  There were no pesky persnickety State Park Rangers, I wasn’t hounding donors for money, we had a solid cast and crew in place – and as an amazing bonus, we had eight, count ‘em eight, volunteers (many of whom I knew through the Gay & Lesbian Sierrans).  We literally couldn’t have done it without them.  They helped prepare food, then clean it up, set furniture and props and then move things for the next scene, and they acted as background extras.  They did it without complaining.  In fact, no one in the entire crew complained – and we worked hard – 12, 13 hours a day.

I was in my element:  high (6000’) in the mountains, surrounded by pine trees and craggy peaks, making art.  There were many dreams that came true during the weekend.  I’d purchased a Celtic Tree of Life t-shirt in England a few summers back and had hoped it could be used for the film:  our art department ended up framing it and putting it on the wall of Carol’s cabin.  I got to watch (and help) our Art Dept. gal, Melissa, hang up the “Welcome to Sierra Glen” sign, and hear the actresses say lines that I had written years ago.  The hand-made journal I’d worked hard on (with the help of friends, co-workers and some cast & crew members all writing in it) looked big and full – as if it had been around for years, filled with made-up adventure stories.

We made a movie!

One of the few challenges we had was staying on time.  We were supposed to be done at 8:30pm on Friday and we went to 9:30p.m.  On Saturday, the line producer, the First A.D. and I all worked to keep things moving, with more success.  The D.P. did ask me if we could shoot a dinner scene outside under the pine trees – as was originally planned – but we’d already started to set it up indoors and the director had already done a blocking rehearsal.  I just said no.  No explanation, no apology, just no.  We shot in the dining room and it looked beautiful.  And we got done that night by 8:30. The next day, Sunday, we wanted to be done by 6:30 because we needed to pack up and everyone had an hour-plus drive home.  The final shot was a fantasy kiss, with sunlight from behind the actresses, and when the sun disappeared behind the mountains at 6:15… that’s a wrap!

I stood in the parking lot w/ Vickie and with tears in my eyes we both said WE DID IT, WE MADE A MOVIE!

Shelby’s Vacation has gotten in to over a dozen film festivals and won a bunch of awards.

And now the novel

 The movie version of this story ended up being just under 40 minutes and was very satisfying to watch.  And yet… I still had this yearning to tell the WHOLE story of Shelby.  So, during the beginning of COVID, with extra time on my hands, I got out the novel version of SHELBY’S VACATION and polished it up.  I hired an editor who proofed it twice, and then I submitted it to a variety of publishers, which is another journey.

I’m thrilled to announce it was just published on June 1st of this year, 2023.

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Nancy Beverly has been developing plays for several years with the writers’ / actors’ group Fierce Backbone, including Dyke-Doggie Patrol which was chosen by the Alliance of L.A. Playwrights for the city of West Hollywood’s 2022 gay pride readings. Thanks to the Harrison Grant from Fierce Backbone, she will be producing and starting in her one-person show Sister from Another Planet at the Hollywood Fringe Festival in June 2023.  Some fun honors:  her play Community made the finals of Sacramento’s B Street Theatre contest and the top 12 of the American Association of Community Theatres play contest.  Nancy’s professional career began at Actors Theatre of Louisville where she was the Assistant Lit Manager and had a slew of ten-minute plays produced, including Attack of the Moral Fuzzies, which was published by Samuel French and has been produced dozens of times around the U.S.  In L.A., she worked on such hit shows as Rosanne, Blossom, Desperate Housewives, and Ghost Whisperer.  She wrote and produced the film Shelby’s Vacation which got into over a dozen film festivals and won a boatload of awards.  More good news:  the novel version of Shelby’s Vacation has just been published and is available now from BarnesAndNoble.com (eBook and paperback) and Amazon.com (paperback), as well as from other online booksellers. Get your copy today!

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Twenty Drops in the Bucket

Before I became an actor, my first pursuit in life was the study of Japanese swordsmanship. When I was 13-years old, I began training with a well-respected kendo (modern Japanese fencing) instructor in New York, and some twenty-years later, continue to train in kendo and iaijutsu (classical Japanese swordsmanship). In the time between, I have traveled to Japan, been an observer of Japanese culture, and had the privilege to study under some of, who I consider to be, the greatest sensei and practitioners in modern budo (martial arts) history.

