After spending a few days preparing myself for what I had anticipated to be the worst Christmas ever, something happened. I spent much of Tuesday on hold on the phone with British Airways, waiting, occasionally even patiently, to speak to a representative; I went through the gamut of anger, tears, and acute loneliness. After about 3.5 hours, I was connected to a very kind service agent, who offered me a seat on the flight the next morning, carrying me and my angst from London Heathrow to ‘beautiful’ Newark, New Jersey, four days after my intended departure. I agreed to try one more time to come back stateside. I can’t tell you the relief I felt on Wednesday afternoon, crammed like a sardine under an itchy airline blanket when I felt that BA flight take off. Christmas was saved for this professed Grinch.
I just spent a week at my parents’ house in small-town Pennsylvania. I’m always reminded when I get a chance to be there for more than a few days how much it is still my “home,” even though I haven’t lived there in long time. When it came time to move away for college, I was ready to go. I know I would miss my family terribly (and I did) but I loved the change of scenery, and the chance to be on my own. After college, I didn’t move home, but to the big city in my part of the state, and then a few years later, I made the jump to New York City. Now, I get to call London my home for one glorious year. And yet, much as I love my adventures, and the freedom I have, every time I know I’m about to come home to my mom and dad’s house for a few days, I get unreasonably excited. There is something about being in that house with those people that will always mean “home” to me in the way that no place ever will.
I’m sitting on the train now, heading to New York City to spend time with my loves there, including my boyfriend. I just said a sniffly goodbye to my mom and dad on the train platform, and then, when comfortably in my Amtrak seat, had good long cry to the next station. We had a grand time together, carrying out all of our silly and wonderful holiday traditions (midnight mass, pancake breakfasts and underwear-on-the-head photos), which I realize I cling to more and more the further away I am. I couldn’t have asked for a more festive holiday. It’s a very tenuous feeling however, as my heart is so divided. I’m reminded of how comforting it was to be a kid, and, at Christmas time, to know that everyone you love will be in the same room at the same time to spend the holidays together. Being an adult involves an implicit challenge to go through life with a divided heart. Every time I move, I feel like a little more of me gets left someplace else. That feeling of contentment still washes over me, but in waves now, In the midst of all that however, it’s even more comforting to know that I always have a “home” to come back to, even for just a few days.
I can say with no hesitation at all that this is my favorite Christmas ever. I didn’t think I was going to make it home, and when I finally did, now I almost dread leaving. Spending Christmas Eve and Day dinners with both sides of my crazy family reminds how lucky I am. Lucky to have parents who love and have faith in me unconditionally, an extended family who may not understand my decisions, but is always interested in hearing about my adventures, and the love of my life who rearranged his work schedule 304567 times to always manage to meet me at the airport/train station/carrier pigeon house to be the first person to greet me on my way home. This Christmas, my favorite gift that I received (and there were a lot of them) was the reaffirmation that, while I may not have a lot of money or a lot of security in my life, I am loved so strongly by so many people. May bank account may be empty, but my heart is so very, very full. Like the Grinch I can be, my heart is three sizes too large. And that my friends has made this merriest Christmas of my 28 years.
Festive Wishes to You and Yours!
TGI
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
"That Girl" is Still in London... But Not for Lack of Trying!
Hmph.
By this time, I should be in New York City, hanging out with my boyfriend and my friends, enjoying a garlic bagel with cream cheese and a coffee mug with free refills. I should be able to stroll over to watch the overpriced iceskaters at Rockefeller and swing by Sardi's for a swanky glass of wine, per custom. But I'm not. After a trek to the airport yesterday which resulted in 12 hours spent sitting on waiting room floors, fighting with ticket agents and waiting hours for a lost suitcase (lost even though my flight never left the airport), I sadly had to struggle back home to my flat last night, as my flight (and every other departure) was cancelled due to weather.
Yesterday was the most frustrating day of my life, bar none... and I've worked with lawyers professionally, so that's saying something. I left early for the airport because Heathrow's website warned of delays. I had reconfirmed my flight with Delta however, and although delayed by 30 minutes, everything was looking good. I got to the airport three hours before my flight, waited on check-in and security queues, and finally got into the airport proper. After grabbing some brekkies and coffee, I began what was to be a tedious day of waiting. I was never given a gate for my flight, so had to sit on the floor in the airport, just beyond the security area. At least once every five minutes, an employee would come past and inform us we "were not allowed to sit there." Interestingly, there was nowhere we were allowed to sit. The first hitch in an unpleasant day.
Then, my flight was repeatedly delayed. First by one, then two, then five hours. We still didn't have a gate, so I was still stuck squatting in the general lobby and being frequently admonished by staff for my choice of seat. Additionally, because I was not assigned to a gate, I had no airline agent to speak to. So the wait continued. I'd like to note at this point that I had previously signed up with Heathrow's status alert text message scheme, which at least every half hour, persisted in sending me mocking text messages informing me that my flight was boarding or on time etc. Finally, at 4pm, over four hours after my flight should have departed, it was cancelled. And how did I find out? Not via the airline or the airport, but from another stranded girl in the terminal who's mother saw it online (back in the States) and called her.
Once I heard about the cancellation, I hightailed to Delta's inquiry desk, where I was informed that no food, accomodation or travel vouchers would be issued, as the cancellation resulted from extraordinary circumstances. Here, I'd like to state once and for all that I will never fly with Delta again, as other airlines, including my preferred Continental, were giving compensation. Not only that, but I was refused rebooking at the inquiry desk, and told that I had to reclaim my bag, exit departures, go through baggage claim and speak to a Delta representative at the ticket esk in the landside terminal.
At this point, other flights were still slated to leave. I decided to speak to a Continental rep to try to get on the Newark flight leaving in the evening, should it be able to get offground. I've done this at other airports numerous times. In my experience, when weather is a concern, it is easy to switch a ticket from one airline to another airline if a suitable flight is found. Continental however sent me to speak with Delta. Who sent me to speak with Continental. Lather, rinse, repeat. Finally, I got a different Continental rep (after three tries at this desk) who quietly told me that I was being given the runaround because no one wanted to handle rebookings at the time. Awesome. While I was angry at my previous treatment, I was glad that at least someone felt it prudent to tell me the truth.
At this point, I went down to bagge claim to get my bag. I figured this would be easy, as my plane never left. But alas, I had to wait for two hours for bags from my flight to appear, and then, when they did, mine was not among them. The airline lost my bag. I never left the airport, but my bag was lost. Awesome. While waiting an additional hour for it to surface, and after hassling with no less than three baggage handling employees, I decided to try to call Delta. I was offered a rebooking for, wait for it, December 26th. The day after Christmas. The earliest flight they could offer me. At this point, it must be noted that I had had enough. I cried like a small inconsolable child in front of baggage carousel eight.
I finally left baggage claim and then had to wait to go through passport control and customs (again, even though I never left), got told by an immigration official to "cheer up" and finally made it to the Delta desk. Which had closed at 5pm. In the middle of weather emergency in which the airline had cancelled EVERY in and outbound flight, they still closed at 5pm. After another phone call to bookings, I cancelled my flight and started the refund process, fully depressed that i would not make it back to the States for the holiday. Defeated and still teary, I decided to go home. I picked up all of my crap again and headed for the underground station.... where the story gets even worse.
The Picadilly, the only Underground line servicing Heathrow, was closed. Closed. Because by this point the airport had for all intents and purposes closed, it was a swarm of people. The landside terminal was so packed that people couldn't roll suitcases through the crowd. This also means that the taxi queue stretched the length of the airport. So that option was out. My only choice was to pay nearly 20 pounds for the luxury of waiting 45 minutes for the Heathrow Express, which dropped me off at Paddington Station, on the other side of the city from where I live. I then had to drag self and belongings through two tube transfers before finally making it back to my neighborhood. On the walk home, trudging through the three inches of snow, I sobbed. I was feeling so sorry for myself, and was so distracted, that, not watching where I was going, I tripped over the curb, slipped and fell, and wound up with ripped pants, a fat lip and bruise on my face. Brilliant.
After a continued cry, I called Expedia, and spoke to my first kind employee of the day. He didn't dodge my questions, ignore me, tell to cheer up, or to get out of the way. He said he was sorry. Even though it wasn't his fault. And that made me feel better. A simple "I'm Sorry" is one of the kindest things one can hear on a terrible day. and then he helped me rebook myself for a flight on Tuesday. Which is even nicer. This is of course all weather permitting. Heathrow is still basically closed, and there are already cancellations for outgoing flights tomorrow. But I desperately clinging to the hope that I can get out on that flight, and be with my family on Tuesday night.
All in all, yesterday was highly unpleasant. And I didn't even have it the worst. I at least have somewhere to go back to in London. There were no hotel rooms to be found near the airport, and frankly, even if I found one, I couldn't have afforded it. The girl I was talking to in the waiting room had expressed the same concern, as she was going home from a semester abroad, and had nearly no money left. I really felt for her while we sat and talked for a few hours, and forced her to let me buy her lunch. I'm no moneybags, but I've been in her position a few times, and know precisely that terrible kind of panic. I lost track of her, but hope she is okay, and had someplace to stay last night. I saw parents with small children all over the terminal as well, and can only imagine the awful night they had. I do recognize that the treatment I received from airline and airport staff, which I perceive as rude, is merely a case of staff doing their best on a trying day. And yet, I still do not appreciate it, particularly when all any of us (staff and travellers alike) want to do is to go home. Don't bounce a person from desk to desk to desk simply because you don't want to give her the bad news.
At this point, I'm holding out hope for Tuesday. That's the best I can do. Best of luck to you all in your holiday travels!
By this time, I should be in New York City, hanging out with my boyfriend and my friends, enjoying a garlic bagel with cream cheese and a coffee mug with free refills. I should be able to stroll over to watch the overpriced iceskaters at Rockefeller and swing by Sardi's for a swanky glass of wine, per custom. But I'm not. After a trek to the airport yesterday which resulted in 12 hours spent sitting on waiting room floors, fighting with ticket agents and waiting hours for a lost suitcase (lost even though my flight never left the airport), I sadly had to struggle back home to my flat last night, as my flight (and every other departure) was cancelled due to weather.
Yesterday was the most frustrating day of my life, bar none... and I've worked with lawyers professionally, so that's saying something. I left early for the airport because Heathrow's website warned of delays. I had reconfirmed my flight with Delta however, and although delayed by 30 minutes, everything was looking good. I got to the airport three hours before my flight, waited on check-in and security queues, and finally got into the airport proper. After grabbing some brekkies and coffee, I began what was to be a tedious day of waiting. I was never given a gate for my flight, so had to sit on the floor in the airport, just beyond the security area. At least once every five minutes, an employee would come past and inform us we "were not allowed to sit there." Interestingly, there was nowhere we were allowed to sit. The first hitch in an unpleasant day.
Then, my flight was repeatedly delayed. First by one, then two, then five hours. We still didn't have a gate, so I was still stuck squatting in the general lobby and being frequently admonished by staff for my choice of seat. Additionally, because I was not assigned to a gate, I had no airline agent to speak to. So the wait continued. I'd like to note at this point that I had previously signed up with Heathrow's status alert text message scheme, which at least every half hour, persisted in sending me mocking text messages informing me that my flight was boarding or on time etc. Finally, at 4pm, over four hours after my flight should have departed, it was cancelled. And how did I find out? Not via the airline or the airport, but from another stranded girl in the terminal who's mother saw it online (back in the States) and called her.
Once I heard about the cancellation, I hightailed to Delta's inquiry desk, where I was informed that no food, accomodation or travel vouchers would be issued, as the cancellation resulted from extraordinary circumstances. Here, I'd like to state once and for all that I will never fly with Delta again, as other airlines, including my preferred Continental, were giving compensation. Not only that, but I was refused rebooking at the inquiry desk, and told that I had to reclaim my bag, exit departures, go through baggage claim and speak to a Delta representative at the ticket esk in the landside terminal.
At this point, other flights were still slated to leave. I decided to speak to a Continental rep to try to get on the Newark flight leaving in the evening, should it be able to get offground. I've done this at other airports numerous times. In my experience, when weather is a concern, it is easy to switch a ticket from one airline to another airline if a suitable flight is found. Continental however sent me to speak with Delta. Who sent me to speak with Continental. Lather, rinse, repeat. Finally, I got a different Continental rep (after three tries at this desk) who quietly told me that I was being given the runaround because no one wanted to handle rebookings at the time. Awesome. While I was angry at my previous treatment, I was glad that at least someone felt it prudent to tell me the truth.
At this point, I went down to bagge claim to get my bag. I figured this would be easy, as my plane never left. But alas, I had to wait for two hours for bags from my flight to appear, and then, when they did, mine was not among them. The airline lost my bag. I never left the airport, but my bag was lost. Awesome. While waiting an additional hour for it to surface, and after hassling with no less than three baggage handling employees, I decided to try to call Delta. I was offered a rebooking for, wait for it, December 26th. The day after Christmas. The earliest flight they could offer me. At this point, it must be noted that I had had enough. I cried like a small inconsolable child in front of baggage carousel eight.
I finally left baggage claim and then had to wait to go through passport control and customs (again, even though I never left), got told by an immigration official to "cheer up" and finally made it to the Delta desk. Which had closed at 5pm. In the middle of weather emergency in which the airline had cancelled EVERY in and outbound flight, they still closed at 5pm. After another phone call to bookings, I cancelled my flight and started the refund process, fully depressed that i would not make it back to the States for the holiday. Defeated and still teary, I decided to go home. I picked up all of my crap again and headed for the underground station.... where the story gets even worse.
The Picadilly, the only Underground line servicing Heathrow, was closed. Closed. Because by this point the airport had for all intents and purposes closed, it was a swarm of people. The landside terminal was so packed that people couldn't roll suitcases through the crowd. This also means that the taxi queue stretched the length of the airport. So that option was out. My only choice was to pay nearly 20 pounds for the luxury of waiting 45 minutes for the Heathrow Express, which dropped me off at Paddington Station, on the other side of the city from where I live. I then had to drag self and belongings through two tube transfers before finally making it back to my neighborhood. On the walk home, trudging through the three inches of snow, I sobbed. I was feeling so sorry for myself, and was so distracted, that, not watching where I was going, I tripped over the curb, slipped and fell, and wound up with ripped pants, a fat lip and bruise on my face. Brilliant.
After a continued cry, I called Expedia, and spoke to my first kind employee of the day. He didn't dodge my questions, ignore me, tell to cheer up, or to get out of the way. He said he was sorry. Even though it wasn't his fault. And that made me feel better. A simple "I'm Sorry" is one of the kindest things one can hear on a terrible day. and then he helped me rebook myself for a flight on Tuesday. Which is even nicer. This is of course all weather permitting. Heathrow is still basically closed, and there are already cancellations for outgoing flights tomorrow. But I desperately clinging to the hope that I can get out on that flight, and be with my family on Tuesday night.
All in all, yesterday was highly unpleasant. And I didn't even have it the worst. I at least have somewhere to go back to in London. There were no hotel rooms to be found near the airport, and frankly, even if I found one, I couldn't have afforded it. The girl I was talking to in the waiting room had expressed the same concern, as she was going home from a semester abroad, and had nearly no money left. I really felt for her while we sat and talked for a few hours, and forced her to let me buy her lunch. I'm no moneybags, but I've been in her position a few times, and know precisely that terrible kind of panic. I lost track of her, but hope she is okay, and had someplace to stay last night. I saw parents with small children all over the terminal as well, and can only imagine the awful night they had. I do recognize that the treatment I received from airline and airport staff, which I perceive as rude, is merely a case of staff doing their best on a trying day. And yet, I still do not appreciate it, particularly when all any of us (staff and travellers alike) want to do is to go home. Don't bounce a person from desk to desk to desk simply because you don't want to give her the bad news.
At this point, I'm holding out hope for Tuesday. That's the best I can do. Best of luck to you all in your holiday travels!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
"That Girl" is Educated. And Grateful.
I've been thinking a lot about the privilege and right of education over the past few weeks. Here in England, education funding is on the verge of tumultuous change, potentially raising fees for students, effecting future students as well as those currently enrolled in higher education. Outcry, protests and demonstrations have been part of the recent landscape here in London, and for good reason. It is very likely that higher education, once a given in the U.K., will now become a privilege available only to those who can pay for it, more akin to the American framework. Right now, thousands of people in London are marching to Parliament to protest and demonstrate to protect the availability of an education.
I have a weird relationship with the U.K. situation because, although I am a student here in London, I am an American. I was raised in the US, and never had a doubt that the expectation of me was that I would attend attend college (university to the Brits among you). There was never a question of this. From the time I was in junior high school, I was working to 'get into a good college.' I come from a financially average, middle-class family. My parents didn't have huge stockpiles of money set aside for my tuition. Implicit in the knowledge that I would attend university was the imperative that somehow we would struggle to pay for it. And yet, even though school would be a large financial burden on my family, it was accepted that regardless, I would be going. I went to a private liberal arts school, with a very very hefty price-tag. I had worked hard and was very lucky to receive scholarships from the school and from outside entities that shouldered some of the burden, but, nonetheless, I will still be paying off my undergraduate education in the years to come, as well as the graduate degree I've embarked on this year. In the United States, although education is almost certainly a requirement for most people, it is not at all a right. We "have" to have to degrees, and we have to pay for them.
