"That Girl" is No Longer International!

And it's weird.

Very, very weird.

I've been back in the U.S. since October 1st, exactly one year after leaving. I made a quick detour to visit the family in Pennsylvania and then, a week and half later, resumed life as "usual" in Brooklyn. Went back to the same apartment, one of the same jobs, and have been trying to get back to my same life. But it's not working.

I suppose it's no big secret to anyone that I haven't been the happiest in the past two months. It's a little combination of a lot of different things. Missing friends in the UK and trying to reestablish friendships in the U.S. that have grown apart. Staggering student debt coupled with paychecks that don't come close to keeping up. Hugely long work days, at two bordering-on-full-time jobs. And always, a crushing fear that my life will never, ever feel as satisfying as it did last year. During my Gap Year.

In Europe, it's very common for kids to take a year off between high school and college. This "gap year" is used for travelling, experimenting and general adventuring. It's a rite of passage between 17 and 18, sort of paving the way to becoming a grown-up and making the transition as fun as humanly possible. It's a lovely concept, and one that is sorely lacking in our American "hurry up" style of living. In a lot of ways, last year was my gap year. But, not quite.

See, there's a big difference between taking a gap year at 17, and doing it at 28. at 17, all of those adventures feel like firsts. Beginnings. The start of something wildly awesome. When you're 28, those same adventures feel a little more like once in a lifetimes. And they serve as an intermission between the stress of the few years prior, and the uncertainty of the rest of one's life. In the academic sense, my year in London is a gap year, but as the eponymous Tube announcers like to remind us, mind the gap... it's tricky to navigate.

In a lot of ways, I should be very happy now. I earned my Master's Degree with Distinction from a UK institution. I've published several different essays in the past two months, have presented work at one conference, and been inciting to be a panelist at another in a few months. I'm in love with a terrific guy. My family is healthy and supportive and well. All in all, everything outside of me is perfect. It's just everything inside of me that is rebelling. Big time.

I'm prone to anxiety and fits of melancholy as it is, as high-strung and Victorian as that sounds, but this has been a particularly bitter few months. There's this almost hysterical kind of sadness that sets in nearly everyday, in which I start to tell myself that no year will ever afford me as much artistic freedom, as much space for professional growth, as much job satisfaction as a year that I have already lived. As a goal-oriented, always jumping for the next thing, kind of person, this is maddening. And, to put it simply, depressing.

I had amazing experiences in Europe. Travelling, meeting people, performing in different countries... normal, awesome gap year components. But I also stole a year away from American adulthood. In my stolen days, I made art. Full-time. With incredible people. And, most importantly, I made art in an environment where art was important. Never once did the words "would you like fries with that" have to pass my lips. Life revolved around studio time, museum visits, artist talks, critiques. The British library and I became BFFs. I filled 11 journals with writing, serving as fodder for an art practice that I didn't know I had. If life is a donut, then last year, I filled that bad-boy with the warmest, most delicious, gooey, gourmet artistic filling I have ever tasted. And dammit if now, I don't want eat anything but donuts. Ever again.

Since i've been back in the States though, financial contraints have required me to go on a no-sugar diet. No sweets, no extra calories, and definitely no donuts. If you're following my now-laborious metaphor, you understand that I am craving art like Chris Farley as a Gap Girl.... I'M STARVING.

Of course, this leads to a shaky emotional state for your narrator. I try to give myself a talking-to when the panicky Jane Austen's set in, and sometimes, it works. I can head it off by telling myself that this is just a phase. That I won't always have to work two jobs just so I can home and work my real job. I assure myself that someday soon, I'll just be happy. And I will finally, finally, just let myself be content... an elusive feeling upon which my elusive fantasies are built.

Most of the time though, I resist my own efforts at soft-kittying myself. Instead, I sit in the bathroom, and I cry. I keep a travel eyeliner in my pocket at all times to destroy the evidence before I go back to life as "usual." It's a weird kind of sad, growing not out of an immediate stimulus, but instead a deeper, more profoundly odd place, a fear that the gap between me and my gap year will become a chasm. I know I can't live the last 365 days over again, and I'm strangely okay with that. I just don't ever want to get to a point where I forget WHY I did, and why it was worth it. That's the gap I need to mind, to keep everything I have worked for alive.

It's time... Time to make the donuts!

"That Girl" is at the End!

