Kindling Creativity: Should I Reignite the Embers of the Artist Who Once Was?

A creative act is a spark of life.  So when life is at a standstill, how do we continue to create?

This question has harassed me ad nauseam since the beginning of this pandemic. I remember, during those early days of fear and uncertainty, being particularly filled with dread by a meme that was circulated online amongst fellow artists. It said something to the effect of, “Shakespeare had written King Lear during a plague.” It presented what seemed to me a daunting challenge: would I use this newfound time and space to create my masterpiece? It was tinged with just enough social media snark-guilt that I felt that if I did not write my own Lear by the end of this “gift” of a time, I would most certainly be a failure. 

Six months into this seemingly endless crisis, I have done absolutely nothing creative. I have not taken one idea and actually put pen to paper. I haven’t even tried. My pages, where short films and screenplays should be facing edits and re-writes are filled with cobwebs. Sure, I have tooled around on my guitar here and there but fine-tuning my bar chord’s really does nothing for me in the long run. 

I have been utterly paralyzed. 

I incessantly wrestle with the why? I have more than enough time these days to allow my obsessive brain to feed on questions like these. Why am I incapable of creating during this time? Why has every shred of artistic discipline I’ve ever had left me? It’s a vicious cycle of guilt and anxiety. The more I ignore what I should be doing, the more I don’t want to deal with the guilt of not doing it. And so on and so on it goes. I often see a ghost of myself in the early morning hours of a restless night, which are at this point a regular for me. The ghost looks like me, in just February of this year. It stands before me, a better more confident self. Suddenly, February me starts violently screaming at me in bed, “This is how you spend these precious hours of your life? You’re lazy. You’re weak. You should be doing more. Writing more. Working more.”

As time has gone by, I’ve begun to realize that who we were in the non-plague times, our very identities were all relative to a society that no longer exists. 

And that is what has led me to the recent realization that the act of creation in-and-of itself reminds me of everything we’ve lost. I can’t create without remembering a time I could do so freely. Every project I started pre-plague had potential. Anything was possible. Now we all must reckon with an undeniable fact: None of us lives in a world of potential any longer. 

Art should reflect the moment. We all know the age-old adage that art often serves as a mirror to society. 

I have no idea how to wrestle with this moment. 

I watch about 10-12 hours of news a day. It plays in the background as a constant reminder, a little voice in my head that no matter what I do I can’t fix or escape this new reality. I am not in control. But I don’t want to dig into it. I don’t even know what to make of it. Maybe it’s because I can’t make any sense of it. Maybe because it doesn’t make sense. Maybe I can’t control a narrative that helps me understand what is happening. Art needs a reference point. All art is inherently in reference to the society it exists in. Comedy is in relation to firm social norms. Ideas of love and tragedy exist in relation to a fundamental understanding and illumination of the world around us. 

And yet, we are in the midst of the most uncertain period of time in a generation. There’s no baseline to refer to. No foundation to reflect on.

In moments of sporadic and fleeting inspiration I ask myself, what do I have to say about all of this? What insight do I even have to offer? Or do I even have a right to try?

How can I create when there are so many people dying, so many getting sick, so many important social justice issues, so many lost jobs, so much workplace abuse, so much gender disparity, so much wrongful prejudice against sexuality, so many dying from abuses in parts far across the world, so much hypocrisy pervading our lives on a daily, hourly, minute to minute basis? 

How can it not consume every waking minute of my day? How is the loss of my own livelihood, potentially my entire career not supposed to consume me? How do I forget the fear I have for my loved one’s who may be vulnerable to this virus? The spiral never ends.

It occupies my mind. Almost every waking hour.

 Right now, I tend towards things that help to soothe. Things that give me comfort. I try as best I can to find ways to forget the woes, even for a moment. It doesn’t work. And I know deep down that these tendencies are antithetical to creation itself. As artists, we must dig deep, rip scabs off of wounds, tear open our guts and take a hard look at what is there. As dark and ugly as it may be. As long as it is in pursuit of the truth.

But here I am, six months in, unable to create. Because doing so would force me to actually face all of these truths. It would take it from the intellectual, the way I can cope with all of this mess and bring it to the full-blown emotional. A place I am afraid to go.

I don’t know that I have it in me. And I’m not sure if I should.

Stay Safe,

Robbie

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Robbie Tann

Professional actor, writer, director & college professor

Robbie Tann is a professional actor, writer, director & college professor. He has worked extensively in television, film and theatre for nearly a decade. 

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 Art of Seeing: Once Again Karen Huie Stumbles Into Victory

Auditioning is an actor’s job. Getting cast to perform the job is the vacation. Imperium 7, my voice over agents, gives me a wide berth of roles and genres to audition for and obviously I try to go on vacation as often as possible.

I had predominately acted in theatre, film, and television until voice work lured me to its den. It was a thrill to do voice work on projects such as Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens, The Incredibles 2, Moana, Onward, Scissor Seven and about 1500 other projects over my career. I had voiced characters for video games but had never played a principal role in one. That is, until Ghost of Tsushima entered my life. 

 Early in 2017, I got an audition for the role of Yuriko in a video game. I went into my recording booth with the lines they provided me and imagined the circumstances of the character. I performed each line along with a direction that they gave me: this line is directly to this character, try this one as if calling out from afar, one as if I were on horseback, for this line try saying it as if you are revealing something personal…. 

I listened to the takes on my headphones. Do I hear the character and not me? Is there life and place in each line? Tempo? I rechecked the directions. When I think I’ve got it, I set the proper gain (volume) for each line, save the file, and label it according to the precise specs. I email my audition and hope for the best. 