I'm not saying that this is good. In fact, I'm saying the quite the opposite. In my professional life, I don't work in a field where I make the big bucks. As such, I monthly only the pay the minimum on my loans. At this rate, I'll be paying the government a monthly pittance for the next 20-odd years for five years of school, and two pieces of paper listing my credentials. Education, just like healthcare, I believe, should be givens. One should have access to the tools one needs to better themselves. To me, I find it appalling that institutions of higher learning in the US are predicated on profit margin, not academic prowess and availability. I greatly admire the UK system currently under imminent threat because it makes higher education a reality for anyone who dreams of it. If you have the desire to get a college/advanced education, it's yours. At least currently. Parliament is voting on the funding increase in less than two hours. This vote could change the dreams of some young people, and alter the courses of their lives.
To me, that's the real tragedy of this funding nightmare. I think about the 18 and 19 year olds who have just started their university lives. I remember my own freshman year of college and what a formative experience it was for me in my life. Through my parents' determination to see me through my four years (and the help of some amazing scholarship money) I got a stellar education that I could not have paid for. Had I been in my freshman year, in love with my newfound independence and academic confidence, I would have been devastated to not be able to move onto my sophomore year because I couldn't pay for it. There are young people in university across the country for whom this may be their last year of higher education, by no fault of their own. Having to shell out the money for own tuition is fine I suppose, when you have the appropriate amount of time at your disposal to save up that money. But, for those students already in school or just getting ready to start, the very dire threat is that they will suddenly be derailed because of a 9000 pound bill.
As an American, I am in some ways used to be 'ignored' by my government. Even though I worked 50+ hours a week most weeks in the US, I spent the vast majority of my 20s without health insurance. There was no public recourse available to me to look after my health. A broken arm or hospital stay would have bankrupted me. Literally. I'm an artist, and although structures like the National Endowment for the Arts etc. dole out money for art-making, I will never qualify as a recipient unless I become a machinated arts entity appealing to the mass public. I'm a social liberal, and see, on a regular basis, rights I hold dear threatened, revoked and ignored. Because of this governmental marginalization, i suppose I feel a lot of empathy and solidarity with my UK student counterparts. They've been raised in a culture that values higher education, and now that it is their turn to reap those benefits, they're having the door slammed in their faces. That is not a kind situation to be in. In current economic times, it seems to me that the last resource a government should threaten is the education of its people. That kind of shortsightedness ill impact the nation and the world for years to come. The foibles of political mismanagement should not bring further punishment on the students of a country.
There's another, more personal impact of these proposed fee hikes as well. A lot of art is made possible through the agency of the education system. Many professors in the arts are also working artists, who's work is supported and enabled through the educational frame. Students have the opportunity to study, engage and immerse themselves in the arts through their university studies. Some of those students will become working artists. Others will use their education at university to move into theoretical discourse, shaping the intellectual landscape of my field. I fear that what happens in the US will begin to happen here. I have many talented artistic friends who were not "allowed" by their parents etc. to study the arts in college, because it wasn't financially worth it. These parents, concerned about shelling out huge sums of money for "worthless" art degrees funneled their kids into more profitable majors. In a framework where credits cost big bucks, this will happen. When an education is financed by family etc., it takes agency out of the hands of the student. Personal passions and interests aren't as crucial as the potential for return of investment on tuition fees. It happens a lot in the US, and I find it very sad. I know some very unhappy economics majors, who probably would have had very fulfilling college experiences had they been able to study drawing or singing or acting. But the choice was to a large degree made for them by their 'investors.'
Education has an innumerable number of benefits, only a few of which in my opinion are tied to bankrolls. We should take pride in academics as a beautiful condition of being rational thinking beings. Access to so many things in this world is controlled by money; let's try to protect education as something that can exist outside of that financial paradigm, something we have a right to because we long for it, not because we can afford.
I have a weird relationship with the U.K. situation because, although I am a student here in London, I am an American. I was raised in the US, and never had a doubt that the expectation of me was that I would attend attend college (university to the Brits among you). There was never a question of this. From the time I was in junior high school, I was working to 'get into a good college.' I come from a financially average, middle-class family. My parents didn't have huge stockpiles of money set aside for my tuition. Implicit in the knowledge that I would attend university was the imperative that somehow we would struggle to pay for it. And yet, even though school would be a large financial burden on my family, it was accepted that regardless, I would be going. I went to a private liberal arts school, with a very very hefty price-tag. I had worked hard and was very lucky to receive scholarships from the school and from outside entities that shouldered some of the burden, but, nonetheless, I will still be paying off my undergraduate education in the years to come, as well as the graduate degree I've embarked on this year. In the United States, although education is almost certainly a requirement for most people, it is not at all a right. We "have" to have to degrees, and we have to pay for them.
I'm not saying that this is good. In fact, I'm saying the quite the opposite. In my professional life, I don't work in a field where I make the big bucks. As such, I monthly only the pay the minimum on my loans. At this rate, I'll be paying the government a monthly pittance for the next 20-odd years for five years of school, and two pieces of paper listing my credentials. Education, just like healthcare, I believe, should be givens. One should have access to the tools one needs to better themselves. To me, I find it appalling that institutions of higher learning in the US are predicated on profit margin, not academic prowess and availability. I greatly admire the UK system currently under imminent threat because it makes higher education a reality for anyone who dreams of it. If you have the desire to get a college/advanced education, it's yours. At least currently. Parliament is voting on the funding increase in less than two hours. This vote could change the dreams of some young people, and alter the courses of their lives.
To me, that's the real tragedy of this funding nightmare. I think about the 18 and 19 year olds who have just started their university lives. I remember my own freshman year of college and what a formative experience it was for me in my life. Through my parents' determination to see me through my four years (and the help of some amazing scholarship money) I got a stellar education that I could not have paid for. Had I been in my freshman year, in love with my newfound independence and academic confidence, I would have been devastated to not be able to move onto my sophomore year because I couldn't pay for it. There are young people in university across the country for whom this may be their last year of higher education, by no fault of their own. Having to shell out the money for own tuition is fine I suppose, when you have the appropriate amount of time at your disposal to save up that money. But, for those students already in school or just getting ready to start, the very dire threat is that they will suddenly be derailed because of a 9000 pound bill.
As an American, I am in some ways used to be 'ignored' by my government. Even though I worked 50+ hours a week most weeks in the US, I spent the vast majority of my 20s without health insurance. There was no public recourse available to me to look after my health. A broken arm or hospital stay would have bankrupted me. Literally. I'm an artist, and although structures like the National Endowment for the Arts etc. dole out money for art-making, I will never qualify as a recipient unless I become a machinated arts entity appealing to the mass public. I'm a social liberal, and see, on a regular basis, rights I hold dear threatened, revoked and ignored. Because of this governmental marginalization, i suppose I feel a lot of empathy and solidarity with my UK student counterparts. They've been raised in a culture that values higher education, and now that it is their turn to reap those benefits, they're having the door slammed in their faces. That is not a kind situation to be in. In current economic times, it seems to me that the last resource a government should threaten is the education of its people. That kind of shortsightedness ill impact the nation and the world for years to come. The foibles of political mismanagement should not bring further punishment on the students of a country.
There's another, more personal impact of these proposed fee hikes as well. A lot of art is made possible through the agency of the education system. Many professors in the arts are also working artists, who's work is supported and enabled through the educational frame. Students have the opportunity to study, engage and immerse themselves in the arts through their university studies. Some of those students will become working artists. Others will use their education at university to move into theoretical discourse, shaping the intellectual landscape of my field. I fear that what happens in the US will begin to happen here. I have many talented artistic friends who were not "allowed" by their parents etc. to study the arts in college, because it wasn't financially worth it. These parents, concerned about shelling out huge sums of money for "worthless" art degrees funneled their kids into more profitable majors. In a framework where credits cost big bucks, this will happen. When an education is financed by family etc., it takes agency out of the hands of the student. Personal passions and interests aren't as crucial as the potential for return of investment on tuition fees. It happens a lot in the US, and I find it very sad. I know some very unhappy economics majors, who probably would have had very fulfilling college experiences had they been able to study drawing or singing or acting. But the choice was to a large degree made for them by their 'investors.'
Education has an innumerable number of benefits, only a few of which in my opinion are tied to bankrolls. We should take pride in academics as a beautiful condition of being rational thinking beings. Access to so many things in this world is controlled by money; let's try to protect education as something that can exist outside of that financial paradigm, something we have a right to because we long for it, not because we can afford.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
"That Girl" Is Positively Fuming.
And I mean it. First, take a look at this article. Then, after you've finished throwing up your dinner, meet me back here. I'll wait.
Oh good. You're back. I find this situation so physically nauseating. I am tired of the phrase "American family" being used by narrow-minded politicians to defend the sanctity of the American family. Guess what? I'm a liberal minded, feminist artist, who makes work often dealing with, among other unsavory things, nudity and sexuality. I'm not very religious, although I'm quite faithful. My nearest and dearest friends are made up of circus freaks, strippers, live art practitioners and, yes, even gays. And you know what? I'm also a part of an American family. My progressive parents are observant Catholics, who have been married for over 30 years. They're also the warmest, most open and accepting people one could imagine. Some of their dearest friends are single parents, homosexuals and so on, the so-called enemies of the American family. Our family is built on foundations of open-mindedness, compassion and free artistic expression. In light of all that, we don't fit in John Boehner's conception of the uptight, malicious "American family" that protects itself behind the shield of a conception of Christianity that was never part of my (yes, my) Christian upbringing. I don't want to spoken for, under this disgusting umbrella, that preaches fear of anything that isn't familiar, and that isn't just like the grotesque examples of this hermetic so-called national identity. A large portion of my political and social life is under the control of these small-minded, big-mouthed jackasses. Stay out of my cultural life.
Museums and galleries are homes of culture, and dialogue. For all of their commercialization and commodification, these institutions still provide a place for artistic expression. The provide a haven and forum for expression that isn't welcome on the Congressional floors of my country. In any given museum, there will be pieces that bother me, trouble me, upset my thinking, perhaps even offend me (on very rare occassion). And to some degree, that is one major and important function of artistic expression. Monet's paintings are beautiful and artistically elevated, but they don't make you think critically, make you stand up and take notice of larger issue. And that's fine. That's one function of art. To astound and to beautify the world around us. And idiots like Boehner would have us believe (and have our tax money fund) only this type of work. This approach would in effrec silence any artist who disagreed with the current political and social climate. Goodbye, Jenny Saville. See ya, Tania Bruguera. And so on. By this reckoning, the only artistic work that is now to be consdered valid is the either the aesthetically beautiful or the politically and socially numb. Our politicans already speak for us. And now they want to be our eyes.
It's curious to me that artistic work that brings focus into political marginalization (be it economic disparity, sexuality, race, gender etc.) is called subversive. That's a label I'm dealing with in my own practice right now as well. I don't think I'm subversive, necessarily. But, because people like Boehner decide the accpeted norms, a great deal of artists (myself include) must needs always be on the outside of that. And therefore, we are subversive. We don't agree with how we are spoken for, and therefore, we are the outsiders. I can accept that as an artist, I suppose, but I cannot stomach it as a viewer. How dare you, John Boehner. You're not protecting American families. You're suffocating those who don't agree with your tiny little vision of this world that you share with billions of other people. I'm sorry that homosexuality bothers you. I really am. I'm sorry that you can't accept that people fall in love in ways that you can't grasp. It must be hell inside your claustrophobic little mind. But don't presume that all of us Americans wear your blinders. You are not protecting my family. In fact, you're making life very difficult for members of my extended, adopted American family, by placing less value on their lives and their families than you do on your own "acceptable" one. My American family is no relation to yours, and I'd like to keep it that way. I don't pretend to understand how you can live your limited little life, so do not assume that you can speak on how I should live mine. Stick to pencil-pushing, and leave our art alone.
That Girl International
Oh good. You're back. I find this situation so physically nauseating. I am tired of the phrase "American family" being used by narrow-minded politicians to defend the sanctity of the American family. Guess what? I'm a liberal minded, feminist artist, who makes work often dealing with, among other unsavory things, nudity and sexuality. I'm not very religious, although I'm quite faithful. My nearest and dearest friends are made up of circus freaks, strippers, live art practitioners and, yes, even gays. And you know what? I'm also a part of an American family. My progressive parents are observant Catholics, who have been married for over 30 years. They're also the warmest, most open and accepting people one could imagine. Some of their dearest friends are single parents, homosexuals and so on, the so-called enemies of the American family. Our family is built on foundations of open-mindedness, compassion and free artistic expression. In light of all that, we don't fit in John Boehner's conception of the uptight, malicious "American family" that protects itself behind the shield of a conception of Christianity that was never part of my (yes, my) Christian upbringing. I don't want to spoken for, under this disgusting umbrella, that preaches fear of anything that isn't familiar, and that isn't just like the grotesque examples of this hermetic so-called national identity. A large portion of my political and social life is under the control of these small-minded, big-mouthed jackasses. Stay out of my cultural life.
Museums and galleries are homes of culture, and dialogue. For all of their commercialization and commodification, these institutions still provide a place for artistic expression. The provide a haven and forum for expression that isn't welcome on the Congressional floors of my country. In any given museum, there will be pieces that bother me, trouble me, upset my thinking, perhaps even offend me (on very rare occassion). And to some degree, that is one major and important function of artistic expression. Monet's paintings are beautiful and artistically elevated, but they don't make you think critically, make you stand up and take notice of larger issue. And that's fine. That's one function of art. To astound and to beautify the world around us. And idiots like Boehner would have us believe (and have our tax money fund) only this type of work. This approach would in effrec silence any artist who disagreed with the current political and social climate. Goodbye, Jenny Saville. See ya, Tania Bruguera. And so on. By this reckoning, the only artistic work that is now to be consdered valid is the either the aesthetically beautiful or the politically and socially numb. Our politicans already speak for us. And now they want to be our eyes.
It's curious to me that artistic work that brings focus into political marginalization (be it economic disparity, sexuality, race, gender etc.) is called subversive. That's a label I'm dealing with in my own practice right now as well. I don't think I'm subversive, necessarily. But, because people like Boehner decide the accpeted norms, a great deal of artists (myself include) must needs always be on the outside of that. And therefore, we are subversive. We don't agree with how we are spoken for, and therefore, we are the outsiders. I can accept that as an artist, I suppose, but I cannot stomach it as a viewer. How dare you, John Boehner. You're not protecting American families. You're suffocating those who don't agree with your tiny little vision of this world that you share with billions of other people. I'm sorry that homosexuality bothers you. I really am. I'm sorry that you can't accept that people fall in love in ways that you can't grasp. It must be hell inside your claustrophobic little mind. But don't presume that all of us Americans wear your blinders. You are not protecting my family. In fact, you're making life very difficult for members of my extended, adopted American family, by placing less value on their lives and their families than you do on your own "acceptable" one. My American family is no relation to yours, and I'd like to keep it that way. I don't pretend to understand how you can live your limited little life, so do not assume that you can speak on how I should live mine. Stick to pencil-pushing, and leave our art alone.
That Girl International
Sunday, November 21, 2010
"That Girl" is a Mover and a Shaker!
I've been thinking a lot about bodies lately. Specifically, my body. I'm working on a project for school dealing with body and identity, which has made me consider the way I think about this body that I've been inhabiting for over 20+ years. In my experience, I've found that my body has never quite been he way I wanted it at the time I wanted it to be that way. As a skinny, scrawny, short little kid, I remember being envious of my childhood best friend who starting wearing a bra loooooong before I ever had to consider one. I was jealous that my toothpick little body wasn't keeping pace with the more adult figure of my friend. One summer, the ultimate injustice, we both wore two-piece bathing suits. We looked extraordinarily different in them.
Flash forward a few years. My body caught up. By high school, I'd become hippy, to put it politely. I developed that curvy shape I thought I wanted when I as 13. But I didn't want it anymore. By 16 or so, I remember already feeling the pressure to be thinner. I was a "chubby" cheerleader in high school. Not actually chubby I don't think,but I certainly felt that way. A flat stomach has not been a part of my make-up since I've been in double digits, and probably never will be. Now, as an adult, I've got a short, rounded frame, and can never seem to budge the scales more than a few pounds. Once, about five years ago, I had a nasty run-in with a man at the grocery store, who mistook me for pregnant. I cried for hours, and was depressed, honestly depressed, for days afterward. As an adult, no matter how much weight I lose, I'll always have to contend with a somewhat absurd waist-to-hip ratio, that I and everyone (including my father the tailor) likes to poke fun at. I'm a curvy girl, sort of soft all over. I'm not a fan of the gym, and rarely run, unless something massive is chasing me.
So what's my point? That I'm not skinny? That spandex is not a part of wardrobe? Tangentially, yes. But that's not really the crux of this entry. I've been thinking a lot about my attitudes toward my own body with respect to what I ask it to do, which has led to some curious revelations about myself. I'm a performer. At various times in my life, I've been/still am a singer, a dancer, an actor... at risk of sounding very artsy-fartsy, my body is an instrument. And as a performing artist, I rarely perform without my body. No matter what character I play, I take my own body with me, for better or for worse.
This has been on my mind a lot with respect to dance. As a child, I took pretty much every style of dance offered in my small town. Not really a ballerina type, I got into cheerleading in junior high, and actually loved it, even though I always felt a bit like the ugly duckling of the bunch. I fell of out of dance until my sophomore year of college. Under the guidance of the brilliant Jan Hyatt, I fell in love with modern dance. For the first time, a dance teacher helped me to see my particular body as a strength, not something to be worked on, overcome. Jan helped me to see myself as a grounded dancer, and helped to discover a vocabulary that felt right in and for my body. For the first time, I really honed in on a sense of body confidence, predicated on what my body IS and not what it is not. Sure, being skinny and teeny tiny might be nice, but my body can do other things. I danced a piece in a concert my senior called "Cassandra" with two other performers, each of us very different in lock and style. My part was the earth-bound, grounded, more primal section of the piece, and I remember feeling like it was choreographed just for me. My body was the right body to dance it. That's such a lovely feeling.