When Greg Cioffi invited me to write an article for his ongoing collection of artists’ perspectives, I took some time to consider what I could offer that might be of insight. Rather than write exclusively about my own journey, I thought it might be more useful to share some of the philosophy and aesthetics that have shaped my understanding as a martial artist, an actor, and a member of society. I take this stance because, as my sensei once said to me, “If I asked you to tell me how many of the grandmasters of our tradition you could name, you most likely could only say a handful; but if I asked you how many techniques and principles you know, I guarantee you could easily list scores.”

The teaching here is that the men and women of martial arts are soon forgotten; but the traditions, the core values, and the techniques of the art – these are what endure the crucible of time. 

The budoka (martial practitioners) who have preserved and disseminated their art in its purest form knew this, and selflessly dedicated their lives to their path, recognizing they were contributing to something far greater and lasting.

These are concepts of which I am by no means a master. They are viewpoints that fuel me and challenge me. I grapple with them often; and most often am humbled by them.

If twenty years of training is twenty drops in a bucket…well, if only I had a thousand-years left to train, as there are still a thousand drops to go.

It is my hope that, the concepts below inspire you in some form or another, as an artist, practitioner of your own budo, or as a human being. To the best of my ability, I will attempt to draw parallels, where appropriate, between swordsmanship and acting. May there be something there for you to glean.

Thank you for taking the time to read, and with regards to your journey and aspirations: “Gambatte kurasai! Fight hard!”

In gassho (palms together),

Morgan Hooper

Shisei

The philosophy of the Japanese warrior has a sea of extolled virtues. In the tradition of iaijutsu that I study, Miura Takeyuki Hidefusa, the 20th grandmaster, most valued shisei. On a surface level, shisei simply means “posture.” Often when training begins or concludes in the dojo, and the teacher and students bow to one another, the command “Shisei wo tadashite” is called out – literally, “Straighten your backs.”

Such a phrase might evoke images of the military or boot camp, and there is an aspect of this; but on a deeper level shisei implies “inner posture”, or sincerity. In this sense, shisei is a virtue with connotations of earnestness, humility, beginner’s spirit, magnanimity, and courage. Shisei compels one to offer their best to the present moment, especially in the less than ideal. It was Miura Sensei’s belief that it is only through shisei that growth, knowledge, and success is possible.

When I consider how shisei is applicable to acting, the first comparison that comes to mind is the example Sir John Gielgud used to illustrate his perspective. If you have not heard it, the story goes that there were times in Gielgud’s career when he would observe his fellow actors peeking through the curtains before a play would begin, musing and whispering to one another, “I wonder what kind of audience they are going to be tonight?” Rightly calling out his peers, Gielgud quips, “What they’re really asking is: what kind of performance are we going to give them tonight?”

 If you have ever been in a long run of a theatre production, I suspect Sir John’s remark will resonate. The energy an actor feels coming from the audience on opening night and the Sunday matinee can be a brutal contrast.

On those matinees though, it is perhaps worth asking, “Who is serving whom? Who paid for the tickets? How can I make the most and offer my best in this situation?”

When I was in Kyoto five-years ago, this was my observation of every Japanese woman, man, and child I came across. Whether it was a train conductor collecting my ticket, a restaurant server wiping down a table, or an inquisitive schoolboy asking me why I love ramen, I discovered that the Japanese spirit is dedicated to excellence, service, and a sincere effort, no matter how mundane the task. This expression of shisei humbles me, particularly when I find myself in a lazy spell, and revitalizes me to begin again with a committed effort.

Masa/Masu

Of all the corrections on my technique I have received over the years from various sensei, the one I have heard most repeatedly is masa or masu, meaning “straight, straighter.” This correction has numerous aspects, the first of which is straightness of form. Correct footwork, forward upright posture (shisei), and proper cutting and thrusting angles fall into this category. On a deeper level masa is an observation of the straightness, or more accurately, the directness of the attack. As two budoka cross swords, the initial contest is for the invisible centerline where the weapons meet. The swordsman that can maintain control of this line, or arrests it from the opponent in their attack, throwing them off-balance, will almost assuredly be the victor.