Some time later, I got a callback. My GPS guided me to a big complex where someone ushered me into a large room, about the size of an airplane hangar. Nate Fox, a game director at Sucker Punch Productions (who turned out to being the director for Ghost of Tsushima), stepped up and thanked me for coming down. Generous indeed. What actor doesn’t love a callback? There were props and sets. Nate explained that unlike theatre I didn’t need to be mindful of the ‘fourth wall’; the camera would follow me. For about 45 minutes, I acted scenes. I then drove an hour back home and made lunch. 

Some months later my agents sent an email informing me that I was cast. The work on the project would take me through 2018. Wait, which?  What was the name of it? When would I start? What’s MOCAP? (It’s short for motion capture by the way). A friend pointed me to a video of Benedict Cumberbatch, in MOCAP, portraying Smaug for The Hobbit films. All of life and art are in those 17 minutes of footage. It was a revelation about commitment and creating.

In June of 2017 I started working on Ghost of Tsushima. In one session they greased my hair back and sat me in what looked like a barber’s chair. About one hundred Sony cameras surrounded me. A director talked me through varying expressions and the cameras flashed with each one. Another day, a mold was made of my face. In my first voice over session, I was fitted with a skullcap with two microphones attached and a helmet over that where a camera was trained on my face. I learned how to act with what felt like a football helmet on my head while facing Daisuke Tsuji, the actor who portrays Jin Sakai, the protagonist of the game, who was also fitted with the same headgear. Sucker Punch, Amanda Wyatt (one of the game’s voice directors), Yumi Mi (our Japanese dialect coach) and Daisuke were all patient and helpful to this novice. Twenty sessions over three years came and went.

Performing in a video game is a living experience. I didn’t have a full script at the start. Ghost of Tsushima took over seven years to develop. I was cast about three years into the process. The night before a session is when I would often be given the scenes. The scenes were usually short and not necessarily sequential. I tried to memorize them so that Yuriko could truly engage with Jin in the session.

The scenes between these characters are brief, like haiku. Their game time together is also short. The words in their scenes are clues to what the writers wished to convey. Similar to haiku, a poetic form that has three lines and seventeen syllables, the world is reflected in them.

Yuriko, now an elderly woman of Tsushima, was the lead character’s caretaker. She saw Jin as a child frolic with abandon. She tested his abilities, watched him grow, and sent him off into the world. When Jin comes back years later, does Yuriko see him as a grown man or the child she remembers? Answering this question was the cornerstone for everything Yuriko does. For her, Jin is an embodiment of memories. In the story, Jin comes to Yuriko when he remembers that she has the ability to make an important poison needed to fight the Mongols. It’s been quite some time since she made such venom; she has a hard time recalling, but she nonetheless tries. We set off to accomplish an intention and come away with an experience we didn’t expect to have. And that, like a haiku, has the world reflected in it.

 In December of 2019, Daisuke Tsuji posted a trailer of Ghost of Tsushima. I watched the trailer and gasped at the sheer beauty of the game. The score was transfixing. Then, the curtain rose, revealing the orchestra on stage playing live. The camera pulled back further to reveal the audience. When the lights faded on the trailer, the logo for The Game Awards appeared to a round of thunderous applause, hoots and hollers. Whoa…this game is a huge deal! 

 In January of 2020, my work on the game was done. I resumed my life. I had four writing assignments looming. For as long as Sucker Punch had been developing Ghost of Tsushima, I had been writing a play about Akira Kurosawa. I was also writing the book for a musical about Angel Island for Pomona College and Huntington Gardens, and I am still writing an animated feature film for hire.  

And then, of course, Covid-19 happened. Actors suddenly found themselves out of work. The quarantine gave me time to focus and complete my writing assignments. As a matter of fact, in the fall, The Blank Theatre will be doing a workshop of my Kurosawa play, 11 Seconds. And on the acting side of things, because I’ve had a home studio for fourteen years, I have gotten calls to record jobs from home. 

When Ghost of Tsushima launched in July, I received texts from friends and family. One of my brothers has texted me more times because of this game than ever before. I was showered with praise about the game, my character, and her quests.  

Ghost of Tsushima was now the highest rated game, selling 2.4 million copies in the first three days. It was selling out even in Japan! Gamers had been waiting for this game for six years. I didn’t have a PS4 so friends sent me links where I watched walkthroughs. I followed along in amazement while a gamer played one of Yuriko’s quests, entitled The Art of Seeing. I was even privy to his reactions. A surreal experience indeed. 

I’m touched Yuriko’s side quests have reached so many people. I’m also delighted to see how they relate my character; gamers have publicly shared their deepest love for their grandmothers, mothers, and nannies and I think this speaks to the depth of their relationships. In a society that puts its focus on the young and nubile, it’s comforting to know how much they care about their elders. At a time when there are rampant assaults on Asians and Asian Americans, my hope is restored by how much gamers love Yuriko. I’m proud to have contributed to the humanizing of her. Thank you to everyone at Imperium-7, Sucker Punch, and Sony. Thank you to the gamers who immerse themselves in this world. 

I was invited on The Everything Talk Show to talk about my work on the game. I told Paul Kwo I thought my job ended when the game launched. He said that was just the end of the first chapter. My friends and people like my brother think I’ll go to Comic-Con when it comes back. They seem to think gamers might cosplay my character and want my autograph. Apparently I might get invited to go to Japan, maybe an animated series and possibly a film based on the game.  It was a crash course on gaming--what a subculture. It was truly The Art of Seeing.