Post-college, I've dabbled in burlesque, much to my parents' chagrin. But I have to say that it's been an enlightening and emboldening experience for me, one I sorely needed after moving to New York City. If modern dance taught me to see the capabilities of my particular body, burlesque has helped me to love them. At first, I was afraid. I was terrified that I wouldn't be good enough, pretty enough, and that stupid word again, skinny enough. I relied on the glamor and illusion of burlesque to create classic acts that made me feel beautiful. And that was awesome. Hiding coyly behind a feather fan in a gorgeous sequined dress with absurd fake eyelashes etc. Then, something in me got bolder. I started creating acts where I encouraged, nay downright forced, my audience to laugh at me. I had found the confidence in my body to allow a roomful of people to laugh at me in various states of undress. To me, the brilliant part of all of this is how I feel, onstage, with a laughing crowd in the palm of my hand. I've never felt more beautiful in my entire life, because I feel not just physically pretty, but also emotionally secure and confident. For me, that's what beautiful is all about. Granted, when I shimmy my shoulders, lots of things on my body jiggle. I'm short, with chubby legs. I could go on. But I won't, because that's not how I feel onstage at a burlesque show. During my five minutes of glory, I am the most beautiful woman in the room, no matter if I'm covered in stage blood, or wearing a pig nose, or dressed up as Betty Slocombe. I feel secure in this body of mine, and have, as a late 20-something adult, come to love it, jiggly bits and all.
Recently, Ive become fascinated in trying out other forms of movement on this body of mine. I am a bellydance enthusiast, hoping to get better at it, not for performance-sake, but for my own personal edification. To me, bellydance is all about embracing the things that current American standards of beauty try to take away from me. When I do a belly flutter, my belly really flutters. Because I have one. To American popular audiences, that's probably not appealing. But to me, it's amazing and makes me feel like a million bucks. Like burlesque, bellydance gives me a sense of confidence in my body, because of what MY body can do. This is of course a very reductionist analysis of these forms of movement; I'm just trying to make some sense of these particular points for myself.
It's so odd to me, as I never really think of myself as a person whole lacks confidence. I've always been fairly secure in myself, and in my self-worth etc. But underneath that, even for me, there's a fair bit of insecurity in my own skin. For me, the way Ito deal with that has, unconsciously, been through developing a movement vocabulary based on the unique capabilities of a body like mine. While I love hearing my boyfriend tell me I'm beautiful (and he does, often), there is a great deal of power to be harnessed in occasionally seeing it for oneself. I'm grateful for the opportunities I had in my life for this kind of positive growth, and for the people who've been supportive of these pursuits. I like liking my body, and hope to be able to do so for the rest of my life, and want that for every girl and woman I know.
Love,
TGI
Flash forward a few years. My body caught up. By high school, I'd become hippy, to put it politely. I developed that curvy shape I thought I wanted when I as 13. But I didn't want it anymore. By 16 or so, I remember already feeling the pressure to be thinner. I was a "chubby" cheerleader in high school. Not actually chubby I don't think,but I certainly felt that way. A flat stomach has not been a part of my make-up since I've been in double digits, and probably never will be. Now, as an adult, I've got a short, rounded frame, and can never seem to budge the scales more than a few pounds. Once, about five years ago, I had a nasty run-in with a man at the grocery store, who mistook me for pregnant. I cried for hours, and was depressed, honestly depressed, for days afterward. As an adult, no matter how much weight I lose, I'll always have to contend with a somewhat absurd waist-to-hip ratio, that I and everyone (including my father the tailor) likes to poke fun at. I'm a curvy girl, sort of soft all over. I'm not a fan of the gym, and rarely run, unless something massive is chasing me.
So what's my point? That I'm not skinny? That spandex is not a part of wardrobe? Tangentially, yes. But that's not really the crux of this entry. I've been thinking a lot about my attitudes toward my own body with respect to what I ask it to do, which has led to some curious revelations about myself. I'm a performer. At various times in my life, I've been/still am a singer, a dancer, an actor... at risk of sounding very artsy-fartsy, my body is an instrument. And as a performing artist, I rarely perform without my body. No matter what character I play, I take my own body with me, for better or for worse.
This has been on my mind a lot with respect to dance. As a child, I took pretty much every style of dance offered in my small town. Not really a ballerina type, I got into cheerleading in junior high, and actually loved it, even though I always felt a bit like the ugly duckling of the bunch. I fell of out of dance until my sophomore year of college. Under the guidance of the brilliant Jan Hyatt, I fell in love with modern dance. For the first time, a dance teacher helped me to see my particular body as a strength, not something to be worked on, overcome. Jan helped me to see myself as a grounded dancer, and helped to discover a vocabulary that felt right in and for my body. For the first time, I really honed in on a sense of body confidence, predicated on what my body IS and not what it is not. Sure, being skinny and teeny tiny might be nice, but my body can do other things. I danced a piece in a concert my senior called "Cassandra" with two other performers, each of us very different in lock and style. My part was the earth-bound, grounded, more primal section of the piece, and I remember feeling like it was choreographed just for me. My body was the right body to dance it. That's such a lovely feeling.
Post-college, I've dabbled in burlesque, much to my parents' chagrin. But I have to say that it's been an enlightening and emboldening experience for me, one I sorely needed after moving to New York City. If modern dance taught me to see the capabilities of my particular body, burlesque has helped me to love them. At first, I was afraid. I was terrified that I wouldn't be good enough, pretty enough, and that stupid word again, skinny enough. I relied on the glamor and illusion of burlesque to create classic acts that made me feel beautiful. And that was awesome. Hiding coyly behind a feather fan in a gorgeous sequined dress with absurd fake eyelashes etc. Then, something in me got bolder. I started creating acts where I encouraged, nay downright forced, my audience to laugh at me. I had found the confidence in my body to allow a roomful of people to laugh at me in various states of undress. To me, the brilliant part of all of this is how I feel, onstage, with a laughing crowd in the palm of my hand. I've never felt more beautiful in my entire life, because I feel not just physically pretty, but also emotionally secure and confident. For me, that's what beautiful is all about. Granted, when I shimmy my shoulders, lots of things on my body jiggle. I'm short, with chubby legs. I could go on. But I won't, because that's not how I feel onstage at a burlesque show. During my five minutes of glory, I am the most beautiful woman in the room, no matter if I'm covered in stage blood, or wearing a pig nose, or dressed up as Betty Slocombe. I feel secure in this body of mine, and have, as a late 20-something adult, come to love it, jiggly bits and all.
Recently, Ive become fascinated in trying out other forms of movement on this body of mine. I am a bellydance enthusiast, hoping to get better at it, not for performance-sake, but for my own personal edification. To me, bellydance is all about embracing the things that current American standards of beauty try to take away from me. When I do a belly flutter, my belly really flutters. Because I have one. To American popular audiences, that's probably not appealing. But to me, it's amazing and makes me feel like a million bucks. Like burlesque, bellydance gives me a sense of confidence in my body, because of what MY body can do. This is of course a very reductionist analysis of these forms of movement; I'm just trying to make some sense of these particular points for myself.
It's so odd to me, as I never really think of myself as a person whole lacks confidence. I've always been fairly secure in myself, and in my self-worth etc. But underneath that, even for me, there's a fair bit of insecurity in my own skin. For me, the way Ito deal with that has, unconsciously, been through developing a movement vocabulary based on the unique capabilities of a body like mine. While I love hearing my boyfriend tell me I'm beautiful (and he does, often), there is a great deal of power to be harnessed in occasionally seeing it for oneself. I'm grateful for the opportunities I had in my life for this kind of positive growth, and for the people who've been supportive of these pursuits. I like liking my body, and hope to be able to do so for the rest of my life, and want that for every girl and woman I know.
Love,
TGI
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
"That Girl" Stood on the Hill of Tara!
Much as I loved being in Dublin, and experiencing the bustle of tourists (not particularly), I absolutely loved my excursion out of Dublin to The Hill of Tara and to Newgrange, an ancient "passage tomb." While admittedly not a very religious person, as most religious institutions anger and confuse me, I am a very spiritual person, with a great deal of faith in a higher power etc. I found being at Tara to be a profoundly spiritual experience. Now, I recognize that this is a little weird. But bear with me.
Tara, the Hill of Kings, is an ancient archeological site, considered to be a sacred place associated with ancient high kings of Ireland. Possible used as a high sat, or perhaps as a ritual site, the area is now devoid of buildings and structures for the most part, and is predominately a wide open green range of gentle hills. It's difficult to explain, and even while I was there, trying to jot some notes in my journal, I was having trouble translating the experience into words. My journal entry devolved into a stream of sonsciousness ramble. It was amazingly quiet at the top of the hill. Not silent, as it was a very windy morning. But, because the wind was so sharp, it was honestly the only sound you could hear. I stood on top of the hill, looking out over 3/4 of Ireland with the wind burning in my ears. I travelled to Tara with tour group, and because it was so cold, we were the only adventurers atop the hill at the time. So I stood in peace and a quiet free of manmade sound and just was therefor awhile. I had a brief quiet cry up there, I think because it was so beautiful, and sort of a reminder to me how amazing this year is for me, this chance to see and do things that I had begun to think were never going to possible for me.
Coupled with that it also the intense energy of the place. Say what you like, but I do think that spaces and places have particulars vibes/energies/feelings, whatever you want to call it. For example, no theatre space can ever replicate the magic of the Playshop Theatre for me, at my undergrad. No place will have that energy for me. And, were I to revisit the space now, long out of undergrad, it might not feel the same. But I can still call up that feeling for myself, that memory of being in that place. In places like Tara, that idea of place and energy is necessarily tied up with a feeling of spirituality (as are most places in the natural world for me). I suppose I tend to gravitate towards stories of faiths and religions where women get a voice and a role. While not a practicing Catholic, I will probably always think of Mary as a friendly face, a better listener than the dudes she works for. In the same way, while being in a place like Tara, surrounded by the beauty of the natural world, it's comforting to think of that Mother Earth image, some sort of nurturing female-ish presence out there, having some power in our world. Anyway. Those are things I was thinking about on Tara. It was a painfully beautiful experience, and I'm sorry that I can't do it justice in words for you.
After Tara, we bundled back up into the blessedly warm tour bus and headed off to Newgrange, a powerful place in its own right. An ancient stone age site, it's called a passage tomb because human remains were found inside. Most likely however, its not a tomb in the traditional sense of burials, but rather a ceremonial place where ashes and offereings were placed, perhaps for the dead. I got to go inside, which was a total headtrip. Although the outside has been reconstructed, the inside is just as it would have been (barring a few health and safety changes) in the Stone Age. Totally amazing. The entry passage is long and narrow - even I had to duck and turn sideways just to get through. Then the passage opens into a small central chamber, with three little rooms surrounding it, thus creating, interestingly enough, a cruciform shape inside. As you stand in the central room, it would be completely dark without the floodlight on the wall. Completely. The entry passage has actually taken you up a small hill, so you are standing above the level of the door.
Newgrange is quite amazing though, in its solar alignment. There is a small opening over the door to Newgrange. On the winter equinox, the shortest day of the year, as the sign rises, the light penetrates this roof box, and, almost magically illuminates the inner chamber. For about 15 minutes, this black room is bathed in light from a window that cant be seen from the inside of the chamber. While we stood shoulder to shoulder in this stone wonder, our guide turned off the artificial lights, plunging us into total blackness, even on a sunny November afternoon. Then. she turned on a small lamp positioned at the roof box. The light streamed into the chamber, allowing us to see our feet, he walls around us, hints of faces. I stood in total and utter amazement. I was floored by the ingenuity and technical precision of our Stone Age ancestors, building Newgrange 500 years prior to the construction of the Pyramids at Giza. Amazement at considering what this experience would have meant to those same people - assurance that the days would once again grow long, that summer would come, that another season had been survived. I could have watched that demonstration 100times and still been agog every time. This was by far one of the coolest days of my life. Hands down.
So that was my big excursion out of Dublin proper. And I though about for the rest of the trip, and am in fact still revisiting it in my mind. An idea for a performance has sort of hatched, and I've been playing with that this week. It's not about Tara or Newgrange directly, but more about the idea of time and duration, how long things and experiences last. Anyways, it gave me a lot to ponder.
The rest of th trip was suitably grand as well. I saw John Gabriel Borkman at the Abbey Theatre with Alan Rickman, Fiona Shaw and Lindsey Duncan, which was just lovely. It was a powerful production, with excellent synergy of design, direction and acting. A definite highlight, as was getting shake Alan Rickman's hand afterwards! In addition, I met some fun people who provided excellent company for the rest of my trip. I spent my last evening in Dublin hanging out with a gal from Australia, with whom I listened to an incredible Irish band, made of a grandmother and her grandson (and they ROCKED), molested statues in central Dublin (which I have the pictures to prove) and crashed some rich blonde girl's private birthday party (but only because we heard someone playing Britney Spears' on the piano from inside and had to investigate). Once inside, we accepted free Jameson from an embarrassingly drunk and even more embarassingly old man before making a hasty retreat. So from the spiritual to the ridiculous. Awesome. So that's it. Farewell, Ireland. And back to the grad school grind...
Love,
TGI
Tara, the Hill of Kings, is an ancient archeological site, considered to be a sacred place associated with ancient high kings of Ireland. Possible used as a high sat, or perhaps as a ritual site, the area is now devoid of buildings and structures for the most part, and is predominately a wide open green range of gentle hills. It's difficult to explain, and even while I was there, trying to jot some notes in my journal, I was having trouble translating the experience into words. My journal entry devolved into a stream of sonsciousness ramble. It was amazingly quiet at the top of the hill. Not silent, as it was a very windy morning. But, because the wind was so sharp, it was honestly the only sound you could hear. I stood on top of the hill, looking out over 3/4 of Ireland with the wind burning in my ears. I travelled to Tara with tour group, and because it was so cold, we were the only adventurers atop the hill at the time. So I stood in peace and a quiet free of manmade sound and just was therefor awhile. I had a brief quiet cry up there, I think because it was so beautiful, and sort of a reminder to me how amazing this year is for me, this chance to see and do things that I had begun to think were never going to possible for me.
Coupled with that it also the intense energy of the place. Say what you like, but I do think that spaces and places have particulars vibes/energies/feelings, whatever you want to call it. For example, no theatre space can ever replicate the magic of the Playshop Theatre for me, at my undergrad. No place will have that energy for me. And, were I to revisit the space now, long out of undergrad, it might not feel the same. But I can still call up that feeling for myself, that memory of being in that place. In places like Tara, that idea of place and energy is necessarily tied up with a feeling of spirituality (as are most places in the natural world for me). I suppose I tend to gravitate towards stories of faiths and religions where women get a voice and a role. While not a practicing Catholic, I will probably always think of Mary as a friendly face, a better listener than the dudes she works for. In the same way, while being in a place like Tara, surrounded by the beauty of the natural world, it's comforting to think of that Mother Earth image, some sort of nurturing female-ish presence out there, having some power in our world. Anyway. Those are things I was thinking about on Tara. It was a painfully beautiful experience, and I'm sorry that I can't do it justice in words for you.
After Tara, we bundled back up into the blessedly warm tour bus and headed off to Newgrange, a powerful place in its own right. An ancient stone age site, it's called a passage tomb because human remains were found inside. Most likely however, its not a tomb in the traditional sense of burials, but rather a ceremonial place where ashes and offereings were placed, perhaps for the dead. I got to go inside, which was a total headtrip. Although the outside has been reconstructed, the inside is just as it would have been (barring a few health and safety changes) in the Stone Age. Totally amazing. The entry passage is long and narrow - even I had to duck and turn sideways just to get through. Then the passage opens into a small central chamber, with three little rooms surrounding it, thus creating, interestingly enough, a cruciform shape inside. As you stand in the central room, it would be completely dark without the floodlight on the wall. Completely. The entry passage has actually taken you up a small hill, so you are standing above the level of the door.
Newgrange is quite amazing though, in its solar alignment. There is a small opening over the door to Newgrange. On the winter equinox, the shortest day of the year, as the sign rises, the light penetrates this roof box, and, almost magically illuminates the inner chamber. For about 15 minutes, this black room is bathed in light from a window that cant be seen from the inside of the chamber. While we stood shoulder to shoulder in this stone wonder, our guide turned off the artificial lights, plunging us into total blackness, even on a sunny November afternoon. Then. she turned on a small lamp positioned at the roof box. The light streamed into the chamber, allowing us to see our feet, he walls around us, hints of faces. I stood in total and utter amazement. I was floored by the ingenuity and technical precision of our Stone Age ancestors, building Newgrange 500 years prior to the construction of the Pyramids at Giza. Amazement at considering what this experience would have meant to those same people - assurance that the days would once again grow long, that summer would come, that another season had been survived. I could have watched that demonstration 100times and still been agog every time. This was by far one of the coolest days of my life. Hands down.
So that was my big excursion out of Dublin proper. And I though about for the rest of the trip, and am in fact still revisiting it in my mind. An idea for a performance has sort of hatched, and I've been playing with that this week. It's not about Tara or Newgrange directly, but more about the idea of time and duration, how long things and experiences last. Anyways, it gave me a lot to ponder.