How one makes this attack though, there’s the rub. In bujutsu (traditional Japanese arts of war) any method to secure victory was acceptable. However, as martial arts evolved in the later centuries, a moral component was introduced to the older systems. The emphasis shifted somewhat from the practicalities of war, to the cultivation of the human spirit. This is how bujutsu became budo (the way or path of the warrior). 

After a sparring match between a teacher or peer and myself, I often reflect back, “How straight was my technique? Did I attack with courage and honesty, or was I surreptitious in my advance? Did I act decisively whether I won or lost; or was I hesitant, defensive and attached or fearful of an outcome?” For myself, I have found that when I feel outmatched by another fencer’s technique or dominance of spirit, the latter qualities are the case.  Masa, on its deepest level, then implies straightness of heart. Fortunately, the bloody days of dueling are long past; but trials and uncertainties are a natural part of life. When encountering these obstacles, does one confront them boldly, or slyly duck and evade?

In the last decade, I have applied the concept of masa more and more to the creation of the characters I portray. At times in my career I have found myself making “intelligent, crafty, or unexpected” choices for my roles, all for the sake of being clever. Sometimes this impulse has served me, but in later years, I have questioned how much I honored the playwright’s intention for the character and how much was a distortion. These days, I strive to err more on the side of simplicity.

 Sensei and Deshi

I would be remiss if I had not dedicated a portion of this article to the sensei-deshi (teacher-student) relationship. In essence, it is this bond that promulgates budo for generations to come. Without this connection, art forms eventually are forgotten. Thanks largely to martial art’s cinema, it is not a novel idea to posit that a budoka is only as great as the lessons received from their sensei. However, what is sometimes missed in these works, or only subtly hinted at, is that the teacher, likewise, only thrives because of the willingness of the student. Without the teacher’s knowledge, the student can never actualize their potential. Similarly, without the steadfast dedication of the student, the teacher has no inheritor to the legacy of which they are the steward. In the traditions I study, this is why the sensei bows first to the student, acknowledging the pupil’s commitment to carry on a path that sometimes goes back hundreds of years; and it is why the student reciprocates a bow, demonstrating gratitude for the knowledge that is received, and to honor the commitment that they may one day become the next teacher that must bear the torch for the future.

This relationship between sensei and deshi is honed in the fire of training over the span of many years. My teacher once shared with me that only after a practitioner has been training under him for ten years, does he consider them to be a student. That first decade is spent understanding the kihon, the fundamentals and basics of the art. Only after that period, does the student’s spirit and individuality begin to emerge, and the subtler aesthetics of the tradition begin to reveal themselves. Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, the teacher and student have a keener sense of who the other person is. They are aware, as an instructor of mine once put it, “of the other guy’s warts.”  In the two decades I have been studying Japanese sword, I have yet to encounter a perfect human being on the dojo floor. None of us are devoid of flaws. This, in my opinion, is the more significant effect martial arts can have in one’s life. Learning the techniques is all well and good, but becoming a better version of one’s self – this is why martial arts continue to inspire and draw aspirants. A humble student realizes they have potential within themselves that they cannot quite harness on their own; and a humble teacher strives to guide the student to forge this potential into its actualization. 

Drawing a comparison of the sensei-deshi relationship with the acting world is not as intuitive as it might seem. The dynamic that comes closest is the acting instructor and student, and to some extent the director-actor relationship. However, with these dynamics the crucial difference is the element of time. As mentioned above, students train with their martial art’s teachers for years, sometimes a lifetime. Generally, a student of acting receives techniques from their teacher in a much more compressed period, often a year or two. Of course, the period of work with a director is almost always (at least in the States) just a few weeks, so it is compressed even further. 

An observation of myself and others, both as a student of martial arts and acting is this: the novice of any art is almost without exception quite awkward in their grappling with a technique. This awkwardness manifests either as a lack of confidence, or a tendency to muddy the technique through embellishments, affectations, or haphazard movements. The work of the teacher is to brush away this awkwardness and, with the technique as the means, guide the student to realize their own essence in its simplicity. The conundrum for the student is that as they let go more and more of the unnecessary motions they are holding onto or hiding behind, the more they feel as though they are losing their individuality; and this is the critical juncture, especially for Westerners, where the student buckles and resists. If they can press forward though, and continue to release this awkwardness, a beautiful paradox takes place. All that remains is the technique, and because the technique has become so polished, transparent in fact, that is when the practitioner’s true identity emerges.