I don't know the genesis of the game, but it’s fascinating to imagine how Sucker Punch, Nate Fox, Jason Connell, Ian Ryan, and Patrick Downs were all inspired by Kurosawa films. I relearned Twitter so I could find the writers to thank them for realizing this rich and historical world for people to explore. It starts with the writer, who then gets input from the most brilliant and creative minds in every department before it reaches us actors who add our performances to only then go to the animators who implement and bring to life the vision. It is a multi-faceted accomplishment. The fact that it goes through all these channels while everyone is getting notes, making adjustments, considering alternate ideas, negotiating caveats and many other unforeseen obstacles over so many days, weeks, months, and years until the launch and still survives with such an impact on the gaming audience is nothing short of miraculous. Sometimes there are so many revisions on a project, the heart gets written out of it. Audiences watch and wonder why it was ever made. When you know how much an idea has to go through, you appreciate how remarkable it is that something succeeds and resonates the way Ghost of Tsushima does. 

For the Japanese to embrace and sell out the game is confirming. It’s a game based on Japanese history created by Americans. But cultural admiration is not new. Akira Kurosawa loved the American westerns of John Ford and samurai films were his version of them. In turn, Americans were inspired by Seven Samuraiand made The Magnificent Seven and A Bug’s Life. The Last Man Standing was Walter Hill’s Yojimbo, which inspired Italians to make Spaghetti Westerns like A Fistful of Dollars. Even Star Wars was inspired by The Hidden Fortress, right down to R2-D2 and C-3PO.

I’m gobsmacked. I did a voiceover audition and performed a character now revered in the biggest game trending right now. I’m so very proud to be part of it all. If auditions are the job and acting the vacation, this has to be a launch to the Moon. 

Once, reluctantly, I filled in for someone to play mahjong with three gamblers. I got a full house hand and one gambler threw his tiles in. 

“Give me a break! That‘s disgusting! Once again, Karen Huie stumbles into victory!” he said.

And born on that day, was the theme to my quest. 

See you in Ghost of Tsushima!

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Karen Huie

Karen Huie acts and performs voice overs in theatre, film, television, radio and video games.

Karen Huie was a rebellious, scrappy kid from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She hung out with a gang, ran away from home, dropped out of school several times, was the lead singer of a band, modeled, wrote poetry, and went to HB Studio to study theatre all before moving to LA. She currently acts and performs voice overs in theatre, film, television, radio and videogames. 

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.  

Sensations and Transformations: The Power of Dance to Heal

Doctor Cheryl Halliburton

A dancer, teacher, and choreographer who has taught and performed on both coasts.

When I was invited to contribute to G&E in Motion, I was thrilled and honored. And concerned. Who, besides other dancers, cares anything about dance? It’s the step-child of the arts. The last choice of the performing arts. The most underfunded and underappreciated art form. Dance productions and performances, unlike theater performances, have audiences filled mainly with their own kind, other dancers – with a sprinkling of non-dancers and die-hard dance enthusiasts. We are a small but hearty group.  Besides, what would I write about? And who am I to even offer my thoughts?

But then Covid-19 happened. Sheltering in place. And racial inequities exploded around the country live on television.  Black Lives Matter-ed because we saw them fall so precipitously at the hands of those who were supposed to “serve and protect” us.  Demonstrations.  Looting.  And more racial brutality.  Where does dance fit in?  Can it?  I wondered if dance has the ability to help heal people’s trauma.

I am an African-American woman. I’ve been a dancer for forty-plus years (yeah, I’m getting up there), a choreographer, dance teacher, professor, and student of the art form. I’ve danced on both coasts and have experienced a full dance life.  Recently, confined by “shelter in place”, I’ve had time to reflect on that life; the experiences, performances, peoples, and travels it has offered me, and my life outside of dance that continues to revolve around us all.  Dance has given me so much – love of movement, acceptance of myself and others, an appreciation of friends, family, and even strangers, in environments both home and abroad. It has given me a voice and a medium to express my innermost thoughts and feelings. When I studied about student engagement through dance for my doctorate, I got to see and respond to dance in a new, more thoughtful way.  So maybe I might actually have some thoughts and reflections to share. Dance is not just an art form.  It offers delight in personal sensations (sensationality), physically and visually, but also has the ability to facilitate transformation and growth.  We are desperately in need of these life affirming benefits.

SENSATIONALITY

After retiring from a twenty year performing career and a twenty-five year teaching career, I’ve enjoyed the luxury of joining two different book clubs. One of the books that has inspired and enlightened me is by the Haitian-American author Edwidge Danticat; it is called Create Dangerously. A book club colleague, a wise and insightful woman who is also an English professor, was inspired to ask each of us club members: “Who do we think we are?” in terms of our places and people, and how does that inform who we are?  I thought that particularly appropriate in thinking in terms of this blog and of where and how dance just might fit into our shared conversation. I’d like to share my reflection response to Create Dangerously with you:

The sun beats through the large open windows, shining relentlessly on our warm and limber bodies.  Adding to the sweat running down straining torsos, warm daylight creates puddling into all the concave curves of the multiple bodies. I look over at the other dancers; we smile and groan together, almost as one.

The drums pound their timeless unbroken rhythms as the dust clouds billow up from the vibrating heads of the animal skinned percussion instruments.  The drum beats ebb and flow, intensifying with escalating body movements, and softening with the fluid accents of floating, undulating limbs.  Music and movement in and out of harmony.  In balance and partnership.