The rest of th trip was suitably grand as well. I saw John Gabriel Borkman at the Abbey Theatre with Alan Rickman, Fiona Shaw and Lindsey Duncan, which was just lovely. It was a powerful production, with excellent synergy of design, direction and acting. A definite highlight, as was getting shake Alan Rickman's hand afterwards! In addition, I met some fun people who provided excellent company for the rest of my trip. I spent my last evening in Dublin hanging out with a gal from Australia, with whom I listened to an incredible Irish band, made of a grandmother and her grandson (and they ROCKED), molested statues in central Dublin (which I have the pictures to prove) and crashed some rich blonde girl's private birthday party (but only because we heard someone playing Britney Spears' on the piano from inside and had to investigate). Once inside, we accepted free Jameson from an embarrassingly drunk and even more embarassingly old man before making a hasty retreat. So from the spiritual to the ridiculous. Awesome. So that's it. Farewell, Ireland. And back to the grad school grind...
Love,
TGI
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
"That Girl" Went To Jail and a Pub... In That Order!
Well, I’ve returned from Ireland and I have so many stories to tell! I had an amazing trip – my first international jaunt (excepting England). I didn’t have a particular plan in mind when scheduling a trip to Dublin. I had some time off from class, a few extra bucks and a long-standing desire to see the Emerald Isle, home to Guinness, ancient Celtic history and The Quiet Man (three of my favorite things). So, on November 9th, off I went. I booked a cheapo ticket through Ryan Air, cheap because travelling with them is about as luxurious as being caber-tossed by a drunken hairy lumberjack over the ocean. Crammed into a tiny little seat on a pared-down jet (read: no between seat armrests…ick), we were subjected to commercials from our “friendly” cabin crew every five minutes, selling the entire commercial pantheon, ranging from five hour energy shots to watches to first-born children. Well, you get the point. Amazingly, the one thing they weren’t selling, the only item I would have bought, was coffee; their coffeemaker wasn’t working. Le sigh. But, after 5 glorious, decaffeinated minutes, yours truly stumbled in Dublin Airport, breezed through border patrol and heading out into the GREAT Green Way.
I opted to stay in a hostel in the western part of the city, to be close to the touristy stuff, but not too close to tourist traps like Temple Bar. My hostel was decent, though after a mix-up on their part, I wound up in an eight bed room, instead of the cozy four bed I had booked. But it was all right. To be honest, I’m such a heavy sleeper that I am sort of the ideal candidate for hostel travel. I took a bottom bunk and barely heard the Seven Drunkertons when they stumbled in shortly before my alarm would go off each morning.
I spent my afternoon in the city doing a mixture of terribly important things. First, while waiting for check-in time, I stopped at Ryan’s Pub on Camden Street for my first local pint of the good old “black stuff.” And I must say Guinness really does taste even better in Dublin. And of course, by better, I mean like molten heaven. With a side of puppies and rainbows. For serious. After dropping off my own teeny little bag at the Ritz Hotel (har har), I started off on my second important mission of the day: Getting lost in every spectacular way possible. I started wandering with a map that was several years old, borrowed from a classmate. Now, I could have Rand McNally holding my hand and I’d still get lost, so me and an outdated map? Forget it. After walking in circles, I broke down, visited a bookshop and bought a non-Stone Age cityfinder. Much better.
With the help of my map and at least 6789 locals, I spent the day looking at the outsides of some beautiful places, and stumbled upon the small Focus Theatre, coincidentally opening previews for Men of Tortuga that evening, for which I promptly bought a ticket . The play was really well done, in an intimate black-box setting that I’d kill to work in. Very reminiscent of Allegheny’s beloved Playshop, which is still my favorite theatre ever. The four men in the cast worked well together, and had perfected their American accents. Aside from a few sticky blocking moments, it was overall a very thoughtful and engaging production, and definitely a nice little surprise, as I’d not heard of Focus before.
Wednesday was a great day. I trekked out Kilmainham Gaol (muuuuuch further away than it looked on my decidedly not to scale map). Now, I shan’t give you a full history lesson (even though it’s fascinating stuff!) but you should know that the jail was built in 1796 and was originally concerned quite modern. The prison figures heavily in the histories of the Famine, Easter Rising of 1916 and the War of Independence. While Kilmainham was open into the 1920s, during its last years it was used to hold only political prisoners. The stories surrounding the Easter Rising were particularly heartbreaking. On Easter Monday 1916, rebels, in an effort to publically to sever ties with the British, seized control of strategically important buildings in Dublin, including the Post Office, in front of which leader Padraig Pearse read aloud the Proclamation of the Irish Republic. The siege lasted several days, over the course of which much property was destroyed and many civilian lives lost. Hundreds of men and women were arrested as a result of the rising and imprisoned at Kilmainham. 14 of the leaders were swiftly court marshaled, and within three weeks, executed on the jail’s grounds, including Joseph Plunkett who married his fiancée Grace Gifford in the prison chapel a mere five hours before he was killed. The final execution, that of Joseph Connolly, is considered to be the tide-turner in public opinion for the Rising. Because of all of the damage done by the rebels, public opinion was initially quite negative. People jeered when the leaders were first taken to Kilmainham. As a result of the swiftness with which their deaths were ordered by the British however, the mood began to change. Connolly’s execution was particularly brutal. He’d been badly wounded during the rising and was held at hospital prior to his death, not at the jail with the other leaders. On the day of his execution, he was carried into the stonebreaker’s yard on a stretcher. He couldn’t stand, so the British soldiers tied him to a chair and then shot him. This final cruelty helped the public to see the rebels in a positive light, allowing the Rising of 1916 to pave the way for Irish independence a few short years later.
Okay. I know I said I wasn’t going to give you a history lesson. But it is just too interesting and too powerful not to share. I realized while on the grounds at Kilmainham how little I know about Irish history. I just kept thinking about the strength and conviction that it would take to stand up for one’s country and beliefs that way. I’m not sure that I have the fortitude for it, but I certainly grateful for those who do. I felt quite moved standing in the stonebreaker’s yard, marked at either end with a black wooden cross, demarcating the execution sites. It was quiet, and my fellow tourists were not chattering, but rather just being ‘in’ the space. I got choked up, which surprised me, as it’s not my history… but there is something enduring about people who stand up for their convictions, and, more importantly, for the good of their fellow man. Very very strong stuff. I took some pictures at the jail, which can be spotted here if you’re curious.
Incidentally, the story of Kilmainham’s restoration is quite amazing. Abandoned after the 1920s, it quickly became derelict. Due to its key presence in much of Ireland’s struggle for independence, a campaign began to restore it and open it as a museum. An all-volunteer team, many of whom were former political prisoners, spent 30 years getting Kilmainham ready to reopen. Because of their hard work, Kilmainham is now a monument, a landmark in the fight for Irish freedom.
After Kilmainham, I took a long walk to clear my head and sort of digest all of that experience. And where did I walk to? The Guinness Storehouse of course! Terrifically good city planning to put the Guinness brewery a 15 minute walk away from a humbling museum like Kilmainham! And that was just Day One…. Wait till you hear about the rest of my trip!
Love,
TGI
I opted to stay in a hostel in the western part of the city, to be close to the touristy stuff, but not too close to tourist traps like Temple Bar. My hostel was decent, though after a mix-up on their part, I wound up in an eight bed room, instead of the cozy four bed I had booked. But it was all right. To be honest, I’m such a heavy sleeper that I am sort of the ideal candidate for hostel travel. I took a bottom bunk and barely heard the Seven Drunkertons when they stumbled in shortly before my alarm would go off each morning.
I spent my afternoon in the city doing a mixture of terribly important things. First, while waiting for check-in time, I stopped at Ryan’s Pub on Camden Street for my first local pint of the good old “black stuff.” And I must say Guinness really does taste even better in Dublin. And of course, by better, I mean like molten heaven. With a side of puppies and rainbows. For serious. After dropping off my own teeny little bag at the Ritz Hotel (har har), I started off on my second important mission of the day: Getting lost in every spectacular way possible. I started wandering with a map that was several years old, borrowed from a classmate. Now, I could have Rand McNally holding my hand and I’d still get lost, so me and an outdated map? Forget it. After walking in circles, I broke down, visited a bookshop and bought a non-Stone Age cityfinder. Much better.
With the help of my map and at least 6789 locals, I spent the day looking at the outsides of some beautiful places, and stumbled upon the small Focus Theatre, coincidentally opening previews for Men of Tortuga that evening, for which I promptly bought a ticket . The play was really well done, in an intimate black-box setting that I’d kill to work in. Very reminiscent of Allegheny’s beloved Playshop, which is still my favorite theatre ever. The four men in the cast worked well together, and had perfected their American accents. Aside from a few sticky blocking moments, it was overall a very thoughtful and engaging production, and definitely a nice little surprise, as I’d not heard of Focus before.
Wednesday was a great day. I trekked out Kilmainham Gaol (muuuuuch further away than it looked on my decidedly not to scale map). Now, I shan’t give you a full history lesson (even though it’s fascinating stuff!) but you should know that the jail was built in 1796 and was originally concerned quite modern. The prison figures heavily in the histories of the Famine, Easter Rising of 1916 and the War of Independence. While Kilmainham was open into the 1920s, during its last years it was used to hold only political prisoners. The stories surrounding the Easter Rising were particularly heartbreaking. On Easter Monday 1916, rebels, in an effort to publically to sever ties with the British, seized control of strategically important buildings in Dublin, including the Post Office, in front of which leader Padraig Pearse read aloud the Proclamation of the Irish Republic. The siege lasted several days, over the course of which much property was destroyed and many civilian lives lost. Hundreds of men and women were arrested as a result of the rising and imprisoned at Kilmainham. 14 of the leaders were swiftly court marshaled, and within three weeks, executed on the jail’s grounds, including Joseph Plunkett who married his fiancée Grace Gifford in the prison chapel a mere five hours before he was killed. The final execution, that of Joseph Connolly, is considered to be the tide-turner in public opinion for the Rising. Because of all of the damage done by the rebels, public opinion was initially quite negative. People jeered when the leaders were first taken to Kilmainham. As a result of the swiftness with which their deaths were ordered by the British however, the mood began to change. Connolly’s execution was particularly brutal. He’d been badly wounded during the rising and was held at hospital prior to his death, not at the jail with the other leaders. On the day of his execution, he was carried into the stonebreaker’s yard on a stretcher. He couldn’t stand, so the British soldiers tied him to a chair and then shot him. This final cruelty helped the public to see the rebels in a positive light, allowing the Rising of 1916 to pave the way for Irish independence a few short years later.
Okay. I know I said I wasn’t going to give you a history lesson. But it is just too interesting and too powerful not to share. I realized while on the grounds at Kilmainham how little I know about Irish history. I just kept thinking about the strength and conviction that it would take to stand up for one’s country and beliefs that way. I’m not sure that I have the fortitude for it, but I certainly grateful for those who do. I felt quite moved standing in the stonebreaker’s yard, marked at either end with a black wooden cross, demarcating the execution sites. It was quiet, and my fellow tourists were not chattering, but rather just being ‘in’ the space. I got choked up, which surprised me, as it’s not my history… but there is something enduring about people who stand up for their convictions, and, more importantly, for the good of their fellow man. Very very strong stuff. I took some pictures at the jail, which can be spotted here if you’re curious.
Incidentally, the story of Kilmainham’s restoration is quite amazing. Abandoned after the 1920s, it quickly became derelict. Due to its key presence in much of Ireland’s struggle for independence, a campaign began to restore it and open it as a museum. An all-volunteer team, many of whom were former political prisoners, spent 30 years getting Kilmainham ready to reopen. Because of their hard work, Kilmainham is now a monument, a landmark in the fight for Irish freedom.
After Kilmainham, I took a long walk to clear my head and sort of digest all of that experience. And where did I walk to? The Guinness Storehouse of course! Terrifically good city planning to put the Guinness brewery a 15 minute walk away from a humbling museum like Kilmainham! And that was just Day One…. Wait till you hear about the rest of my trip!
Love,
TGI
Saturday, November 6, 2010
"That Girl" Loves Bonfire Night!
Hiya --
I've just had the nicest Friday in the history of Fridays. Determined to have a productive day, I woke up early. Well, early for me. So 8am. I know. I'm a wuss. After the coffee was a'brewin', I embarked on a little professional networking thru social networking, which yielded an almost instant reply from an artist who's work I greatly admire. And that lead to an email exchange, which then led to a tea meetup in two weeks. Yahoo! Not bad for TGI at 8:30am!
After that, I started work on some text for a performance piece I've been thinking about. During the first block of my course, we had a guest lecture from Emily Orley, a place-specific UK theatre/art practitioner. She introduced to me an interesting technique called "place writing,' a good jumping off point for creative writing. I've never considered myself a creative writer. I can talk for hours, I can express myself through movement/gesture, and I'm comfortable using someone else's words to tell a story, but I choke when it comes time to point the pencil to paper in an imaginative sort of way. In this approach however, you use to me what feels like a catalyst: a place, defined not necessarily as a geographic location, but rather as a particular, describable point/object. So this 'place' could be a passage in a book, describable for not only the words but also their placement on the page, the smell of the book, the type etc. A place could be an object, like my cluttered desk drawer, a seat on the Central Tube line, or the clawfoot bathtub at my parents' house. The point is that this 'place' has a history and a makeup all its own, and that combination can be elucidated through writing.
Now, to those of you who are writers, this probably sounds pedantic and dull. But for me, it's a welcome restriction that actually helps me get writing, instead of staring at a page being nervous about writing. I wrote about my ring. I've worn the same ring for almost seven years now, on the middle finger of my right hand. I take it off very infrequently, usually only when I performing etc. So I used it as my place. I started out describing its physical characteristics (engraving, signs of age) and its placement, and then my wiritng started to morph into the object's history. I started writing about how, occasionally, I wake up and my ring is missing. I must take it off in my sleep, with no recollection of doing it. It'll go missing for a few days, before it turns up in my pillow, or under the bed.
I started thinking bout that in relation to the engraving on my ring, which is from Song of Solomon and deals with the notion of being "beloved." Why do I take my ring off? To give that away? To become someone's beloved? Or simply because, for whatever reason, it gets in my way in my sleep? Whatever. Not really relevant points, but they do make for interesting writing explorations, especially for someone like me, who is the biggest block to my own creative writing.
In any case, I've been fascinated with this exercise, and have been trying to use it to develop some short texts for performance pieces. I spent yesterday developing a little snippet from this material I gathered about my ring, and it is taking an interesting shape. I'll post some of it here in a few days, perhaps.
So that was yesterday morning. A productive creative morning. And my day wasn't even half over! Then I trekked onto campus to meet-up with a fellow student and create another performance. I'm trying to be dedicated in the off times, and really use them to explore my own performance vocabulary. I've been stewing around a storytelling type performance, influenced by the thinking I've been doing about my grandmother and memory etc., after seeing Krapp's Last Tape. I'm working on an idea that I'm going to continue expanding, using objects to trigger memory. In this case, I'm using objects that call up stories I have about my grandmother, like a set of keys, a bell, a ball of yarn, birdseed etc. In keeping with the explorations of fragmented memory however, I'm trying to weave these memories of mine with snippets from her later life, when her memory was impaired. For example, the ball of yarn reminds me of how skilled my grandmother was a craftswoman. She could knit or crochet in the neatest, fastest way, while keeping her eyes fully on the tv or her grandchildren. It was like second-nature to her. In later life however, not only had she lost this ability, but she slowly became even unable to wind a ball of yarn. Every once in awhile however, while we sat and talked,her hands would be rhythmically moving, empty, but moving almost as if they were remembering some of the actions involved in the craft. I'm interested in explore that, and that's what I'm trying to do with movement and text.
I also have this idea of selecting a lot of objects, but only having space for some of them. Out of a collection of 30 objects that I bring, audience members would chose say eight of them and set them in their places in the performance space, out of my sight. That way, until i see them, I don't know what stories to tell.
In the same piece, I'm working with Julie Taymor's idea of an ideograph, a simple pictorial gesture used to encapsulate an entire character/theme. In this case, I'm trying to use my gesture to represent the two grandmothers that I remember: regular memory, fragmented memory. It helps me make the shift between the two stories I'm trying to tell.
It probably sounds very strange, and not very interesting, and perhaps it isn't to anyone but me. But I'm really captivated by it. The little five minute performance of this sort that I worked on yesterday has given me a lot to think about, and I'm going to work on developing it this week, with an eye to show it again in two weeks, in a more developed format. So there's that.
After all of this, I took a much-needed evening off to enjoy Bonfire Night in London, the celebration of the failed Guy Fawkes' plot to blow Parliament sky high. And how is it marked? With bonfires and fireworks displays of course! Strange, right? But hey, I'll take any excuse for a fireworks show, especially one in November! The display we went to see was set to music, and it's hard to enjoy oneself when fireworks are exploding to the tunes of Guns n Roses and Madonna. All in all, a nice little night, followed up with drinks and a rush back to the Tube before service ended for the night. Nice.
So that's that. This weekend holds a bit more theatre, a lot of reading, and a little relaxing to gear up for my IRELAND ADVENTURE this coming week!
Love,
TGI
I've just had the nicest Friday in the history of Fridays. Determined to have a productive day, I woke up early. Well, early for me. So 8am. I know. I'm a wuss. After the coffee was a'brewin', I embarked on a little professional networking thru social networking, which yielded an almost instant reply from an artist who's work I greatly admire. And that lead to an email exchange, which then led to a tea meetup in two weeks. Yahoo! Not bad for TGI at 8:30am!