With regards to the director-actor relationship what I will offer is this: in the dojo, there is merit in the fact that a student’s speech is generally limited to bowing and acknowledging instruction or correction with a simple “Hai!” (“Yes!”). Western artists, especially in today’s industry, where the landscape of power is fluid and increasingly non-hierarchal, love to question, challenge, debate, bicker, and downright refuse. In my estimation, there is value in this dynamic of collaboration, and something potentially detrimental. For me, there is a threshold in which there is suddenly too much talking in the room, too much intellectualizing of the work, too much rebuttal for the ego’s sake. There is something profound about trusting the creative process to unfold as it must, even if the mind cannot quite grasp what is happening.

All this to say, when I am in the rehearsal room or on set, I am careful to discern when it is time to have a discussion, and when it is appropriate to simply nod and take the direction, even though it might not make sense. A good director, like a good teacher, has a broader scope of the trajectory that must take place, and I believe that sometimes the best thing and actor can do is to trust the direction they are being steered.

A caveat to this: a budoka or actor must never compromise their integrity. The martial arts and performance worlds are riddled with charlatans. One must always trust their intuition in these cases. Be steadfast in this and do not hesitate.

Yoyuu and the Selfish Strike

 A few years ago, I became acquainted with the concept of yoyuu. To my understanding, yoyuu is the capacity to adapt to the ever-changing moment. This quality is critical during combat. In a duel, the opponents may have observed one another for a length of time, become familiar with the other’s technique, etc. and have a sense of how victory may be secured; but then, one swordsman maneuvers in an unexpected way and the other is slain. The night before a large-scale battle, the generals meet to assess their plan of attack. They have a contingency for every variation of a counterattack they believe the opposing forces will attempt, and they are certain they will prevail. The next morning, torrential rain turns the field of encounter into a mud pit. Their cavalry have no means of adjusting to this unpredictability and, as a result, many thousands of young soldiers are slaughtered and the generals’ honor is forever stained.

The way my teacher first introduced yoyuu to me was by using the illustration of a tiger that hung on one of the dojo walls. “The tiger,” Sensei said, “is unpredictable and wild in its nature. It is impossible for me to know precisely how or when it will pounce. It may lunge or dash, stalk or veer, wait or run away. Planning how I will cut it down very likely will cost my life. However, there is a moment, when the tiger will commit to its attack – the tiger will show me its vulnerable opening – and like the painter’s brush coloring in a blank space on a canvas, that is where my sword will go.”

 To frame it another way, at one point in time, my kendo instructor told me I was being selfish in my strikes. I asked him what he meant by this and he explained that in kendo there are only a few accepted targets: cuts to the head, the wrist, the waist, and a thrust to the throat or chest. Often, kendoka tend to fixate on one target, either because they are good at attacking it, or it has become a kind of signature strike. The problem is that sometimes that target is not available for opening, mainly because the opponent knows how to guard it. Persistently chasing after or forcing an opening that is not there is ruinous. In reflection of my instructor’s correction, I realize there have certainly been times, whether as a budoka, an artist, or in my personal life, when I have been guilty of tunnel vision, obsessing on one possible outcome or desire, essentially ignoring all the other possibilities and open doors that were right there in front of me. This is what he meant by a selfish strike.  

A few weeks ago, I began thinking about yoyuu again after presenting a scene from The Seagull with another actor. In the last rehearsal before the showing, a director colleague observed that I was not fully taking in my scene partner’s offers. I was hearing her speak, listening on a shallow level, but I was not really letting her affect me; I was dismissing her. I took note of this, and during the presentation found that this tendency had become a bad habit. Early in the scene, she gestured for me to take a seat in the chair beside her. Rather than accept her invitation, I chose to ignore this and instead sit on the floor at her feet. I could argue that this was my character’s way of asserting his will over her’s, but I knew in that moment I was being selfish.

For just a brief moment, I realized I had thrown my scene partner off, and she was now forced to accommodate me.