The dark wooden floor is cool against hot prone bodies.  Worn and mostly smooth, the floor holds the scented memory of many sweaty, smelly feet, and hard-working bodies.  The scent binds past and present together.  All those bodies visit that floor in many ways: some glide, some roll, others jump, and twirl on it, across it, above it.  Propelling themselves across the long narrow room, the glistening human forms contort, reshape, intermingle, and extend in new, unanticipated, and often exciting ways.

Our free-flying figures feel and respond to the music, lights, and textures engulfing and surrounding them.  We experience it all, through all our senses.  We feel.  I feel.  I share my feelings, thoughts and intentions with the others in the room.  Attacking, retreating, bounding over and through, rolling under, and finally, all are at rest.

Exhaling, I relax.  The dance is done.

The sensational memories, physical, visual, and emotional, of the exhilaration created by and through dance are what I have been offered, and what I have to share.  I want to share what usually only dancers get to experience. Those feelings, those lessons, those joys. It is the reason I have agreed to write for this blog, and it just might offer some insight into healing – for blacks, for whites, for all people, and for the nation.  An audacious goal indeed.  Our feelings are perhaps the essence of our shared humanity, and without that humanity we might never find the peace we crave.

Few people get to actually feel life as intimately or as fully as a dancer does.  We get to feel physically the stretch of our muscles, the tightness and loosening of joints and limbs. But we also get to share, feel, and make emotional and social connections. When dancers inhabit a physical space, like a studio where they create and/or reimagine work, this experience creates shared emotional responses and sets up a social contract that is intimate and oh-so-personal.  When we are deprived of that shared space, as we are during a pandemic, we still are able to sense allied feelings that travel beyond and through space.  The only hierarchies in these spaces are when teachers mentor students, or choreographers direct performing dancers.  These hierarchies are practical, functional, and mutually beneficial as mentees reciprocally inspire and inform their mentors.

That’s not to say that sharing always comes easily.  I remember the first college dance class that I ever taught.  A friend of mine, another African-American dancer, was adjunct faculty at Stanford University where she taught two dance classes.  We both were still actively performing with our respective dance companies and she had a new but temporary performing opportunity that periodically conflicted with her teaching duties at the university, so she asked me if I would substitute for her.  It sounded like fun, and a good opportunity for me – plus she was paying me for it (artists are always in need of additional funds).

I drove the hour-long trip from my apartment in the East Bay to Stanford’s Palo Alto campus.  I was awed by the beauty of the campus and the whole area.  A stark and vivid contrast to the noisy, bustling city streets of my alma mater, Boston University.  This campus was the epitome of the American dream, and white privilege.  Palm trees and wide straight roads, lined by what looked to me like stately mini mansions.  Wow, how beautiful and foreign it all appeared.

I entered the campus and found the building and studio where I was to teach.  The first class was a “beginning” level African-American Dance class.  Wasn’t quite sure what an African-American Dance class was, but my friend had assured me it was whatever I wanted it to be.  After all, who would dare to challenge or question an African-American woman’s definition of African-American dance?  I was excited and a bit nervous, anxious to do well. So I walked into the studio, introduced myself, and was relieved to be welcomed by a group of young women eager to learn and please.  The class was fun, and they were wonderful.  They even asked me to come back to teach them again. They made me feel great, and boosted my confidence.

That didn’t last long.  As the first group was leaving the studio, the second class, the “intermediate/advanced” class, was entering. Totally different energy and experience. This group of a dozen young women, all white except for one, strolled into the studio, dance bags slung over their shoulders, and scowled disapprovingly at me, as if to say, “who are you, and what do you think you can teach me?”  I had to turn my back on them so they couldn’t see me stifle the laugh bubbling up inside me.  I walked over to the sound system to ready it for class.  It was obviously going to be a more challenging – and perhaps more fun – class experience.  I suppressed my smile while thinking, “I’m going to show you little snots (not the word I actually used, but you get the idea) who I am and what I can teach you!”  They were sweating bullets by the end of the first warm-up, but they were laughing and smiling too. There’s something about moving your body and stretching it to its limits that helps break down barriers and resistance.  I kept the challenge up, and they gallantly and eagerly accepted it.  By the end of the class, we were all the best of friends. They too asked me to return to work with them again. They loved the challenge that I offered them.  White privilege be damned.  There was no room for that in the dance studio.  We were all dancers and had shared a sensational experience while overcoming physical as well as social and emotional challenges.

Sensations are also shared with those who watch dance and get to experience movement visually.  I remember the first time I saw the Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall when I was 7 or 8 years old.  How could so many bodies work so closely together and make me feel the power of what their communal unity felt like?  Or the first time I saw The Nutcracker performed, or Alvin Ailey’s Cry.  Was Judith Jamison real?  How could a human being exist and share her power and joy so that I was also able to feel that power and joy resonate through my body, across a crowded theater?  I wanted that.  I felt that.  The sensual magic of dance is also transmitted visually.  Even spectators get to share in the wonder and magic of sensations relayed through dance.

The sensationality of dance crosses time as well as space.  I felt the power of Jamison, the magic and beauty of The Nutcracker, and the community of the Rockettes in their singular glory from my distant seats in the theater.  But I know dance’s sensations also transverse time because when I remember a dance experience, I can still see and feel those same sensations again. I am at Radio City or City Center or Lincoln Center once again, feeling the same wonder and joy, just as I did then. That’s pretty magical. The sensationality of dance makes sights, sounds, feelings, and emotions real and present for each person, whether dancer or audience member, who chooses to relive the power of that movement.