After that, I started work on some text for a performance piece I've been thinking about. During the first block of my course, we had a guest lecture from Emily Orley, a place-specific UK theatre/art practitioner. She introduced to me an interesting technique called "place writing,' a good jumping off point for creative writing. I've never considered myself a creative writer. I can talk for hours, I can express myself through movement/gesture, and I'm comfortable using someone else's words to tell a story, but I choke when it comes time to point the pencil to paper in an imaginative sort of way. In this approach however, you use to me what feels like a catalyst: a place, defined not necessarily as a geographic location, but rather as a particular, describable point/object. So this 'place' could be a passage in a book, describable for not only the words but also their placement on the page, the smell of the book, the type etc. A place could be an object, like my cluttered desk drawer, a seat on the Central Tube line, or the clawfoot bathtub at my parents' house. The point is that this 'place' has a history and a makeup all its own, and that combination can be elucidated through writing.
Now, to those of you who are writers, this probably sounds pedantic and dull. But for me, it's a welcome restriction that actually helps me get writing, instead of staring at a page being nervous about writing. I wrote about my ring. I've worn the same ring for almost seven years now, on the middle finger of my right hand. I take it off very infrequently, usually only when I performing etc. So I used it as my place. I started out describing its physical characteristics (engraving, signs of age) and its placement, and then my wiritng started to morph into the object's history. I started writing about how, occasionally, I wake up and my ring is missing. I must take it off in my sleep, with no recollection of doing it. It'll go missing for a few days, before it turns up in my pillow, or under the bed.
I started thinking bout that in relation to the engraving on my ring, which is from Song of Solomon and deals with the notion of being "beloved." Why do I take my ring off? To give that away? To become someone's beloved? Or simply because, for whatever reason, it gets in my way in my sleep? Whatever. Not really relevant points, but they do make for interesting writing explorations, especially for someone like me, who is the biggest block to my own creative writing.
In any case, I've been fascinated with this exercise, and have been trying to use it to develop some short texts for performance pieces. I spent yesterday developing a little snippet from this material I gathered about my ring, and it is taking an interesting shape. I'll post some of it here in a few days, perhaps.
So that was yesterday morning. A productive creative morning. And my day wasn't even half over! Then I trekked onto campus to meet-up with a fellow student and create another performance. I'm trying to be dedicated in the off times, and really use them to explore my own performance vocabulary. I've been stewing around a storytelling type performance, influenced by the thinking I've been doing about my grandmother and memory etc., after seeing Krapp's Last Tape. I'm working on an idea that I'm going to continue expanding, using objects to trigger memory. In this case, I'm using objects that call up stories I have about my grandmother, like a set of keys, a bell, a ball of yarn, birdseed etc. In keeping with the explorations of fragmented memory however, I'm trying to weave these memories of mine with snippets from her later life, when her memory was impaired. For example, the ball of yarn reminds me of how skilled my grandmother was a craftswoman. She could knit or crochet in the neatest, fastest way, while keeping her eyes fully on the tv or her grandchildren. It was like second-nature to her. In later life however, not only had she lost this ability, but she slowly became even unable to wind a ball of yarn. Every once in awhile however, while we sat and talked,her hands would be rhythmically moving, empty, but moving almost as if they were remembering some of the actions involved in the craft. I'm interested in explore that, and that's what I'm trying to do with movement and text.
I also have this idea of selecting a lot of objects, but only having space for some of them. Out of a collection of 30 objects that I bring, audience members would chose say eight of them and set them in their places in the performance space, out of my sight. That way, until i see them, I don't know what stories to tell.
In the same piece, I'm working with Julie Taymor's idea of an ideograph, a simple pictorial gesture used to encapsulate an entire character/theme. In this case, I'm trying to use my gesture to represent the two grandmothers that I remember: regular memory, fragmented memory. It helps me make the shift between the two stories I'm trying to tell.
It probably sounds very strange, and not very interesting, and perhaps it isn't to anyone but me. But I'm really captivated by it. The little five minute performance of this sort that I worked on yesterday has given me a lot to think about, and I'm going to work on developing it this week, with an eye to show it again in two weeks, in a more developed format. So there's that.
After all of this, I took a much-needed evening off to enjoy Bonfire Night in London, the celebration of the failed Guy Fawkes' plot to blow Parliament sky high. And how is it marked? With bonfires and fireworks displays of course! Strange, right? But hey, I'll take any excuse for a fireworks show, especially one in November! The display we went to see was set to music, and it's hard to enjoy oneself when fireworks are exploding to the tunes of Guns n Roses and Madonna. All in all, a nice little night, followed up with drinks and a rush back to the Tube before service ended for the night. Nice.
So that's that. This weekend holds a bit more theatre, a lot of reading, and a little relaxing to gear up for my IRELAND ADVENTURE this coming week!
Love,
TGI
Thursday, October 28, 2010
"That Girl" Is Thinking of Martha...
It's been a long time since this has happened, but I've spent the past eight hours almost obsessing over a show I've just seen, and I feel compelled to share. I went to see Michael Gambon in The Gate Theatre's production of Krapp's Last Tape last night at the Duchess Theatre. I had studied the play in undergrad, but had not seen it live. I also had not read the play since the death of my grandmother, a point I'll return to shortly. I had a very emotional experience in the theatre and need to write about it to really process it all for myself. If that sort of self-reflexivity in art is not your thing, I suggest that you stop reading now. :)
The play deals a lot with memory, and in specific, to the memories (pleasurable and painful) that one accumulates during one's life. Krapp has recorded himself at various points in throughout his life, on audiotape, the details of which are then recording again in a large ledger book. One gets the sense that the young Krapp has, consciously or not, mapped out his life for the old Krapp that we see presented in Beckett's play. A numberof the memories are not remembered by Krapp until he hears them played back to him in his own voice. One particular memory of a woman gives him both pleasure and pain in its initial remeberance and its subsequent repetition.
I couldn't help but think about my grandmother as I watched Gambon's portrayal of an old man, consumed by fragments of his memory, played out of sequence, and in a way that makes little logical sense to an outside viewer. My grandmother spent the last few years of her life in the haze of Alzheimer's and dementia. Especially towards the end of her life, flashes of her memory were made visible to those of us who loved her, and it gave me great pain to watch her at their mercy. Last night I found myself wondering if, metaphorically, her mind was 'organzied' like Krapp's tapes, each memory compartmentalized and spooled, but playing themselves back at random with no internal or external control. I desperately want to hope that, in the midst of all that chaos, my grandmother had a memory that comforted her, like Krapp's memory of his afternoon on a boat with the woman. It made me quite emotional in the theatre, because I could find something painfully recognizable in Krapp's frustration with not being to recall or locate these particular instances.
I'm sure that this isn't Beckett's intention, but I couldn't help but see the character Krapp in this way, recording his one last tape, desperately saving this fragments. As a consequence of this line of thinking, I've been thinking about my grandmother almost constantly all night and this morning. I've been thinking of how clear my memories are of her (and of most things) and my terrbile fear of this loss of clarity. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents growing up, and was extremely lucky to know my grandmother quite well. All of things that I remember best about her, her generosity, her love for my family, her close bond with my mom, are not things manifest in her late life, but rather the memories I have of her pre-Alzheimer's, the things that I carried with me while watching her struggle. I suppose, if this were part of Krapp's story, those memories (like scratching of lottery tickets, and hanging up her bell collection at Chirstmas or her dog eating a whole box of chocolate accidentally, but spitting out the cherries inside) would be the sections of tape that I would play over and over, to drown out the rest.
There's a lot that I could say about this particular production of Krapp's Last Tape. Gambon performance was exquisitely subtle, and very engaging. The design, direction, sound etc. spot on. But I am sure that those will not be things that I remember about those 50 minutes I spent in The Duchess Theatre that year I lived in London. I will remember however feeling like, for a few minutes, I had the chance to be with Nanny Kendi, and the way in which I chose to remember her.
Love you, Nan.
The play deals a lot with memory, and in specific, to the memories (pleasurable and painful) that one accumulates during one's life. Krapp has recorded himself at various points in throughout his life, on audiotape, the details of which are then recording again in a large ledger book. One gets the sense that the young Krapp has, consciously or not, mapped out his life for the old Krapp that we see presented in Beckett's play. A numberof the memories are not remembered by Krapp until he hears them played back to him in his own voice. One particular memory of a woman gives him both pleasure and pain in its initial remeberance and its subsequent repetition.
I couldn't help but think about my grandmother as I watched Gambon's portrayal of an old man, consumed by fragments of his memory, played out of sequence, and in a way that makes little logical sense to an outside viewer. My grandmother spent the last few years of her life in the haze of Alzheimer's and dementia. Especially towards the end of her life, flashes of her memory were made visible to those of us who loved her, and it gave me great pain to watch her at their mercy. Last night I found myself wondering if, metaphorically, her mind was 'organzied' like Krapp's tapes, each memory compartmentalized and spooled, but playing themselves back at random with no internal or external control. I desperately want to hope that, in the midst of all that chaos, my grandmother had a memory that comforted her, like Krapp's memory of his afternoon on a boat with the woman. It made me quite emotional in the theatre, because I could find something painfully recognizable in Krapp's frustration with not being to recall or locate these particular instances.
I'm sure that this isn't Beckett's intention, but I couldn't help but see the character Krapp in this way, recording his one last tape, desperately saving this fragments. As a consequence of this line of thinking, I've been thinking about my grandmother almost constantly all night and this morning. I've been thinking of how clear my memories are of her (and of most things) and my terrbile fear of this loss of clarity. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents growing up, and was extremely lucky to know my grandmother quite well. All of things that I remember best about her, her generosity, her love for my family, her close bond with my mom, are not things manifest in her late life, but rather the memories I have of her pre-Alzheimer's, the things that I carried with me while watching her struggle. I suppose, if this were part of Krapp's story, those memories (like scratching of lottery tickets, and hanging up her bell collection at Chirstmas or her dog eating a whole box of chocolate accidentally, but spitting out the cherries inside) would be the sections of tape that I would play over and over, to drown out the rest.
There's a lot that I could say about this particular production of Krapp's Last Tape. Gambon performance was exquisitely subtle, and very engaging. The design, direction, sound etc. spot on. But I am sure that those will not be things that I remember about those 50 minutes I spent in The Duchess Theatre that year I lived in London. I will remember however feeling like, for a few minutes, I had the chance to be with Nanny Kendi, and the way in which I chose to remember her.
Love you, Nan.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
"That Girl" Is On Her Own! Woohoo!
Heya --
Well, I made it through my first block of Master's coursework! Yahoo! The course is structured in intensive units, so while we don't meet as a group often (1-3 weeks every 6 weeks or so), there is a great deal of independent work to be be completed in the interim. I am working on two small research projects, two small "lab-type" performance pieces, and doing research/feldwork for a large performance/dissertation. So, while I don't have to report to class ever day, I am still a busy busy bee!
I'm also however taking as much time as possible to enjoy living abroad. I have always wanted to travel. In high school, my AP Spanish class had the option of going to Valencia for a month in my senior year. Had I gone I wouldn't have been able to be in my senior musical (one of only 2 theatre experiences each year in which we had the opportunity to participate). So opted out. I wanted to study abroad in England in college during my junior year, but plans fell through when I both a) chickened out and b) was told that it might be put me a semester behind in school. So I opted out. Again. After college, I got entrenched in jobs and everyday life, and never had the money to go on a vacation, much less travel to Europe etc. And I regret that intensely. I was pretty sure I was never going to get see foreign soil (minus Canada), at least not in any substantial way.
And now, here we are. I have his gift of a year away from everyday life to both do exactly what I love everyday (theatre) AND get to explore as much as I want (as long as the money holds out!) I'm trying to not have to get a job while I'm here, so I can make the ost of 365 or so days. It means living on a very, very tight budget, but it is so worth it. The adventure of it all is such a thrill, and makes me so grateful for the people who supported my decision and helped to finally get here. At the end of it all, I'll have a Master's Degree, a very very full scrapbook, a head full of weird and wonderful memories, and a feeling that I've finally taken advantage of my wanderlust. And that is priceless.
In the vein of wanderlust, I've booked my first trip out of London... I am heading to Ireland for a few days on November 9, and am really excited! I got a great bargain on the filght and hostel and am pretty psyched to head off to Dublin etc. for a little while. I have no plans while I'm there yet, but am doing some guidebook/google searching over the next few days to make some plans. I expect to take tons of pictures and drink several pints of fresh Guinness. :)
Otherwise, things are moving right along here. I've ben seeing a fair bit of theatre this week, including the ENO's English-language production of La Boheme at the London Coliseum, and an intimate production of Tennessee William's less-often-done The Two Character Play at th Jermyn Street Theatre. The opera was glorious, set in 1930s Paris and featuring Soprano Elizabeth Llewellyn making her ENO debut in the role of Mimi. I had never seen La Boheme forever, but fell in love with the music several years ago. It really is some of the most powerfully romantic music ever written, in my opinion. Interestingly though, I found that I didn't like opera as much in English! I think because the staging and acting is so stylized and elevated, it never bothers me that I can't understand the words. There's so much pantomime implicit in opera blocking, and that, coupled with the repetitive phrasing of the text gives you an ide aof what is going on, without needing to understand every word. It's the nuance of it, not the literal translation. In English however, you do understand every word, and the naturalism of that seems a bit out of character with the very stage-ey opera acting. But, all in all, still a lovely experience!
Last night, I took a jaunt to Picadilly Circus to take in a little Williams. And boy did that man have issues. Parent issues, drug issues, sex issues, and, as illuminated in The Two Character Play, sister issues. Consider by Williams to be "[his] most beautiful play since Streetcar, the very heart of my life," the play explores his complicated relationship with his sister Rose, who spent the bulk of her adult life in a mental institution. Not light stuff, and the Jermyn Street production faultered a little in navigating this convoluted play. I get the sense that the play was written, like The Glass Menagerie o function as a kind of dream play, linked more to memory than actual timelines etc. of events. The story is not linear, and is bound in a play-within-a-play that the characters are performing. It's confusing and can come across a but hysterical in places, which creates a very tense theatrical environment. In the last 20 minutes, the characters pass a revolver from one to the other, heightening the drama, specially for those of us watching the performance in a 50 seat theatre in which a gunshot would be deafening!
Interestingly, I noticed throughout the piece how odd it must be for British people to watch plays done by American actors using British accents. The woman playing Clare (Catherine Cusack) had a nice grasp on her wilting Southern belle accent, but Felice (Paul McEwan) fell in and out of his Southern. It's not an easy thing to do, particularly in a play like this with high emotion and fast pacing, and it was just opening night, but I had a hard time buying into the 'realism' of his broken Southern dialect. Must be how Brits feel when us American thespians turn 'em all into Cockneys!
So that's that... another fast-paced, school-attending, theatre-going week in the life of That Girl!
Love,
TGI
PS -- If you want to see photos of my travels (including my latest trips to Bath and the Victoria and Albert Museum) check out www.photobucket.com/thatgirlinternational and look at albums on the left-hand side!
Well, I made it through my first block of Master's coursework! Yahoo! The course is structured in intensive units, so while we don't meet as a group often (1-3 weeks every 6 weeks or so), there is a great deal of independent work to be be completed in the interim. I am working on two small research projects, two small "lab-type" performance pieces, and doing research/feldwork for a large performance/dissertation. So, while I don't have to report to class ever day, I am still a busy busy bee!
I'm also however taking as much time as possible to enjoy living abroad. I have always wanted to travel. In high school, my AP Spanish class had the option of going to Valencia for a month in my senior year. Had I gone I wouldn't have been able to be in my senior musical (one of only 2 theatre experiences each year in which we had the opportunity to participate). So opted out. I wanted to study abroad in England in college during my junior year, but plans fell through when I both a) chickened out and b) was told that it might be put me a semester behind in school. So I opted out. Again. After college, I got entrenched in jobs and everyday life, and never had the money to go on a vacation, much less travel to Europe etc. And I regret that intensely. I was pretty sure I was never going to get see foreign soil (minus Canada), at least not in any substantial way.
And now, here we are. I have his gift of a year away from everyday life to both do exactly what I love everyday (theatre) AND get to explore as much as I want (as long as the money holds out!) I'm trying to not have to get a job while I'm here, so I can make the ost of 365 or so days. It means living on a very, very tight budget, but it is so worth it. The adventure of it all is such a thrill, and makes me so grateful for the people who supported my decision and helped to finally get here. At the end of it all, I'll have a Master's Degree, a very very full scrapbook, a head full of weird and wonderful memories, and a feeling that I've finally taken advantage of my wanderlust. And that is priceless.
In the vein of wanderlust, I've booked my first trip out of London... I am heading to Ireland for a few days on November 9, and am really excited! I got a great bargain on the filght and hostel and am pretty psyched to head off to Dublin etc. for a little while. I have no plans while I'm there yet, but am doing some guidebook/google searching over the next few days to make some plans. I expect to take tons of pictures and drink several pints of fresh Guinness. :)
Otherwise, things are moving right along here. I've ben seeing a fair bit of theatre this week, including the ENO's English-language production of La Boheme at the London Coliseum, and an intimate production of Tennessee William's less-often-done The Two Character Play at th Jermyn Street Theatre. The opera was glorious, set in 1930s Paris and featuring Soprano Elizabeth Llewellyn making her ENO debut in the role of Mimi. I had never seen La Boheme forever, but fell in love with the music several years ago. It really is some of the most powerfully romantic music ever written, in my opinion. Interestingly though, I found that I didn't like opera as much in English! I think because the staging and acting is so stylized and elevated, it never bothers me that I can't understand the words. There's so much pantomime implicit in opera blocking, and that, coupled with the repetitive phrasing of the text gives you an ide aof what is going on, without needing to understand every word. It's the nuance of it, not the literal translation. In English however, you do understand every word, and the naturalism of that seems a bit out of character with the very stage-ey opera acting. But, all in all, still a lovely experience!