In the actor training I am currently exploring, my instructor often says, “Don’t decide. Be decided upon.” This for me is another way of saying let the tiger show you how it must be struck. Much can be praised for artists that come into a creative process with generous, bold offers and propositions. In recent years, I am learning that perhaps another kind of generosity is also needed – the generosity to let others shine; the generosity to flow with the breath and pulse of the creation itself, to allow the creation to dictate how it wishes to evolve and be experienced.

Once I asked a wood sculptor about an exhibit he was working on. At the time, New York had been recovering from a series of hurricanes and tropical storms, and his backyard was littered with fallen twigs and branches. He decided to use this debris to create a series of sculptures, and as I examined them, I was moved by each piece’s fragility. The slender strips of winding, gnarled wood delicately rested upon one another, and it would take only a gust to scatter all his work. What was sublime though was, rather than invasively forcing dynamics or manipulating the wood to his will, I noticed how the artist seemed to patiently and gently find the most natural groove or notch that would balance one element atop the next. When I asked him about this, he said, as sculptor’s often do, “My job isn’t to impose my idea on the object. My job is to listen to what it is telling me it wants to become.”

Shu-ha-ri

The concept of shu-ha-ri is easiest to understand by imagining three concentric circles, one resting within or expanding out from the other. The first and smallest circle, shu, is considered the formative period of training. This is the time frame, often a decade or so, when the sensei emphasizes the importance of kihon, the fundamentals and basics of a craft. The student spends their hours on the dojo floor, comprehending the “footwork”, a theme that extends to other arts as well, which shortly below I will expound upon. For most Westerners of the present day, spending ten-years learning the foundations of an art is as alien as it is preposterous. We simply do not have the time for that investment. We fixate on immediate results and success. When encountering an Eastern tradition of any form, we expect the secret or ultimate expression on the first day. The Eastern arts I have practiced and observed simply operate with a more patient and committed mindset. In my experience, it really does take a decade to begin to understand the art. Perhaps a question worth exploring: if one is truly passionate and wants to excel in a path, why not invest one’s life in its study?

Ha, the second larger circle, begins around year eleven, and it is a time of questioning and experimentation. The sensei and deshi frustrate one another, much like a parent and their defiant teenager. The frustrated budoka is aware that they have acquired a certain level of comprehension and skill; and at the same time, they have more doubts and confusion then when they began their training. In a sense, they are wrestling with an irony: the more they learn, the more questions arise. This prompts the practitioner to test the knowledge they have received from their first sensei, and begin to study with other teachers. They travel to dojo in remote countries, and compete in tournaments, etc. It is an exciting time, as they learn new techniques and forge friendships that can last all one’s life. It can also be a time mired with pitfalls. Not all sensei are of equal calibre, and even a teacher exuding technical prowess, may not be the best model to emulate if their values are in some way corrupt.

Another ten, perhaps twenty years of steadfast training go by, and practitioners find themselves in ri, the most expansive outer circle – a ring of maturation. The teacher and student have a deeper appreciation for their relationship, similar to a child becoming a parent for the first time and the parent stepping into the role of grandparent. The cycle of experience has wound its way back to its origin and begins again anew. Shu, the heart, the basics, becomes ha, the exploration and experimentation, becomes Rri, the culmination of knowledge, becomes shu once more. The budoka, established in their years of training, often opens their own hall of training, and begins to teach a new student the kihon.

There have been times, I must admit, when all this repetition of the basics has driven me mad with indignation. “How many thousands of times must I practice this form before I can move on already!? Haven’t I figured out the footwork by now!?” Years ago in my actor training, I encountered bunraku, Japanese puppetry for the first time, and ever since have been enamored with this exquisite art. I understood then that all this time emphasis on the ashi, the footwork, is not singular to budo; it extends to most, if not all, Japanese arts.