TRANSFORMATION

But dance is also transformative. It drives us to change. It is a change that we cannot anticipate. A change we did not know we asked for - or needed. My life is an example of the transformative power of the dancing body.

As a young child, I was painfully shy and excruciatingly fearful. I remember when I was maybe four or five years old, my parents and I visited the home of some family friends. I don’t think I knew them very well.  I didn’t want to know them either, I think. My mother sat me on the couch while she and some of the adults went about their adult conversations and business. I think they must have left the living room and gone to the kitchen.  I vaguely remember (or maybe I heard the story so often from my parents I only think I remember) the astonishment of the adults when they returned to the living room that I was still sitting in the exact same spot my mother had placed me. I hadn’t moved an inch. I don’t know how long I sat there but it must have been a considerable amount of time for a four or five year old to obediently stay in the spot where her mother had told her to stay.

It never occurred to me to move from that spot, to disobey my mother, to go explore my new surroundings.  I couldn’t ask for permission because I wouldn’t speak unless spoken to. I could only obey and smile. Life was too scary. I was timid to the extreme. I remember being that way through most of my early childhood. Always quiet, timid, and obedient. Even in school and with my few friends. I was “the good girl” who tried to be good and do right.

When I share the story of my shy and quiet younger self, my friends, students, colleagues all find it hard to believe.  I suppose I am far from timid or shy now.  I have no problem expressing my thoughts and feelings.  I am more fearless and independent, someone who proudly lives and thinks “outside the box.”  And yet I was timid and afraid back then.  I remember that child intimately. I remember feeling the constant knot of fear that lived within her/me. What might I have revealed about myself if I had let anyone in? Let them see the real me?  Maybe no one would like me or approve of me.  Self-acceptance, and subsequently acceptance of others, is one of the magical transformations that dance has bestowed upon me. 

I look back on that time and appreciate my parents’ many efforts to encourage me out of my shell. It must have been rough for them. Nothing really worked, until I was eight. At eight years old I was old enough to take dance lessons (ballet) with Mr. Gray at the neighborhood dance studio in Brooklyn. He changed my life.  Dance changed my life.

I was the youngest and smallest in the class. Of course, I still never spoke but I was able to perform the warm ups and exercises, and experienced a kind of peace, for the first time I think.  I was learning to be in tune with my body; my inside and my outside began to work together.  What a revelation!  I could perform the pliés, tendus, passés at the barre, and fly across the floor performing tombé pas de bourrés glissade ensemble with a freedom I’d never before experienced.  I felt free, and it felt REALLY good.  Each section of the dance class acquaints the student with one’s own body in relation to others while enabling an understanding of self in relation to the environment. I didn’t speak often but I would answer when Mr. Gray asked for or about a particular ballet term. It made me proud when I could answer and no one else in the class could.  Hey, I got that right.  Ballet revealed my first hint of self-esteem, confidence, and value.

A little more than a year later, I was chosen with another girl (I think her name was Gail), to perform a pas de deux for a televised performance. I was naturally terrified.  I knew the choreography, I had a beautiful costume, and had no clue why I’d been chosen.  Why me?  I didn’t think I had earned that chance.  There were so many bigger and better dancers than me in our class.  But Mr. Gray assured me I was ready.  Of course, I didn’t believe him. In the television studio for the performance, there were risers with an audience (mom and dad were there somewhere). There were other performers, older dancers with much more experience and confidence, and lots of lights and cameras.  What was I doing there?  When we two were called for our performance, I concentrated hard.  I couldn’t disobey or disappoint anyone.  It was as if I was on the couch again, doing what I was told.  Somewhere during the performance, I focused on Mr. Gray’s face and saw him smile; he motioned for me to smile too.  I focused on him and did what I was told.  Suddenly it wasn’t so scary.  Actually, it was kind of fun.

When I saw a videotape of the performance later, I did look terrified.  But I performed the dance well, and I didn’t mess up.  My mom’s critique said it all:  Why did you let Gail dance in front of you when you were performing?  You were way better than she was.  Thanks, Mom.

When I participated in my next performance on a much larger stage, with lots of dancers (there were 13 of us), I wasn’t so petrified and actually enjoyed the experience.  It didn’t matter so much that my grandfather said he didn’t understand it. I still felt good and, better yet, the dance had felt good and I knew I did well!  I believed in me and my ability, probably for the very first time.

Since then, through the many years of performing, teaching, and choreographing, I’ve witnessed this transformation occur in many other dancers.  I’ve seen my own dance students drag themselves into an early morning dance class, and transform from grumpy-sluggish- reluctant learners into energetic and enlivened students, engaged and ready to conquer the world.  They were new people.  I’ve been reminded of the transformative power of dance whenever I teach – not just for the students, but for myself as well.  I feel better, more exhilarated after class, no matter my mood before class begins.  

I learned later that this biological/cognitive process of transformation wasn’t just in my head.  When I began my doctoral studies in interdisciplinary education, I learned how the body and mind are seamlessly joined in the dance class, creating a whole body experience, an interconnected relationship between perception (watching dance) and action (performing movement).  In other words, we learn not only by seeing and hearing, but by doing.  Developmental psychologist Howard Gardner recognized how dance can affect cognitive development, acting as a way of knowing and something to know about.  He helped me understand my own growth and transformation through dance.  As a dancer and performer, I grew as a person.  As I worked with various dancers and choreographers, I learned to access a part of my inner self about which I was only vaguely aware.  Was this just my journey? Or did others experience this transformative power of dance as well?