Last night, I took a jaunt to Picadilly Circus to take in a little Williams. And boy did that man have issues. Parent issues, drug issues, sex issues, and, as illuminated in The Two Character Play, sister issues. Consider by Williams to be "[his] most beautiful play since Streetcar, the very heart of my life," the play explores his complicated relationship with his sister Rose, who spent the bulk of her adult life in a mental institution. Not light stuff, and the Jermyn Street production faultered a little in navigating this convoluted play. I get the sense that the play was written, like The Glass Menagerie o function as a kind of dream play, linked more to memory than actual timelines etc. of events. The story is not linear, and is bound in a play-within-a-play that the characters are performing. It's confusing and can come across a but hysterical in places, which creates a very tense theatrical environment. In the last 20 minutes, the characters pass a revolver from one to the other, heightening the drama, specially for those of us watching the performance in a 50 seat theatre in which a gunshot would be deafening!
Interestingly, I noticed throughout the piece how odd it must be for British people to watch plays done by American actors using British accents. The woman playing Clare (Catherine Cusack) had a nice grasp on her wilting Southern belle accent, but Felice (Paul McEwan) fell in and out of his Southern. It's not an easy thing to do, particularly in a play like this with high emotion and fast pacing, and it was just opening night, but I had a hard time buying into the 'realism' of his broken Southern dialect. Must be how Brits feel when us American thespians turn 'em all into Cockneys!
So that's that... another fast-paced, school-attending, theatre-going week in the life of That Girl!
Love,
TGI
PS -- If you want to see photos of my travels (including my latest trips to Bath and the Victoria and Albert Museum) check out www.photobucket.com/thatgirlinternational and look at albums on the left-hand side!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
"That Girl" is Unbearable!
Hey there --
I've been doing a lot of reading for my Masters' course. The texts have been a fairly even mix of critique, philosophy, anthropology and pyschology, mixed in of course with theatre/art practice analysis. I've been feeling like my brain is stewing a bit in all this dense theory, coupled with our seminar-style discussions of said texts. I needed some grounding when I got home from class this evening, so I picked up my Milan Kundera collection. Not exactly light reading I know, but it puts me in a very contemplative headspace that I find quite calming. I've been thinking a lot about Kundera's work in relation to the sort of discussions we've been having in class related to ideas of publics and institutions.
One piece of Kundera's text is really resonating with me lately in regard to this notion of "What is a public?" specifically as it relates to artistic practice. I've included the passage here:
"We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. they are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, when they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need. Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. one day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers." --Milan Kundera
I've been thinking a lot about this concept, and I think that Kundera sums up so perfectly the way I think of myself as a person and an art-maker. I love the explanation of risk that Kundera ascribes to each interaction with the public. There a lot of sophisticated things that I desperately wish I could express based on this, but I think I'd rather not try. I just want to put that out there, and keep it in front of me as I keep on keepin' on.
Love,
TGI
I've been doing a lot of reading for my Masters' course. The texts have been a fairly even mix of critique, philosophy, anthropology and pyschology, mixed in of course with theatre/art practice analysis. I've been feeling like my brain is stewing a bit in all this dense theory, coupled with our seminar-style discussions of said texts. I needed some grounding when I got home from class this evening, so I picked up my Milan Kundera collection. Not exactly light reading I know, but it puts me in a very contemplative headspace that I find quite calming. I've been thinking a lot about Kundera's work in relation to the sort of discussions we've been having in class related to ideas of publics and institutions.
One piece of Kundera's text is really resonating with me lately in regard to this notion of "What is a public?" specifically as it relates to artistic practice. I've included the passage here:
"We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. they are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, when they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need. Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. one day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers." --Milan Kundera
I've been thinking a lot about this concept, and I think that Kundera sums up so perfectly the way I think of myself as a person and an art-maker. I love the explanation of risk that Kundera ascribes to each interaction with the public. There a lot of sophisticated things that I desperately wish I could express based on this, but I think I'd rather not try. I just want to put that out there, and keep it in front of me as I keep on keepin' on.
Love,
TGI
Sunday, October 17, 2010
"That Girl" Loves Shakespeare, But...
But...
Hates when the text of one of Shakespeare's plays is treated like the holy gospel, and is declaimed, not simply spoken. I just saw the National Theatre's production of Hamlet and I wanted to love it. I really did. I think the play is full of interesting possibilities across the board, and love the idea of stark modern interpretation. In my mind, Hamlet as written is struggling with some very "modern" concepts, and I like the idea of moving Shakespeare into a modern context.
That being said, I didn't love the production. At all. Instead of using Shakespeare's elegant poetry as a springboard, the actors were directed to throw the text at us, poetry separated from its meaning. For every one of his soliloquies, at least at some point, Hamlet stepped onto the front apron of the stage and spoke at us, not to us. It's very hard to get the meaning behind "oh what I rogue and peasant slave am I" when Hamlet is directed to elevate the words, not merely to use them to show us his alienation and discontent. To me, dramatic text (even Shakespeare) is just words. Words that give us, as audience and actors, an understanding of what a character is DOING. The words are a vehicle, not a untranslatable hieroglyphic.
This is a huge complaint of mine with interpretations of classical texts. These kind of presentational interpretations make it seem like the text is not relevant, not graspable for a modern audience. When, in my mind, nothing could be further from the truth. For me, Shakespeare is vital and relevant not because of exquisite poetry alone, but because he wrote hundreds of years ago about situation, issues and feelings that we feel today, because they are part of the human condition. These 'old' texts cans till move us, partially because they show us how common these feelings (like love, jealousy, patriotism, sorrow)etc. are. Shakespeare's groundlings felt what we feel. Shakespeare's power lies not his iambic pentameter, but in his deft grasp of humanity and human emotion.
When you direct actors to speak Shakespeare like the Holy Gospel, it's precisely that sentiment that gets lost. Period. I can't care why Hamlet cruelly dismisses Ophelia to a nunnery if I haven't felt invited into Hamlet's struggle, his questioning of life versus the unknown void afterward. I don't want to be proclaimed to, but really invited to question, with Hamlet, living or not living, acting or nonacting, Being or Not Being. If an actor isn't using the words to forward an action, I can't care.
This production was nicely imagined, to some degree. Putting a modern spin on the concepts of political power, the interpretation involved a heavy presence of surveillance/security, as well as media figures. We meet Claudius and Gertrude by way of a formal press conference, with cameramen and makeup artists in tow. The stage is always watched by 'Secret Service' agents, and different characters display varying levels of wariness with this presence, most notably Ophelia. It's a clever idea, and for the most part is effective. But, without a connection to the text as I mentioned earlier, I still couldn't bring myself to care about the characters, even while watching the oppression created by these conceptual figures. I still just wanted to be talked to.
Now that being said, I must say that I thought that role of Laertes was played with such sensitivity and an understanding of what his text is doing. In this interpretation, Laertes was a revelation. He moved seamlessly from protecting a sister, to standing his ground, to allying with a powerful leader etc., all of the actions that his lines point to. For me, he stole the show. I cared about him. I wanted to watch his struggle, and a little part of me wanted the ending of his story to change, even though I knew how the play ended. That's how I wanted to feel for the entire 3.5 hours of the production.
I know, I know. Get down off your soapbox, That Girl. And I will. I just had to get that off my chest. It's back to class for me tomorrow! Being a student again is both exhilarating, and exhausting. I'm too old for this! :)
Cheers!
That Girl
Hates when the text of one of Shakespeare's plays is treated like the holy gospel, and is declaimed, not simply spoken. I just saw the National Theatre's production of Hamlet and I wanted to love it. I really did. I think the play is full of interesting possibilities across the board, and love the idea of stark modern interpretation. In my mind, Hamlet as written is struggling with some very "modern" concepts, and I like the idea of moving Shakespeare into a modern context.
That being said, I didn't love the production. At all. Instead of using Shakespeare's elegant poetry as a springboard, the actors were directed to throw the text at us, poetry separated from its meaning. For every one of his soliloquies, at least at some point, Hamlet stepped onto the front apron of the stage and spoke at us, not to us. It's very hard to get the meaning behind "oh what I rogue and peasant slave am I" when Hamlet is directed to elevate the words, not merely to use them to show us his alienation and discontent. To me, dramatic text (even Shakespeare) is just words. Words that give us, as audience and actors, an understanding of what a character is DOING. The words are a vehicle, not a untranslatable hieroglyphic.
This is a huge complaint of mine with interpretations of classical texts. These kind of presentational interpretations make it seem like the text is not relevant, not graspable for a modern audience. When, in my mind, nothing could be further from the truth. For me, Shakespeare is vital and relevant not because of exquisite poetry alone, but because he wrote hundreds of years ago about situation, issues and feelings that we feel today, because they are part of the human condition. These 'old' texts cans till move us, partially because they show us how common these feelings (like love, jealousy, patriotism, sorrow)etc. are. Shakespeare's groundlings felt what we feel. Shakespeare's power lies not his iambic pentameter, but in his deft grasp of humanity and human emotion.
When you direct actors to speak Shakespeare like the Holy Gospel, it's precisely that sentiment that gets lost. Period. I can't care why Hamlet cruelly dismisses Ophelia to a nunnery if I haven't felt invited into Hamlet's struggle, his questioning of life versus the unknown void afterward. I don't want to be proclaimed to, but really invited to question, with Hamlet, living or not living, acting or nonacting, Being or Not Being. If an actor isn't using the words to forward an action, I can't care.
This production was nicely imagined, to some degree. Putting a modern spin on the concepts of political power, the interpretation involved a heavy presence of surveillance/security, as well as media figures. We meet Claudius and Gertrude by way of a formal press conference, with cameramen and makeup artists in tow. The stage is always watched by 'Secret Service' agents, and different characters display varying levels of wariness with this presence, most notably Ophelia. It's a clever idea, and for the most part is effective. But, without a connection to the text as I mentioned earlier, I still couldn't bring myself to care about the characters, even while watching the oppression created by these conceptual figures. I still just wanted to be talked to.
Now that being said, I must say that I thought that role of Laertes was played with such sensitivity and an understanding of what his text is doing. In this interpretation, Laertes was a revelation. He moved seamlessly from protecting a sister, to standing his ground, to allying with a powerful leader etc., all of the actions that his lines point to. For me, he stole the show. I cared about him. I wanted to watch his struggle, and a little part of me wanted the ending of his story to change, even though I knew how the play ended. That's how I wanted to feel for the entire 3.5 hours of the production.
I know, I know. Get down off your soapbox, That Girl. And I will. I just had to get that off my chest. It's back to class for me tomorrow! Being a student again is both exhilarating, and exhausting. I'm too old for this! :)
Cheers!
That Girl
Saturday, October 16, 2010
"That Girl" is Recovering!
Heya --
In the interest of truth in journalism, I feel I must report that yesterday, Friday the 15th of October, was the worst, most homesick, miserable day in the history of Ever. For reals. Having spent most of today, Saturday, recovering from said Day of Awful, I am now ready to rejoin the land of the living.
Class was fine yesterday; more seminar and talks about communes/collectives/communities and various other c-words I'm not thrilled about (hehehe). Post-class, I had a ticket to Jonathan Burrows newest performance piece at Sadler's Wells, which I was exicted about, partially because a few other students on my course were also attending. I was exicted to go see a piece that we'd finally be able to talk about in the context of the work we're doing for class etc., and was also just really looking forward to hanging out with some of the folks with whom I'm on this adventure. Four of us fabulous women decided to head over together and stop off for some dinner and chat along the way. And that's when things went horribly wrong.
To condense my saga, I didn't get to go to dinner. Or the show. Fuck. This part of the disaster is the fault of Chase Bank, who I have nothing but vitriol for at present. For the third time, they shut my debit card off due to possible fradulent activity. Lo and behold, "someone tried to use your card in London, In-ga-land." Yeah. I know. It was me, you morons. I informed you of this a week before a left, and then reminded you two days after I arrived when you did this to me the first time, and then 3 DAMN DAYS ago when you did it again. After another hour on the phone with Chase (sucking up half of the international minutes on my phone for the month), in which time I was never once apologized to, I finally got my card to work again. The curtain on the show however had come up 10 minutes earlier. So, I donated $30 to Mr. Burrows and Sadler's Wells. Hope it was worth it. :/
Not in the best mood after this tussle, I packed it in and headed home for the night. I sat around and pouted for awhile, skyped with The Donald and cried my eyes out like a small whiny child, hung up on him and proceeded to cry myself to sleep. Not my finest moment. I was so inconsolably sad and homesick... and I really was inconsolable, though Donald tried his very, very best. Then, as if to punish myself for acting like said child, I woke up with a lowgrade headache and the feeling that a wisdom tooth is coming in. AND I STILL HAVE NO EDIBLE PEANUT BUTTER. So perhaps this right here is another of my un-finest hours.
I spent today being anti-social. I went to the I.C.A. to see the Chto Delat? exhibition currently on. The group is an arts collective based in Russia, engaged in work that explores issues of communism, democracy, reconstruction and community in a documentary sort of way. A large focus of their work is filmmaking, and I took in a showing of their work Songspiel Triptych, which included a talk-back with three of the members. Very interesting stuff. The works include original music, choirs and dance, and so I was quite engaged by the pieces. I was struck by the way that their work explores relationships between political leadership and the "people" for example while simultaneously exploring the function of art in the larger economy, an issue that I am currently exploring in relation to my own function as an art-maker.
While it certainly was great that the exhibit was enjoyable, I really also enjoyed the solitude of today. Clearly, I was around people, but I didn't particularly have to engage with anyone. After the hyper-miserable mood I put myself in yesterday, I needed some time to regroup, particularly before going back into the intense group structure of class on Monday morning. I came home to a quiet house, made myself a delicious homemade pot of mushroom soup, took a deep breath, and decided that I'm over my funk. I'm still missing stuff, but life can go on.
And go on it shall. I have a ticket to see Hamlet with Rory Kinnear tomorrow at the National Theatre, which I couldn't be more excited about. It's getting get press, and looks like an exciting interpretation. I'll share my findings afterwards, I'm sure. So that's that. Yesterday sucked, today was so-so and tomorrow will be awesome. And that's my story. Well that, and the wisdom tooth.
Love,
TGI
In the interest of truth in journalism, I feel I must report that yesterday, Friday the 15th of October, was the worst, most homesick, miserable day in the history of Ever. For reals. Having spent most of today, Saturday, recovering from said Day of Awful, I am now ready to rejoin the land of the living.
Class was fine yesterday; more seminar and talks about communes/collectives/communities and various other c-words I'm not thrilled about (hehehe). Post-class, I had a ticket to Jonathan Burrows newest performance piece at Sadler's Wells, which I was exicted about, partially because a few other students on my course were also attending. I was exicted to go see a piece that we'd finally be able to talk about in the context of the work we're doing for class etc., and was also just really looking forward to hanging out with some of the folks with whom I'm on this adventure. Four of us fabulous women decided to head over together and stop off for some dinner and chat along the way. And that's when things went horribly wrong.
To condense my saga, I didn't get to go to dinner. Or the show. Fuck. This part of the disaster is the fault of Chase Bank, who I have nothing but vitriol for at present. For the third time, they shut my debit card off due to possible fradulent activity. Lo and behold, "someone tried to use your card in London, In-ga-land." Yeah. I know. It was me, you morons. I informed you of this a week before a left, and then reminded you two days after I arrived when you did this to me the first time, and then 3 DAMN DAYS ago when you did it again. After another hour on the phone with Chase (sucking up half of the international minutes on my phone for the month), in which time I was never once apologized to, I finally got my card to work again. The curtain on the show however had come up 10 minutes earlier. So, I donated $30 to Mr. Burrows and Sadler's Wells. Hope it was worth it. :/
Not in the best mood after this tussle, I packed it in and headed home for the night. I sat around and pouted for awhile, skyped with The Donald and cried my eyes out like a small whiny child, hung up on him and proceeded to cry myself to sleep. Not my finest moment. I was so inconsolably sad and homesick... and I really was inconsolable, though Donald tried his very, very best. Then, as if to punish myself for acting like said child, I woke up with a lowgrade headache and the feeling that a wisdom tooth is coming in. AND I STILL HAVE NO EDIBLE PEANUT BUTTER. So perhaps this right here is another of my un-finest hours.
I spent today being anti-social. I went to the I.C.A. to see the Chto Delat? exhibition currently on. The group is an arts collective based in Russia, engaged in work that explores issues of communism, democracy, reconstruction and community in a documentary sort of way. A large focus of their work is filmmaking, and I took in a showing of their work Songspiel Triptych, which included a talk-back with three of the members. Very interesting stuff. The works include original music, choirs and dance, and so I was quite engaged by the pieces. I was struck by the way that their work explores relationships between political leadership and the "people" for example while simultaneously exploring the function of art in the larger economy, an issue that I am currently exploring in relation to my own function as an art-maker.
While it certainly was great that the exhibit was enjoyable, I really also enjoyed the solitude of today. Clearly, I was around people, but I didn't particularly have to engage with anyone. After the hyper-miserable mood I put myself in yesterday, I needed some time to regroup, particularly before going back into the intense group structure of class on Monday morning. I came home to a quiet house, made myself a delicious homemade pot of mushroom soup, took a deep breath, and decided that I'm over my funk. I'm still missing stuff, but life can go on.