In bunraku, the puppet is manipulated by three puppeteers. The novice coordinates the feet, the experienced or older student controls the left, less dominant hand, and the master articulates the head and right hand, the most expressive aspects. Traditionally, like many of the older arts, bunraku was passed on from father to son, so that the forms and secrets of the family were preserved and a natural hierarchy evolved. There is nothing surprising in this, but when I learned that the novice puppeteer dedicates ten years of their life controlling only the puppets feet, I was astonished. Consider for a moment how artists love the limelight, how they assert their right to be the petals of the rose, “the puppeteer who controls the head and expressive hand” as it were; and then consider the possibility of spending ten-years learning the element of an art, essential in supporting the overall structure of performance, but is by far the least exciting to watch (oh, and by the way, you are wearing a black mask obscuring your face – almost as though you are not even there; in fact, invisibility, is in some ways the mark of a great puppeteer). Consider still further, having committed to this art, spending a decade mastering the feet, you will spend another ten years utilizing only the puppets less expressive hand. After twenty, twenty-five years time, the puppet’s head and right hand are in your power. Shu-ha-ri.

Years ago, when I first discovered my love for Shakespeare, I was inspired by several of The Old Vic actors from the 1960’s like Richard Burton. In an interview I once read, I recall Burton admitting that he was driven to be the greatest actor in the world, and if he could not do that, then what was the point? The road to greatness is laden with delusion, but in this instance, I believe Burton meant that he wanted to reach the pinnacle of his art, a compulsion that leads many artists to glory, madness, or both at the same time. There are numerous stories of budoka spending their lives in a similar way. It is a path of a sacrifice, seldom glorious, but inspiring nonetheless. In kendo, there is a common pursuit, that after all the thousands of repetitions of drills and forms, aside from all the trophies, titles and trappings of success, the true victory is to strike perfectly – just once.

Fushime

Fushime, or the “turning point” is easiest explained by considering the nodes, or horizontal delineations in a bamboo stalk. Each demarcation from the ground up signifies a new phase in the bamboo’s growth and its overall trajectory. Some stalks shoot straight for the heavens, while others wind about their environment in serpentine coils. In a metaphorical sense, these nodes are representative of the chapters, often ten years again or so, of one’s progress on the path of budo. This period of transition encompasses more than technical refinements and a deeper philosophical understanding. Fushime suggests a shedding of what no longer serves so that growth can continue – whether that be a relinquishing of old tendencies, or saying goodbye to relationships. Often, a student trains with one teacher for an extended time, and then one or both realize, that the bond has come to conclusion, and so part ways. Sometimes too, the techniques or mindsets which aided one to victory, no longer bear fruit the way they once did, and so a new approach must be discovered. Fushime is the natural process of letting go so that the budoka can become a new and greater version of themselves.

There have been many times in my life, artistically and personally, when I have held on for too long, or worse yet, looked backwards at a memory. To move forward on one’s journey though, saying goodbye, releasing, and surrendering is vital. If one door closes, search for entry into the next. Do not be a dog in the rain hoping to be let back into the master’s good graces. Forgive the other – harder still, forgive yourself – if that is what is called for; remember gratitude; learn from the mistakes you made for they will make you wiser; never blame others but hold yourself accountable always; consider deeply what more could have been done, and then move on.

Growth is painful. Growth rarely has a plan. Growth is both a harbinger of triumph and disaster, and is both celebrated and desperately avoided. Fushime, the turning points of one’s life, regardless of whether or not they are invited, will inevitably arrive. All one can do is to decide how best to respond.

Satori

Satori is one term for “understanding, or comprehension”; it is also the name in some Buddhist sects for enlightenment. The way my sensei explained satori to me was this: 

Imagine that you are standing in front of a high, expansive wall. On this wall are many sealed hatches and windows. During your training, one of these windows suddenly opens. You peer in and what you see on the other side is the fragment of a painting. It is beautiful and evocative, but it is incomplete. It is only one of countless other fragments. The hatch closes and you resume gazing at the wall. Time passes and another hatch opens. You look in again. You take account of what you see. The two fragments you have born witness to, you realize, are in relationship to one another, but you do not understand how. More time passes, your training continues, and periodically, spontaneously, without any effort, the hatches open by themselves. Satori is like this. The trick is that rarely, if ever, do we see the painting in its totality. We only see the fragments.

When I look back on my years in budo and as a performer, I can take stock of the fragments that have guided me along the path. Sometimes they at first appeared inconsequential. For instance, for a long time I struggled to speak and act in my authentic voice, without any affectation. I had developed a number of tensions, mental and physical, that were preventing this. After an extensive period of work with my voice teacher, one summer afternoon while I was watching a softball game – not thinking about my voice or acting at all – all the muscles in my lower back suddenly released. It felt like a wave of weight that I had unknowingly been holding onto for many years decided of its own accord to simply let go. At the time, it was a surprising sensation, but I did not grasp then how releasing my lower back in that way would open up the channel of my breath, and as a consequence, support my vocal technique in my fifteen year’s worth of work since.