I read about an organization in the UK called Dance United that recognized the value and potential that dance had to change peoples’ lives.  I was amazed to find like-minded dancers who believed that dance could motivate, inspire, and engage even the most reluctant and needy among us.  Dance United was a dance education organization for at-risk youth, headquartered in London but with satellite groups throughout the UK.  Here was a group of dancers who believed so strongly in the transformative power of dance that they created an organization to empower and transform troubled at-risk youngsters to introduce them to the tools offered by dance, to control and improve their lives, and to raise their self-esteem.

The American education system has largely ignored what I accept as an untapped truth: dance can change us for the better.  Unfortunately, by the time I made it to England, Dance United had folded as an organization.  Fortunately, however, one of its satellite groups survived (and remains active today) – Wessex Dance Academy – and they generously and graciously welcomed me into their academy.  Those two weeks were joyous and inspiring!

What I found was more than I could have imagined or hoped for.  In studying this organization, I witnessed the deliberate use of dance to motivate underachieving and at-risk youths (their targeted group) to engage or re-engage in their own learning. It was through this engagement that they were able to increase the academic and social successes of the mostly teenage youths.  WDA aimed “to instill focus, creative thinking and clarity of purpose in people who are excluded, at-risk and vulnerable’” (dance-united.com).  This created a turning point in the lives of these young people; it certainly did in mine. The academy’s record of accomplishment has been documented over a period of more than ten years.  I wonder why we, in the States, have not followed the path they carved that has led to the individual triumphs I witnessed there.

Maybe it’s my fool’s dream but I believe that whether or not we are dancers, we can use dance to make individuals feel better about themselves, to make us appreciate the uniqueness of those others around us, and to be more tolerant of those differences.  How else can we see the humanity in one another except through the arts?  Through accessing our mind/body connection with dance, we just might learn to feel good about ourselves and realize the benefits of living and working together as a singular society.  

I challenge you to dance.  Dance the next time you’re feeling lonely or isolated, or when you witness the brutality that has become so commonplace on our television screens and in our lives.  I believe there are few things that can elate and reassure you like the freedom you experience when you dance! It can happen at any age when we use our bodies to connect to our minds and emotions. It brings us power and peace.

Until then, no peace no justice. 

Merde,

Cheryl 

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Doctor Cheryl Halliburton is a dancer, teacher, and choreographer who has taught and performed on both coasts. Her recent choreography includes a piece about the border wall for the dance company at Salisbury University (MD).  An Associate Professor Emeritus from LIU and an Adjunct Professor at Adelphi University, she spends her pandemic days reading, writing, and preparing to virtually teach her students about Africa and its contributions to American culture.

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.  

Interactive Theatre in a Post-COVID World

How will we emerge from the COVID Quarantine? 

Mark Nassar

Mark Nassar is an immersive theatre pioneer based in San Francisco.

That is the question. 

How are cities going to open up? Here in first-to-close, last-to-open, San Francisco, we predict we’ll emerge in a very methodical way.  Our fair city might not allow gatherings of over 20 people at the start of reopening. 

I’ll stay in my corner and talk theater, immersive theater in particular, where I can make an informed guess.

Theater artists, who create outside the orthodox platforms, have an edge, untethered as they are, from a particular infrastructure. 

Let me share the advantages of immersive theater in general and then get more specific about ideas that might work for future projects, soon after cities and towns re-open.    

In the immersive sphere we constantly conjure up ideas on how to make a theater experience as intimate and realistic as possible for the audience AND the actor.  How can we make it easier for audiences to enter a world and actually live in the moment without distraction? In an immersive world the audience doesn’t see a stage. The actors don’t see rows of audience members – no fourth wall, no cameras, no sightline issues, etc.  Like children, we create a world and play pretend.  Even in an abstract immersive piece like the juggernaut, Sleep no More, the audience experiences intimacy and inclusion, as they live inside a world that feels very real.  As much as any other factor, this is what attracts audiences, especially young audiences to immersive experiences. And there are an infinite range of styles and budgets within the genre.  

On one end you have the Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding style: improv driven, low-budget interactive party plays that audiences, for decades, have loved being a part of.  When performed properly without caricature, it’s a very trippy experience for audience and actor. 

Today, immersive artists and producers are going upscale, budget-wise, to create expensive and elaborate productions like Sleep no More.  These are more in line with John Krizanc’s, Tamara, circa 1981, where audiences were voyeurs in an Italian villa. 

The last few years in San Francisco have given me first-hand experience with both ends of that budget spectrum. 

Take the immersive hit The Speakeasy for instance. The production built a vintage 10,000 square foot underground Prohibition-Era Speakeasy (virtual tour). There was a 1500 page script. It was a drama that ran in seven different rooms with seven different full-length plays in each of them with a story that interconnected room to room. 

The Speakeasy

As an actor on the project, playing the owner of the speakeasy, it was one of the most challenging rehearsal experiences of my life.  Try figuring the timing of entrances and exits in a labyrinth. But as an actor, it was a dream to live in that kind of fantasy. It was like being inside a great film. It was an upscale endeavor, costing a few million to produce. Audiences were all-in, dressing in 1920’s attire.  It had a three-year run with new incarnations in the works.

The superb thing about immersive theatre is that it can also be produced effectively on a small budget. Small enough, that you can borrow the money from your cousin with a real job. Thanks, Cuz!

Last year, with transgender legends Collette LeGrande and Donna Personna, we created an immersive play based on the historical Compton’s Cafeteria Riot, entitled – you guessed it - The Compton’s Cafeteria Riot.  It was co-produced with Tenderloin Museum.