And go on it shall. I have a ticket to see Hamlet with Rory Kinnear tomorrow at the National Theatre, which I couldn't be more excited about. It's getting get press, and looks like an exciting interpretation. I'll share my findings afterwards, I'm sure. So that's that. Yesterday sucked, today was so-so and tomorrow will be awesome. And that's my story. Well that, and the wisdom tooth.
Love,
TGI
Sunday, October 10, 2010
"That Girl" is Ready!
Heya --
Well, it's here! I officially start class tomorrow morning! As of 10am tomorrow, I am on the path towards a Masters degree. I'm so ready to get started -- I've been reading and preparing for months now, and am just desperate to start discussing all of this material and theory and, of course, to start making work! I've enjoyed a good deal of the reading, especially the works by Peggy Phelan and Luce Irigaray. It should make for some dynamic seminar discussions... assuming everyone slogged through the gigantic reading list, of course.
Last night, I trekked over to Southwark (while my tube line wasn't running... grumble) to see a one woman show. I had gotten free tickets, and sent out an email to my classmates, but no one took me up on the offer. So, I went by myself to see Land Without Words by Dea Loher, performed by Lucy Ellinson. It was a very thought-provoking piece, and beautifully executed by Ellinson. The piece, set in Middle Eastern city "K" traces an artist's consideration of the significance of art when confronted directly by war. The piece draws heavily on visual imagery, with repetition of water and land metaphors. At one point, the speaker, stripped to the waist, gathers the dirt from the set around her, covering her face and body... she stops and confronts the audience, silently, not inviting us in, but rather daring us to stay away. The artist, upon her return (her "getting out") from "K" is rendered unable to paint.
It's an interesting question. In a global context, in a world plagued with war, poverty, inequity, etc., what is the purpose of being an art maker? Is it socially responsible to create images/experiences when we are constantly bombarded with injustice? Of course, like most artists I would imagine, I do believe that my work is relevant, but in addition, I do believe that artists can serve a higher goal through their work than purely making 'beautiful' objects. To me, Loher's piece speaks particularly to those of us who do cerate work without the "K" lens to peer through -- in some ways, it made me consider my own work, as I was simultaneously considering Loher's and watching Ellinson's. All in all, a powerful theatrical experience, and one I wish someone else in my class had taken in with me.
Sitting in the audience also made me reminisce about my experiences producing and performing My Name is Rachel Corrie in New York as well. I've been thinking about that project a lot lately, not necessarily to revisit it, but it just keeps popping up in my mind. I feel like pieces like Land Without Words and Rachel Corrie are in the spectrum of where my work is tending. I'm looking forward to seeing where this all goes this year!
Love,
TGI
Well, it's here! I officially start class tomorrow morning! As of 10am tomorrow, I am on the path towards a Masters degree. I'm so ready to get started -- I've been reading and preparing for months now, and am just desperate to start discussing all of this material and theory and, of course, to start making work! I've enjoyed a good deal of the reading, especially the works by Peggy Phelan and Luce Irigaray. It should make for some dynamic seminar discussions... assuming everyone slogged through the gigantic reading list, of course.
Last night, I trekked over to Southwark (while my tube line wasn't running... grumble) to see a one woman show. I had gotten free tickets, and sent out an email to my classmates, but no one took me up on the offer. So, I went by myself to see Land Without Words by Dea Loher, performed by Lucy Ellinson. It was a very thought-provoking piece, and beautifully executed by Ellinson. The piece, set in Middle Eastern city "K" traces an artist's consideration of the significance of art when confronted directly by war. The piece draws heavily on visual imagery, with repetition of water and land metaphors. At one point, the speaker, stripped to the waist, gathers the dirt from the set around her, covering her face and body... she stops and confronts the audience, silently, not inviting us in, but rather daring us to stay away. The artist, upon her return (her "getting out") from "K" is rendered unable to paint.
It's an interesting question. In a global context, in a world plagued with war, poverty, inequity, etc., what is the purpose of being an art maker? Is it socially responsible to create images/experiences when we are constantly bombarded with injustice? Of course, like most artists I would imagine, I do believe that my work is relevant, but in addition, I do believe that artists can serve a higher goal through their work than purely making 'beautiful' objects. To me, Loher's piece speaks particularly to those of us who do cerate work without the "K" lens to peer through -- in some ways, it made me consider my own work, as I was simultaneously considering Loher's and watching Ellinson's. All in all, a powerful theatrical experience, and one I wish someone else in my class had taken in with me.
Sitting in the audience also made me reminisce about my experiences producing and performing My Name is Rachel Corrie in New York as well. I've been thinking about that project a lot lately, not necessarily to revisit it, but it just keeps popping up in my mind. I feel like pieces like Land Without Words and Rachel Corrie are in the spectrum of where my work is tending. I'm looking forward to seeing where this all goes this year!
Love,
TGI
Thursday, October 7, 2010
"That Girl" is Reveling!
Hiya --
I've been MIA for the past week, for which I do apologize, but I've just been so enamored with FINALLY being a traveler! I don't start class until Monday the 11th, so I decided to treat the past week as a vacation, my first in four or five years. As long as I spend very little money, I get to be a tourist in my new town, and am just soaking in the fact that I am living in this new amazing historic place.
I've been doing a good bit of touristing, hitting St. Paul's, Parliament, Westminster, the Globe (a dream come true for a theatre/literature nerd like me), and the Tower of London. I've gotten comfortable navigating the Underground, the cleanliness of which should make every New Yorker hang his/her slobby head in shame. I've seen some edgy performance art in Whitechapel, eaten ravenously of delicious Indian food in Brick Lane, gotten hugely lost trying to find Fleet Street, and gawked over the sheer fact the London is an old town with a very rich history.
I got a cheap ticket to the Globe today to see one of the final performances of Henry IV, Part 1. I have to say that, on risk of sounding desperately nerdy, sitting in that space seeing that company hard at work was a life-long dream come true. As an actor, it is so exciting to see actors performing passionately, in an environment in which they are free to work on impulse and to give voice to some amazing text. I sat on the edge of rental cushion for the duration of the three hour performance, just so thankful to be a part of it all. From moment to moment, I just fell in love with the text all over again, and couldn't wait to see how each scene was going to play out. This has to be one of the highlights of quarter-life to date. Definitely.
In addition to experiences like that, it's also so stunning to me to see buildings like the Tower which date back hundreds upon hundreds of years interspersed with modern constructions like the Millennium Bridge. As an American, I'm used to thinking of local history as a rather condensed subject, but here, the scale is so much bigger. I don't think i'll ever get my fill of just wandering about town, trying to soak it all in. I'm doing a couple of walking tours tomorrow, to learn more about this amazing place... plus, it'll help me to be a better tour guide to all of you who visit me (hint, hint).
If you're at all interested, I'm posting photos of my travels here. For right now, I'm being quite organized and labeling/captioning etc. We'll see how long your sloppy neighborhood That Girl can keep that up!
Cheers!
TGI
I've been MIA for the past week, for which I do apologize, but I've just been so enamored with FINALLY being a traveler! I don't start class until Monday the 11th, so I decided to treat the past week as a vacation, my first in four or five years. As long as I spend very little money, I get to be a tourist in my new town, and am just soaking in the fact that I am living in this new amazing historic place.
I've been doing a good bit of touristing, hitting St. Paul's, Parliament, Westminster, the Globe (a dream come true for a theatre/literature nerd like me), and the Tower of London. I've gotten comfortable navigating the Underground, the cleanliness of which should make every New Yorker hang his/her slobby head in shame. I've seen some edgy performance art in Whitechapel, eaten ravenously of delicious Indian food in Brick Lane, gotten hugely lost trying to find Fleet Street, and gawked over the sheer fact the London is an old town with a very rich history.
I got a cheap ticket to the Globe today to see one of the final performances of Henry IV, Part 1. I have to say that, on risk of sounding desperately nerdy, sitting in that space seeing that company hard at work was a life-long dream come true. As an actor, it is so exciting to see actors performing passionately, in an environment in which they are free to work on impulse and to give voice to some amazing text. I sat on the edge of rental cushion for the duration of the three hour performance, just so thankful to be a part of it all. From moment to moment, I just fell in love with the text all over again, and couldn't wait to see how each scene was going to play out. This has to be one of the highlights of quarter-life to date. Definitely.
In addition to experiences like that, it's also so stunning to me to see buildings like the Tower which date back hundreds upon hundreds of years interspersed with modern constructions like the Millennium Bridge. As an American, I'm used to thinking of local history as a rather condensed subject, but here, the scale is so much bigger. I don't think i'll ever get my fill of just wandering about town, trying to soak it all in. I'm doing a couple of walking tours tomorrow, to learn more about this amazing place... plus, it'll help me to be a better tour guide to all of you who visit me (hint, hint).
If you're at all interested, I'm posting photos of my travels here. For right now, I'm being quite organized and labeling/captioning etc. We'll see how long your sloppy neighborhood That Girl can keep that up!
Cheers!
TGI
Saturday, October 2, 2010
"That Girl" Is International!
My Fellow Americans --
That Girl has officially made it to London! I got in yesterday morning at 6:45am, local time after a dismally turbulant fight from Pittsburgh to Newark, a beer in Newark airport, and a terrible in-air dinner on the lenghty flight from Newark to Heathrow. After disembarking from my "cozy" windowseat, I spent nearly two hours waiting in line to get past Border Partol... on zero cups of coffee - amazingly, they let grumpy ol' me into their beautiful country!
After the Border Patrol shuffle, I took a cab out to my near place of residence which is out in Haringay, if you're curious, in North London, a good hike from Heathrow airport. I spent most of yesterday packing and trying to stay awake. I had a lovely dinner with my flatmates, a wonderful couple who just couldn't be nicer. I managed to stay awake until 10pm last night, and stayed snuggled in my British bed until nearly 1pm, local time. Woohoo!
Today, I braved the rain showers and went exploring in the neighborhood, strolling the main roads, and venturing down the side streets. I navigated the British currencey system to buy a few groceries, some shampoo, and a postcard for every child I've ever nannyed for, before trekking home to do some reading for school. My favorite thing about being in London so far is that, everythime you come home from somewhere, someone predicatibly asks, "Shall I put the kettle on?" I'm already used to that, and have admittedly had FAR too much coffee today as a consequence.
Tonight, I''m off to the East End for an Indian dinner and a housewarming party with the flatmates. We'll be in Jack the Ripper's territory! :) Before I go though, check out my neighborhood pub, the main drag in my little town and a curious warning re: The Queen's Pigeons.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
"That Girl" Is Moving Right Along (Footloose and Fancy-Free)!
Hiya --
Well, it's official. I am no longer a resident of New York City... although my stuff is safely stowed in a Chelsea storage locker. At least my possessions get to have a Manhattan address! With the help of Donald, I traveled to Latrobe yesterday, and have a few days to hang out at home before my flight to London on Thursday afternoon. And I can finally say that IAMSOEXCITED to be moving. Getting the last-minute hassles and stresses taken care of in NYC had really sapped some of my enthusiasm for the trip. Between being sad to be moving and having seemingly to fight with everyone under the sun (Chase, Budget, Manhattan Mini Storage etc.), I was starting to feel so disheartened. Now that all that is behind me, the excitement is really taking over, which is terrific.
I was thinking today about all the moving that I have done in my moderately-young life. It never goes smoothly, does it? I lived in the same rented house for the first 13 years of my life, and when we moved, it was quite a change. My childhood best friend no longer lived right across the street. I had a door on my bedroom. And we had two bathrooms, quite a luxury for a girly teenager!
Then I moved to go to college. Talk about traumatic. The day I moved to college, my parents and I were all at each otehr's throats. We had difficulties renting a van to cart all my possessions 2.5 hours up the interstate so finally, after much hassle, were able to borrow a station wagon from a neighbor. We were fighting and picking on each other, so I ran back in the house quickly to say goodbye to the doggie, and when I came back out to get into the loaded-up vehicle, lo and behold, it was gone! My parents had driven off without me. And it took them about 15 minutes to realize their mistake -- which they had only done when my mom turned around to yell at me for not answering her questions. When I saw them drive back up, thirty minutes later, Dad was laughing, and Mom was sobbing. A good start to freshman year!
After college, I moved to the booming metropolis of Pittsburgh to try my hand at being an adult. While there, I switched apartments twice, never really establishing much of a "nest." And then, when it came time to move out of the 'Burgh, I did it superquick, and couldn't have moved fast enough. I wanted a change, and just wanted a chance to start over. Enter New York City, the move to which has previously discussed by yours truly.
And now, another move. This one, though stressful, is not traumatic. I'm sad to leave my family and heartbroken to leave The Donald, but so comforted in the knowledge that you all will always be a part of my life, and in some ways, I'm just taking all of you with me. I'm going to London with crammed suitcases and a very, very full heart. I may be moving, but this time I'm not leaving anything behind. And Praise Jeebus for that.
Cheers!
TGI
Well, it's official. I am no longer a resident of New York City... although my stuff is safely stowed in a Chelsea storage locker. At least my possessions get to have a Manhattan address! With the help of Donald, I traveled to Latrobe yesterday, and have a few days to hang out at home before my flight to London on Thursday afternoon. And I can finally say that IAMSOEXCITED to be moving. Getting the last-minute hassles and stresses taken care of in NYC had really sapped some of my enthusiasm for the trip. Between being sad to be moving and having seemingly to fight with everyone under the sun (Chase, Budget, Manhattan Mini Storage etc.), I was starting to feel so disheartened. Now that all that is behind me, the excitement is really taking over, which is terrific.
I was thinking today about all the moving that I have done in my moderately-young life. It never goes smoothly, does it? I lived in the same rented house for the first 13 years of my life, and when we moved, it was quite a change. My childhood best friend no longer lived right across the street. I had a door on my bedroom. And we had two bathrooms, quite a luxury for a girly teenager!
Then I moved to go to college. Talk about traumatic. The day I moved to college, my parents and I were all at each otehr's throats. We had difficulties renting a van to cart all my possessions 2.5 hours up the interstate so finally, after much hassle, were able to borrow a station wagon from a neighbor. We were fighting and picking on each other, so I ran back in the house quickly to say goodbye to the doggie, and when I came back out to get into the loaded-up vehicle, lo and behold, it was gone! My parents had driven off without me. And it took them about 15 minutes to realize their mistake -- which they had only done when my mom turned around to yell at me for not answering her questions. When I saw them drive back up, thirty minutes later, Dad was laughing, and Mom was sobbing. A good start to freshman year!
After college, I moved to the booming metropolis of Pittsburgh to try my hand at being an adult. While there, I switched apartments twice, never really establishing much of a "nest." And then, when it came time to move out of the 'Burgh, I did it superquick, and couldn't have moved fast enough. I wanted a change, and just wanted a chance to start over. Enter New York City, the move to which has previously discussed by yours truly.
And now, another move. This one, though stressful, is not traumatic. I'm sad to leave my family and heartbroken to leave The Donald, but so comforted in the knowledge that you all will always be a part of my life, and in some ways, I'm just taking all of you with me. I'm going to London with crammed suitcases and a very, very full heart. I may be moving, but this time I'm not leaving anything behind. And Praise Jeebus for that.
Cheers!
TGI
Monday, September 13, 2010
"That Girl" Reminisces...
Hey lovelies --
I'm taking a much needed break from packing. The kitty and I are cuddled up on the couch watching old 90s reruns, and I must say it's quite pleasant. It's been a rather epic day, resulting in seven crammed under-the-bed boxes, four full trash bags and a whole army of unleashed dust bunnies. Oddly enough, as I was packing up my Brooklyn bedroom,I realized that today, September 13, is my three year anniversary here in New York City.
On September 13, 2007, I made the move from Pittsburgh to Brooklyn. I left the 'Burgh in a hurry, having found an apartment on Craigslist, paid for it sight-unseen, and within seven days, carried cat and suitcase off into the unknown glory of the Five Boroughs. I was rather unhappy when I left Pittbsurgh, and definitely thought of that move as a way to start over. I didn't bring many possessions with me, having thrown away a lot of what I owned in my 'old' life. NYC became my clean slate, my system reset. And I've grown to love it here even more than I could have dreamed.
I came here looking for something. At the time of my arrival, I didn't know what I was searching for. Three years later, I still can't put a tangible definition to it, and yet I can tell with you with total certainty that I found myself here. Now, after 1095 days in the Big Apple, I'm moving on again. But this time, it's different.
In this move, I'm not running away from anything. I'm not driving myself away because I'm unhappy, uncertain, or undefined. I have a life here that I love. I want to come back, and spend another 1095 days living my New York life. My friends here are terrific. My Donald is top of the line. And, for God's sake, it's New York. I love knowing that I'm leaving someplace that I want to come back to. For the first time since living in my parents' house, I feel a sense of home, of belonging. I'll be able to meet London, and then come home to New York City. Not running away, but discovering.
As I get ready to end my first three years in New York City, I'd like to leave you with the Rules of the Apple I've gleaned from my tenure here. While I'm not officially a New Yawker, I assure you that these are rules to live by...
1. Never EVER kick a trashbag on the street. My first week here, on a first date, I was strolling on the Upper East Side, and walked to close to a trashbag for my date's comfort. He grabbed my hand, pulled me away gently and imparted the previous words. Before they had even fully left his mouth, a rat the size of Godzilla fled the black plastic and nearly threw itself into us. So just don't.
2. When walking down the street, should something drip on your head, don't look up. Assume it was an air-conditioner. It's probably something much, much worse. But would you really want that hanging over your head, metaphorically speaking? Just keep walking.