Satori is a little bit like falling in love. Whenever a friend tells me how they found their partner, they say, “I wasn’t looking at all. Love was the last thing on my mind.” While persistence and effort have their own value, there is a trap in waiting, expecting, or prying a window open that just is not ready to unlatch. But taking a step back and looking at the larger picture, perhaps another one is. This, in some ways, goes back to yoyuu.

Many years ago, another teacher of mine once told my class about a coffee meeting he had had with a well-known actor. The two were sipping on their drinks, chatting about this and that, when suddenly the actor exclaimed to my teacher, “Ah! That’s what I should have done with Hamlet!” My teacher then explained that this actor had been frustrated with his performance as the prince. On the one-hand, one might argue that the actor had not let go of his shortcomings, but thinking about this story years later, I like to think this actor in his own way had a spark of inspiration, a hatch had opened for him. Having played Hamlet once myself, I suspect there must be something ultimately dissatisfying about the part for any actor that takes it on. There are moments of artistic triumph, but in the end the Everest of Shakespeare’s characters humbles all of us. It’s almost eight years now since I said the words, and occasionally I too have an aha! moment. Maybe there is still time to give it another climb.

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Morgan Hooper began studying Japanese martial arts in 1999. He is the founding instructor of Enshinkan Dojo, School of Traditional Japanese Sword Arts, currently located in Long Island City. He holds the ranks of Go-dan (5thDegree Blackbelt) in Kendo and Sho-dan (1st Degree Blackbelt) in Iaijutsu. As an actor, he has performed Off-Broadway with The Pearl Theatre Company, and regionally with The Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey and The Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival. Recently, he completed a Master’s of Fine Arts in Acting from the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland in which he wrote and produced his first play Leona’s Song

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Multidisciplinary Artist vs. Impostor Syndrome

Dear Multidisciplinary Artist,

Doing one thing was never my thing.  As a kid, I would often do several activities at the same time; drawing while writing or recording myself on a tape recorder while I sang along with my Fisher Price record player (yup…I’m vintage). This could be considered just a little kid thing, you know, you’ll grow out of being interested in so many different things, you’ll find your niche, you’ll settle down eventually…but what happens when you don’t? What happens when you actually find yourself most connected to your art and the world around you when you are engaged in multiple disciplines simultaneously?  Well, if you’re anything like me, you’ll spend quite some time (years) resisting the varied interests and instead try to find one discipline that checks all the boxes.  Quick tip, friends: resistance of one’s truth is the clearest path to disappointment (I just made that shit up, but I stand by it).

My brother once asked me, “Don’t you think you could go a lot farther in life faster if you just focused on one thing?”  Yes. The answer is yes, obviously, but I don’t do obvious, I don’t do easy, and I certainly don’t do subtle.  For some inexplicable Taurean reason, if you tell me no, I tell you watch me.  I come from a long line of teachers and artists of all kinds.  Growing up, dinner conversations often revolved around theater, music, film, and art.  It’s really no wonder that I ended up with the interests that I have.  It’s their fault and I am very grateful.

Now let’s break down a timeless classic: impostor syndrome.  By definition, impostor syndrome involves feelings of self-doubt and personal incompetence that persist despite your education, experience, and accomplishments.  Ah yes, I can feel the low rumble of, “That’s me!” vibes and so I must ask: friends, why the hell do we do this?  I’m not sure I know a single artist who hasn’t suffered from this at some point in their careers, if not consistently.  How dare we think for a second that we can’t be successful at whatever we want do, and however we want do it?!  This helps nothing and I demand we stop this immediately.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a love affair with the arts and the need for creativity.  I’ll never forget the first Broadway play my dad ever took me to - Me And My Girl.  I was five years old and completely in love.  I am proud to say that I have been involved in the arts in some regard ever since.  I am not so proud to say that there were plenty of times where I just gave up.  I was different.  It seemed like everyone else was very content with focusing on one medium.  I reconsidered so many times.  I would constantly make deals with myself, trying to make sense of this inexplicable desire to create and make art on multiple platforms.  Why am I like this?! I’m a fraud who can’t decide on anything!  I thought, maybe I’m not good enough at one thing, maybe I’m too scattered, or maybe I’m just simply and terribly wrong. 