In 1966, in San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood, transgender women rioted against police brutality.  It started at Gene Compton’s Cafeteria. We recreated that night in an actual diner on Polk St.  The audience enjoyed a midnight breakfast of waffles and bacon and watched a scripted drama that re-imagined a significant event in LGBTQ history. Our audience had an up-close and personal experience.  

As a matter of fact, check it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIt_ExhfGJM

At 0:33, in this KQED(PBS) feature, you’ll see a young woman with red hair and a polka-dot dress sitting at the counter during the play’s climax. She’s an audience member.  Her reaction is visceral.  She’s experiencing feelings that are intense, perhaps even more intense than what the actors are feeling.

Two actors, Jaylyn Abergas (L.) Shane Zaldivar (R.) The audience members peek from behind.

These audience members, in the middle of it, wear the same expressions as the actors, experiencing the same traumatic exchange. 

The Compton’s Cafeteria Riot cost around $15,000 in pre-production and it could have been done for half that amount if we had to.  Note: All of our artists get paid.

Another advantage of immersive theater is that we can find venues that need us. We can avoid crazy theater rents.  The New Village Café, where we performed “Comptons”, was a breakfast and lunch joint. They close every day after 3pm.  We approached the owner and asked him if he would like to sell his place out for several nights a week.  The production pays for the food and the venue keeps the bar. No rent involved. I approach it like a promoter, not a renter.  We’re bringing that venue business they otherwise wouldn’t have. Even if there are no meals or drinks to sell you can definitely make an arrangement that works better than renting a theater because, as you know, the prices are so steep, it’s almost impossible to get an investment back (even if you’re the greatest producer and have a kickass play). With Compton’s we had our money back in a month. We had no rent.  We didn’t need to build a set. The New Village Café’s vibe already worked for us with its long counter, swivel stools and patina of decades old grease stains that scream reality.  It would have cost tens of thousands to build that set from scratch. How about free rehearsal at the venue? Yes.

The Compton’s Cafeteria Riot, had a sold out run with two extensions and a waiting list.  We had as much publicity, if not more, than a million-dollar production. We secured investment to take it to the next level and planned to reopen this June in a venue we designed and built.  We’ll push the opening to February, until we find out more.  Note: The play will be directed by a transgender woman with a transgender cast.  There’s an ethical obligation to cast transgender and non-binary actors, but in an immersive piece, with the audience up close, authenticity takes it to another level, the blow-them-away level. And we did and will again.

SO, how do we stick our toes back into the water? 

I’m currently working on a project that involves moving 10 to 15 people at a time, through a set-to-set immersive experience.  

I’m also working on an idea with Tenderloin Museum that will utilize a boutique hotel. Audience members will go hotel room to hotel room. Each room will have a unique setting, scene, and sensation that lasts about 3 minutes with 4 to 5 people in a room at a time.

In both of these scenarios, we still have the potential to sell a couple hundred tickets an evening, using staggered starts.  No more than 10-15 people will occupy a room at a time. Usually they’ll be groups of friends and the experience won’t be diminished if the wear masks. We plan to provide (sell) very “artsy” ones.  Ha.  

It might be interesting to have a theatrical bar crawl with our favorite bar scenes from plays or movies in each venue.  An immersive The Iceman Cometh in an actual bar would be out of this world. McSorley’s anybody? Bar owners would love this. They could get a100 customers over the course of a few hours and stay within the probable reopening limits.  The producers get a free stage. They also get twenty guests at a time with staggered starts to go through the crawl.  

Admittedly, this kind of theater can be rough on actors. They might have to repeat the same scene 5 to 15 times a night.  It will be a great acting exercise though. Maybe after the 10th time, they’ll stop acting and live the part. Hey, there’s an idea! 

When cities first reopen, I think audiences are going to want light fare, but they’ll always respond to an audacious imagination no matter what the times are.

Let’s try an immersive free association – immersive experience in an operating room. Every actor, audience member, and technician will be in full-on hermetically sealed hospital gear. Could it take place in a medical school? Preferably with the old-fashioned gallery where medical students look down to watch an operation … 

… masks, masks… how about an immersive Suffragette rally? Or an experience that took place during the 1918 flu pandemic (two years before women received the national right to vote). Masks!!!!  Great costumes. Vivid high-stakes drama. AND it could be performed outdoors – how about on the steps of Federal Hall, where our First President was inaugurated.  Why hasn’t it been done already?  

Why hasn’t an immersive play about Stonewall been conceived? Can you imagine? It’s already written…Laundromats!!!! And people can actually do their own laundry. Stop! The madness!

The possibilities are infinite. Like traditional theater, talent is very much a requirement. You need great writers and artists, but there are fewer obstacles to the finish and more opportunities for reward. 

After 9/11, it took a long while for audiences to come back to the theater. They were afraid to gather in a place where a bomb might go off.  It literally was an act of bravery to see a show. When they first opened theaters after 9/11, I was performing in Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding in New York.  It was strange. We had about 25 people in the audience our first night of reopening (about one audience member for every actor). I particularly remember a group of southern ladies who were courageous enough to fly and not cancel their theater weekend. I remember having a newfound feeling of love and admiration for them.  

I remember thinking, “How in God’s name are we going to improv with this crowd? The play takes place in the moment. How are we going to avoid the 9/11 topic?”

The audience that night felt us. They were too kind. Those 25 people laughed harder, danced harder, partied harder than any audience ever.  They, like us, were deeply appreciative and giddy to be back out. 

They need us. We need them. Let’s get to it.