3. Time is an "ish." Deal with it. I am a prompt person. Always. But in NYC, just for the sake of sanity, assume that there is a ten minute window for timeliness. Giant strollers blocking subway doors, tourists brandishing ginormous umbrellas, random bag checks by the NYPD... it all conspires to screw with your schedule. Just accept it, and move on. And don't block the damn doors.
4. Apartments are luxury items. Anytime you meet someone here for the first time, the first thing they'll ask is where you live. And how your place is set up. Is it a railroad? Does it have a bathtub? And, for the love of God, does it have exposed brick? A doorman gives you instant status. But should you happen to live in an Outer Borough (egads!) prepare yourself forthe look of horror on the UE-Siders faces when you utter Brooklyn. But it's ok. We know that's where all the cool kids live.
5. Buy a grocery cart. Seriously. Does it look hip/cool/trendy? Nope. But it beats the hell out of carting a gallon of milk, a turkey and a six pack home from the good grocery store seven blocks away. So do it.
To all of you darlings everywhere, I love you. Thanks for being my pals through all this craziness!
Love,
TGI
I'm taking a much needed break from packing. The kitty and I are cuddled up on the couch watching old 90s reruns, and I must say it's quite pleasant. It's been a rather epic day, resulting in seven crammed under-the-bed boxes, four full trash bags and a whole army of unleashed dust bunnies. Oddly enough, as I was packing up my Brooklyn bedroom,I realized that today, September 13, is my three year anniversary here in New York City.
On September 13, 2007, I made the move from Pittsburgh to Brooklyn. I left the 'Burgh in a hurry, having found an apartment on Craigslist, paid for it sight-unseen, and within seven days, carried cat and suitcase off into the unknown glory of the Five Boroughs. I was rather unhappy when I left Pittbsurgh, and definitely thought of that move as a way to start over. I didn't bring many possessions with me, having thrown away a lot of what I owned in my 'old' life. NYC became my clean slate, my system reset. And I've grown to love it here even more than I could have dreamed.
I came here looking for something. At the time of my arrival, I didn't know what I was searching for. Three years later, I still can't put a tangible definition to it, and yet I can tell with you with total certainty that I found myself here. Now, after 1095 days in the Big Apple, I'm moving on again. But this time, it's different.
In this move, I'm not running away from anything. I'm not driving myself away because I'm unhappy, uncertain, or undefined. I have a life here that I love. I want to come back, and spend another 1095 days living my New York life. My friends here are terrific. My Donald is top of the line. And, for God's sake, it's New York. I love knowing that I'm leaving someplace that I want to come back to. For the first time since living in my parents' house, I feel a sense of home, of belonging. I'll be able to meet London, and then come home to New York City. Not running away, but discovering.
As I get ready to end my first three years in New York City, I'd like to leave you with the Rules of the Apple I've gleaned from my tenure here. While I'm not officially a New Yawker, I assure you that these are rules to live by...
1. Never EVER kick a trashbag on the street. My first week here, on a first date, I was strolling on the Upper East Side, and walked to close to a trashbag for my date's comfort. He grabbed my hand, pulled me away gently and imparted the previous words. Before they had even fully left his mouth, a rat the size of Godzilla fled the black plastic and nearly threw itself into us. So just don't.
2. When walking down the street, should something drip on your head, don't look up. Assume it was an air-conditioner. It's probably something much, much worse. But would you really want that hanging over your head, metaphorically speaking? Just keep walking.
3. Time is an "ish." Deal with it. I am a prompt person. Always. But in NYC, just for the sake of sanity, assume that there is a ten minute window for timeliness. Giant strollers blocking subway doors, tourists brandishing ginormous umbrellas, random bag checks by the NYPD... it all conspires to screw with your schedule. Just accept it, and move on. And don't block the damn doors.
4. Apartments are luxury items. Anytime you meet someone here for the first time, the first thing they'll ask is where you live. And how your place is set up. Is it a railroad? Does it have a bathtub? And, for the love of God, does it have exposed brick? A doorman gives you instant status. But should you happen to live in an Outer Borough (egads!) prepare yourself forthe look of horror on the UE-Siders faces when you utter Brooklyn. But it's ok. We know that's where all the cool kids live.
5. Buy a grocery cart. Seriously. Does it look hip/cool/trendy? Nope. But it beats the hell out of carting a gallon of milk, a turkey and a six pack home from the good grocery store seven blocks away. So do it.
To all of you darlings everywhere, I love you. Thanks for being my pals through all this craziness!
Love,
TGI
Thursday, September 9, 2010
"That Girl" is a TwinPop!
Hey Peeps --
I'm taking a much needed break from the 144 heavyhanded pages that make up Martin Buber's philosophic text I And Thou (for school of course). As I sit here, I'm tempted to write about the material I'm reading, which, although dry and a bit caught up in religion for my interest, is rather captivating, I know that, at present, that would be just a way of playing chicken with what I'm reaaaaaally thinking about.
Since I play That Girl in this blog, it's only fair to introduce you all to the Donald in my life (not his real name, of course.... but play along). I've been gliding along for the past few years as a single gal in the city, no commitments, no strings, blah blah blah. At times, I've been exceedingly lonely, mostly thanks to the Facebook photo albums of the beautiful babies being had by friends, etc. But, as is my way, I usually just channel all of that into my artistic pursuits, and focus on running a theatre company and seeing art. And it's cool. But wouldn't you know it, three months before I embark on this grand adventure, your That Girl goes off and falls in love. Oops. And yay.
My Donald is a pretty grand specimen, if I do say so myself. I can actually hear him in my head as I type, grumbling because I'm calling him Donald. We have a good time together, and oddly enough, he seems to "get" me. Without my having to explain the weird things I think or do. Mostly, I think that one of the big big things I love best about this guy is that he has nothing but support for what I'm doing. Outside of my uber-awesome mom and dad, I haven't encountered that kind of unconditional support very often. We're sort of a hilarious, less homicidal melding of The Joker and Harlequin meets Felix and Oscar. And it works. Well. In short, he is the cheese to my macaroni, and I think that he's a keeper. Time zone differences notwithstanding.
But don't get too excited, Mom. I'm still leaving. In three weeks. To have a blast in London. For 365-ish days. And I couldn't be more thrilled. But just like a buddy popsicle, I do feel a little pull as I get ready to make the move. I'm going to have an international heart for the next year, it seems, loving both my life in London and my time with the Donald. I wouldn't have even bothered to carry things with him this far if he weren't so supportive. That made all the difference. So let's do this. With the help of Skype of course!
Back to the Buber... which I just accidentally misspelled as the Bieber. Sort of hilarious, actually.
Love,
TGI
I'm taking a much needed break from the 144 heavyhanded pages that make up Martin Buber's philosophic text I And Thou (for school of course). As I sit here, I'm tempted to write about the material I'm reading, which, although dry and a bit caught up in religion for my interest, is rather captivating, I know that, at present, that would be just a way of playing chicken with what I'm reaaaaaally thinking about.
Since I play That Girl in this blog, it's only fair to introduce you all to the Donald in my life (not his real name, of course.... but play along). I've been gliding along for the past few years as a single gal in the city, no commitments, no strings, blah blah blah. At times, I've been exceedingly lonely, mostly thanks to the Facebook photo albums of the beautiful babies being had by friends, etc. But, as is my way, I usually just channel all of that into my artistic pursuits, and focus on running a theatre company and seeing art. And it's cool. But wouldn't you know it, three months before I embark on this grand adventure, your That Girl goes off and falls in love. Oops. And yay.
My Donald is a pretty grand specimen, if I do say so myself. I can actually hear him in my head as I type, grumbling because I'm calling him Donald. We have a good time together, and oddly enough, he seems to "get" me. Without my having to explain the weird things I think or do. Mostly, I think that one of the big big things I love best about this guy is that he has nothing but support for what I'm doing. Outside of my uber-awesome mom and dad, I haven't encountered that kind of unconditional support very often. We're sort of a hilarious, less homicidal melding of The Joker and Harlequin meets Felix and Oscar. And it works. Well. In short, he is the cheese to my macaroni, and I think that he's a keeper. Time zone differences notwithstanding.
But don't get too excited, Mom. I'm still leaving. In three weeks. To have a blast in London. For 365-ish days. And I couldn't be more thrilled. But just like a buddy popsicle, I do feel a little pull as I get ready to make the move. I'm going to have an international heart for the next year, it seems, loving both my life in London and my time with the Donald. I wouldn't have even bothered to carry things with him this far if he weren't so supportive. That made all the difference. So let's do this. With the help of Skype of course!
Back to the Buber... which I just accidentally misspelled as the Bieber. Sort of hilarious, actually.
Love,
TGI
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
"That Girl" Picks Five!
Hiya --
Now that my visa application is safely in the hands of the Border Agency, I've secured housing in London, and I'm keeping a close eye on airfare prices, this whole 'moving to a foreign country' thing seems ever so much more real. As such, I really can't put off beginning the arduous packing process, both to pack up the few things that will accompany me, as well as to pack of the majority which shall be left behind.
If you've ever helped me move in the past (and if you HAVE, my deepest apologies), you'll know that my prize possessions are the unenviably heavy books I insist on carting from house to dorm to apartment etc. like my own travelling bookmobile. You know how some people are comfort eaters? Well, That Girl International is a comfort reader. There is nothing that makes me feel more at home than picking up a favorite book, turning to an earmarked chapter, and soothing myself with literati buddy. It's like a cozy written hug. I am aware, however, that the printed word is not easy to cram into a suitcase, especially when one also has clothes, shoes (and only two suitcases!) to consider. As such, I've decided to limit my book selections, outside of those needed for school of course, to five choice tomes for my trip abroad. I put a lot of thought into this list, and though I'd share, for you own interest. Please note that the reason why having my OWN copies of these books is so important is because I am an avid notetaker and highlighter, even in leisure reading, so these volumes are more valuable than library copies of the same text.
1. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera -- I love and hate this book. I love it because it is sparsely yet clearly rendered. It's philosophical but still amazingly down to earth. I hate this book because it rocks my world every time I read it. I can't go without it.
2. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safron Foer -- This book goes with me because it is not only an incredible vision of a grieving/healing process, but also it's a portrait of, in my opinion, New York City at it's best. It showcases empathetic, loving, charismatic people working together. I love this book. I also love the voice of the narrator, who is a child with a very very old soul.
3. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling -- Of course. Because it's the culmination of a richly drawn adventure series? Because it highlights the growth of an extraordinary character into adulthood? Because it brings about a denouement 10 years in the making? Maybe. But mostly because it is pure magic. And the best bathtub read I've ever found.
4. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov -- First and foremost, this book must go in my suitcase, because it is my favorite. I wouldn't feel right without my battered edition sitting on any desk I called my own. This book is an odd choice I realize, as it's not technically a comforting text. And yet, personally, it sort of is. I picked up Lolita for the first time at my parents' house when I was far to young to understand it. And it confused me. So I stopped reading. I picked it up again a few years later, read the whole thing, and puzzled over it for a few days. Then in college, I read it as an extra for a class. I found that my earlier readings, although not profound at the time, had stayed with me, and sort of laid the groundwork for my understanding. Every time I read this book (which is a lot), I see something different between its tattered covers. And for that, it goes with me.
5. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky -- This particular translation is a sheer joy to read. The poetry of the language makes this old Russian novel a complete and utter page turner. I can happily get lost in Vronsky, Levin, Anna etc. for hours at a time.
So that's it. My five travel buddies. I just hope the rest of my collection doesn't get lonely while I'm gone!
Cheers!
That Girl
Now that my visa application is safely in the hands of the Border Agency, I've secured housing in London, and I'm keeping a close eye on airfare prices, this whole 'moving to a foreign country' thing seems ever so much more real. As such, I really can't put off beginning the arduous packing process, both to pack up the few things that will accompany me, as well as to pack of the majority which shall be left behind.
If you've ever helped me move in the past (and if you HAVE, my deepest apologies), you'll know that my prize possessions are the unenviably heavy books I insist on carting from house to dorm to apartment etc. like my own travelling bookmobile. You know how some people are comfort eaters? Well, That Girl International is a comfort reader. There is nothing that makes me feel more at home than picking up a favorite book, turning to an earmarked chapter, and soothing myself with literati buddy. It's like a cozy written hug. I am aware, however, that the printed word is not easy to cram into a suitcase, especially when one also has clothes, shoes (and only two suitcases!) to consider. As such, I've decided to limit my book selections, outside of those needed for school of course, to five choice tomes for my trip abroad. I put a lot of thought into this list, and though I'd share, for you own interest. Please note that the reason why having my OWN copies of these books is so important is because I am an avid notetaker and highlighter, even in leisure reading, so these volumes are more valuable than library copies of the same text.
1. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera -- I love and hate this book. I love it because it is sparsely yet clearly rendered. It's philosophical but still amazingly down to earth. I hate this book because it rocks my world every time I read it. I can't go without it.
2. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safron Foer -- This book goes with me because it is not only an incredible vision of a grieving/healing process, but also it's a portrait of, in my opinion, New York City at it's best. It showcases empathetic, loving, charismatic people working together. I love this book. I also love the voice of the narrator, who is a child with a very very old soul.
3. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling -- Of course. Because it's the culmination of a richly drawn adventure series? Because it highlights the growth of an extraordinary character into adulthood? Because it brings about a denouement 10 years in the making? Maybe. But mostly because it is pure magic. And the best bathtub read I've ever found.
4. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov -- First and foremost, this book must go in my suitcase, because it is my favorite. I wouldn't feel right without my battered edition sitting on any desk I called my own. This book is an odd choice I realize, as it's not technically a comforting text. And yet, personally, it sort of is. I picked up Lolita for the first time at my parents' house when I was far to young to understand it. And it confused me. So I stopped reading. I picked it up again a few years later, read the whole thing, and puzzled over it for a few days. Then in college, I read it as an extra for a class. I found that my earlier readings, although not profound at the time, had stayed with me, and sort of laid the groundwork for my understanding. Every time I read this book (which is a lot), I see something different between its tattered covers. And for that, it goes with me.
5. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky -- This particular translation is a sheer joy to read. The poetry of the language makes this old Russian novel a complete and utter page turner. I can happily get lost in Vronsky, Levin, Anna etc. for hours at a time.
So that's it. My five travel buddies. I just hope the rest of my collection doesn't get lonely while I'm gone!
Cheers!
That Girl
Saturday, September 4, 2010
"That Girl" Has a Place to Live... She Thinks!
Hey ladies and gents -
I've been so slammed with plans and preparations for my puddlejump that I have neglected you, my two readers. But I promise to make up for my negligence with a whole crapload of exciting news.
First and foremost, I am playing the waiting game on my student visa, having finally acquired all the funds, documents, photos and fingerprints necessary to satisfy the British Consulate. My materials are happily in the hands of the Brits, and hopefully, any day now, I'll be officially cleared for my studies. Oh, and I paid the $300 fee required to send me a piece of paper saying I'm legal. :)
In even bigger, more exciting news, I *think* I found a place to live in the jolly ol' Londontown. The flat, located on the Picadilly line, is a cute little Victorian place, occupied by two fun women and their two lovely cats. We skyped today and we have a lot in common, and spent about 40 minutes chatting and laughing. All in all, I think it sounds like a grand arrangement. They're both creative and liberal, which is an important consideration for me. They have cool jobs, are very friendly and warm, and looking for a roommate who can also be a friend, much like I am! And did I mention that they have CATS?!?! As I'm sad about leaving my Layla in the hands of my mom and dad while I'm gone, it'll be delightful to have some warm fuzzies around in the UK.
I have just under a month to go before the big move, and I'm so excited and so scared in equal (and conflicting) parts. It sounds silly I know, as I've been planning this for awhile, but it's all starting to feel very real, veeeeery fast! I need to find someone to take my room in my NYC apartment, pack and get a storage unit etc. etc. etc. It's a crazy time in my life. I'm just so hoping that the fear gives way a bit in the next few days. It'll make my life so much easier to just be completely psyched instead of ready to throw up my breakfast/lunch/dinner at any given moment!
Love,
That Girl
I've been so slammed with plans and preparations for my puddlejump that I have neglected you, my two readers. But I promise to make up for my negligence with a whole crapload of exciting news.
First and foremost, I am playing the waiting game on my student visa, having finally acquired all the funds, documents, photos and fingerprints necessary to satisfy the British Consulate. My materials are happily in the hands of the Brits, and hopefully, any day now, I'll be officially cleared for my studies. Oh, and I paid the $300 fee required to send me a piece of paper saying I'm legal. :)
In even bigger, more exciting news, I *think* I found a place to live in the jolly ol' Londontown. The flat, located on the Picadilly line, is a cute little Victorian place, occupied by two fun women and their two lovely cats. We skyped today and we have a lot in common, and spent about 40 minutes chatting and laughing. All in all, I think it sounds like a grand arrangement. They're both creative and liberal, which is an important consideration for me. They have cool jobs, are very friendly and warm, and looking for a roommate who can also be a friend, much like I am! And did I mention that they have CATS?!?! As I'm sad about leaving my Layla in the hands of my mom and dad while I'm gone, it'll be delightful to have some warm fuzzies around in the UK.
I have just under a month to go before the big move, and I'm so excited and so scared in equal (and conflicting) parts. It sounds silly I know, as I've been planning this for awhile, but it's all starting to feel very real, veeeeery fast! I need to find someone to take my room in my NYC apartment, pack and get a storage unit etc. etc. etc. It's a crazy time in my life. I'm just so hoping that the fear gives way a bit in the next few days. It'll make my life so much easier to just be completely psyched instead of ready to throw up my breakfast/lunch/dinner at any given moment!
Love,
That Girl
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