It wasn’t until the birth of my daughter, when I started to meditate on what wisdom I could actually dare to impart to this innocent little creature.  How could I tell her to be proud of who she is if I was constantly disappointed in myself?  How could I tell her to follow her dreams if I put mine on hold because I wasn’t sure I could do it?  Once again, I felt like an impostor; a phony, a phony artist, a phony human, and I was over it.  So I finally got the nerve to do the thing they teach you in Improv 101: SAY YES.  Say yes to the challenges.  Say yes to yourself.  Yes, you can and will.  It is definitely easier said than done, but let this serve as a reminder of the power of positive manifestation (don’t roll your eyes, that shit is real--try it!). As an artist, there really is little room for doubt in order to create art that can do what it is supposed to do: connect with others.

My least favorite question is, “What do you do?” How does one say, “I am a painter, an actress, a writer, a proofreader, a graphic designer, a store owner, a costume designer, and a makeup artist!” without sounding like I’m just completely full of shit?  (I’m also a mom, but I haven’t figured out a way to charge for that). Even now as I write this...it’s a little cringey, I’m not gonna lie!  However, once the self-judgment subsides, if I am fortunate enough to have the ability to accept multiple jobs and they don’t conflict, why wouldn’t I? (Especially if someone is willing to pay me for them, I mean…duh). 

Besides that, it all actually works together!  Multidisciplinary art combines several perspectives in order to create.  If my goal is to connect with as many people as I can through my art, it makes sense to do that in as many different avenues as I can.  I often find that the work flows most naturally when I am working on multiple platforms at once, as though they build off of each other, one inspiring the other.  I’m convinced there’s some secret communication tucked away in the folds of our brains, just waiting for the right impetus to break free to create, but we can only access it if we give it the proper space.  This is where multiple interests reign supreme! If I have a writing block, switching over to painting will often give my brain time to digest and vice versa.

I do not mean to suggest that all artistic problems will be resolved by changing mediums or activities (I think that’s called procrastination…another problem for another blog).  My point is: art is not something that has ever been made in a factory.  It comes from another world completely, an invitation from the beyond to share some inner source of humanity, be it love, sorrow, or everything in-between.  So why on earth would there be only one way to do it?

Although there was always space to share my ideas, I was still alone in this multi-career undertaking.  No one in my circle was attempting this.  There were no other paths to learn from or follow.   I always thought I should have someone else to experience art with, but there is no “should.”  Just like there is no right or wrong way to create art.  The truth is, creativity and art are always communal.  Even when it feels like you might be completely alone in your artistic endeavors, you’re not!  That’s the whole point of art anyway, isn’t it?  An expression of self to be shared with others, who can relate or learn or grow, for the betterment of humanity (or something like that, right?)

Ultimately, if you have a passion inside of you, if you want something that nobody else wants, and if you want it in a way that nobody else wants it, don’t doubt it.  This is where the need to create comes from.  You are not wrong or weird because of these inexplicable passions.  They are gifts!  I believe we have a responsibility to cultivate these gifts and share them with as many people as we possibly can.   The best thing you can do for yourself is to recognize your natural talents and put them to work for yourself.  The rest of the world may not understand you, but don’t let that slow you down!  Move at the pace that works for you, not them.  If they can’t keep up, so what?  Nobody knows what the hell they’re doing anyway.  Nobody.  Have courage.  Keep moving forward.  Create what you want to create, the way you want to create it.  If you make space for yourself, the world will follow suit.  You’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be.

XO,

Concetta

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Concetta Rose Rella is a mom, writer, artist, actress, graphic designer, and makeup artist.  Recent credits include her play Moving Day, which was produced by Virtual Arts Productions and can be viewed on their website, virtualartsproductions.org. Concetta has recently been commissioned for three paintings internationally, to Belgium and England. This past month, Concetta co-starred in Five Flights, a short film by Kathleen Kaan; and, most notably, Concetta's daughter went on the big potty for very the first time. 

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.