Sincerely,

Mark

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Mark Nassar is an immersive theater pioneer. He helped create multiple interactive shows including, Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding, Johnny Boy’s Graduation, The Bobby Dallas After-Party and Birdy’s Bachelorette Party.  Nassar recently co-created The Compton’s Cafetaria Riot, which was picked to be apart of the Best of 2018 by SF weekly. Nassar’s Off-Broadway play, The Mayor’s Limo was published by Samuel French and was the basis of the feature film A Line in the Sand, starring Jon Bernthal. Nassar recently finished a three-year run, performing in San Francisco’s immersive hit, The Speakeasy. 

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.  

A Dancer in Quarantine 💃

Rochelle Martin-Vecchio

A New York-based dancer and choreographer

I entered 2020 having a 7-month-old baby boy, a husband, bills to pay, and a busy teaching schedule. I was choreographing a show that opened in February (while also performing in and costuming that show), rehearsing and performing with Peconic Ballet Foundation, planning a Dance Parade event for Third Street Music Settlement, getting other students ready for competition at the Broadway Dance Academy, and finally I was set to choreograph Long Island University’s Choreography Showcase. I thought it a well-balanced diet for an artist.

Fast Forward to May; I now have an 11-month-old who doesn’t stop moving (have no idea where he gets that from), but the rest of New York is on PAUSE.

Deep Breath. 

We can’t stop ourselves from reading social media all the time. We see artists, peers, and mentors express their thoughts openly. 

Well, here are my thoughts. It’s time to innovate. As role models, we tell our students to rise to the occasion, and to work hard to achieve your goals. Fight!  We can’t be in the classroom teaching or in the theatre performing but that doesn’t mean we are restricted. At times like these, I think back to choreography class at Long Island University where we read Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit. Tharp states, “Creativeness is not a gift from God.” She goes on, “In order to be creative we have to prepare to be creative.” So why are so many creators viewing this situation as artistically negative? Let’s be innovative and prepare to get those creative juices flowing.

I wake up every day exhausted. Fun fact: babies between 9 and 10 months old go through sleep regression. No, he doesn't sleep through the night. Since 4 months, my little man has slept through the night but he has now taken back that luxury. I try to keep my routine the same but it’s very hard with a growing baby. It’s his world, I'm just living in it. Diaper change. I get ready every morning. A ballet teacher once told me, “You're never fully dressed without some mascara and lipstick.” I do my hair and put on my make-up and get in my workout/dance clothes while chasing the energizer bunny along with his partner in crime (a sixty-five pound dog). Diaper change. It makes me feel good- alive, and motivated. I work out and get those endorphins going. I watch my son discover new things every day. I realize that, as babies, we never stop learning. So why do we dismiss this as we get older? We should never stop learning.

Diaper change/lunch time.  While my son naps, I watch videos via Instagram and Facebook that show artists rising to the occasion, disallowing the coronavirus to defeat us. I talk to other artists to see how they are overcoming this obstacle. I brainstorm during what we adults call meetings.  

I teach my ballet classes on Zoom. My students are a constant reminder and inspiration for me to keep inspiring, pushing forward, and rising to the challenge. I am so thankful.

By the time I'm in the midst of teaching, my son gets bored hearing me repeat, “Core. Knees over toes. Posture. Long neck. Stretch your feet. Aghhhh! Arms! Arms! Arms!” My husband comes home from work and rescues my son from hearing me yell, “It ain't Christmas! Don’t let me see Santa’s belly, and demi plie! CORE!”

I recently read a post on social media about World War II. It showed a picture of Ballet dancers still rehearsing and practicing their craft during those war-torn times. Okay, we might not be in a World War right now, but we are nevertheless in a war against a virus. People are still on the front lines, people are grieving, and people are going through hardships. In a way, it’s not that big of a difference. They made it work. They made it work without Facebook, Instagram, and Tiktok.

At night, I enjoy the family time I have with my husband, son, and dog, and the memories we’re creating, memories that would not have been created if the world were still going on as usual. I have the chance to cook dinner and eat with my family, which, as any artist knows, doesn't happen all the time.  These are memories that I will cherish and not take for granted, just like all the times I stepped onto a stage and thanked the audience for my life. These are memories that I’ll be able to talk to the next generation about: “What do you mean, you CAN’T? When I couldn’t teach from the studio or theatre, I did it via the Internet! Don’t make an excuse to escape, pave the path to create.” When I say this I can’t help but think of my grandfather’s generation, born in the 1920’s, who told us how they walked uphill both ways to get to school.

Lastly, I hope this experience humbles people. Let them appreciate the time spent in the studio prepping for the stage.

Let it allow every artist to enjoy the process and the journey, not the destination. I hope it allows them to dig back to their roots, create, and develop into better artists.

I hope it opens people's eyes to how strong a group, a team, a family, or a community can be, and how they can become bigger and stronger. I hope that, once this storm passes, the world sees a beautiful renaissance in the arts.

With Grace and Patience,

Rochelle

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Rochelle Martin-Vecchio trained at the Joffrey Ballet School, Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre, and she also privately trained with Trutti Gasparinetti. She has had the pleasure to perform at The West Point Military Academy and in the debut of Dear Nadezhda by Venti Petrov in New York City. She has danced principal roles and has had work created on her. She had the honor of performing Cara Gargano’s “Mahler Pas de deux" in Manhattan at Symphony Space. She taught the Ballet and Contemporary classes from 2016 to 2019 at Tilles Dance Conference.  Rochelle teaches ballet and choreographs for the Students Honor Institute at LIU Post since it begun in 2016. She currently teaches from the Hamptons to Manhattan. 

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.