Well, it's my last night in the UK. Twelve hours from now, I'll already be in the air, heading back to the US of A, stopping in Pennsylvania before returning to wreck havoc on New York City. There are a lot of things I could tell you about right now, as my my brain is buzzing with so many thoughts and feelings and stories from this past year. I thought though that, as a way to narrow it down a bit, I'd tell you a few favourite moments from my magical year in London... a sort of recap before the next adventure begins....

No highlights list of mine would be complete without mentioning the night in Dublin when I crashed a posh 21st birthday party. A fellow female traveller and I had met earlier that week on a tour of Tara and Newgrange. We decided to meet up for an evening out, starting out normally with a dinner and some drinks. We then started wandering through the city, laughing and taking ridiculous pictures with some of the cheesiest of statues... including that tart Molly Malone. We were waking near Temple Bar when we heard an incredible (yes, that's right) piano rendition of Britney Spear's 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' wafting out of what I assumed to a bar... Naturally, we followed it to the source, which turned out to be the very classy foyer of some sort of private club, currently playing host to a birthday party full of very young, very blond party people. Helen and I were the only two brunettes in the bunch, and we quickly attracted a lot of male attention.... unfortunately, it all came from one guy, Colin, who was approximately 65, probably related to the birthday girl, and very very drunk. While we did rebuff his affections, we also did take him up on his offer of free drinks. So, to the unknown birthday girl, hope it was a happy one, and that you got all the blond hairdye you asked for!

Performing at the Battersea Arts Centre has to go on my list as well. Our sort of "Masters showcase" was held there this past May. If you've not been to the BAC, I can't recommend it enough! It's an old town hall building, with character coming out the wazoo, and lots of quirky rooms for performance. By a weird turn of events, I wound up having a room to myself... I veyr very quickly fall in love with the cavernous Council Chambers, with its stripped-down wooden floor and incredible acoustics. Plus, this marked my first international performance, in a piece that I had both created and performed in. A total out and out highlight!

But, performing theatre here isn't the only highlight... I also have been so fortunate to see some gorgeous stuff in the past 365 days. Productions at the Globe and the RSC, opera and ballet at the ENO, edgy work in pub theatres, the Proms at Royal Albert Hall, etc. etc. etc. I really feel in love with the arts scene here in the UK, with particular regard to experimental and envelope-pushing theatre. The performance community here is so rich and diverse. Some of my favorite shows have been Frankenstein at the National Theatre, Oh What a Lovely War at the Greenwich Theatre, Henry IV at the Globe and Krapp's Last Tape with Michael Gambon. I've really been able to see so very much here, and have loved being an audience member for some thought-provoking work.

When I was working for the Flare Festival in Manchester, I spent my last day in town nursing a tremendous hangover, the kind that just punishes for hours and hours and hours. I decided that, in true British fashion, all that I really needed was a good roast dinner. So I asked around, and found a little local pub to chase away my hangover with lots and lots of meat. The barmaid instantly recognized my symptoms, and with an understanding, "oh my poor darling," ordered me a huge roast, never-ending Coca Colas, and a three hour chat. I was introduced to all the regulars, and we all bonded over baskets (yep. baskets!) of Yorkshire puddings. Not only did my hangover disappear, but I had a great afternoon, feeling like I was somehow back in a small town, hanging out with familiar faces.... it was worth almost bursting the button on my trousers on the train home just to have such a cosy afternoon!

In another performance realm, I had the pleasure of seeing a pre-season friendly football match in London as well, which was terrific. I went to see my local team, the Tottenham Hotspurs, play Bilbao. Even though I went by myself, I instantly had friends in my section, namely a grandpa with his two very young grandsons. They taught me all the cheers, told me all about the players, and generally included me in their football revelry. The Bilbao supporters were a lot of fun too, starting a "wave" that made it's way around the grounds five times, and prompting the Tottenham crowd to give them a hearty round of applause. Interestingly, this same evening, the riots broke out in the same neighborhood, just as I was travelling home. It was surreal to have the two experiences so directly juxtaposed.

There are so many other things that have just been incredible this year.... visiting Stonehenge, running into Clive Owen in the checkout line at Whole Foods and chatting to him about pumpkin pie, visiting Paris at Christmas time, climbing the hills of Salzburg, standing in Kilmainham Jail, being my parents' tourguide for a whirlwind week visit, earning my Master's degree and completing a dissertation that I am really proud of, living with fantastic flatmates and making great friends in my class, sitting in the British Library to work and feeling like a part of history... the list goes on and on and on. This year has been the best of my life, and I couldn't be more grateful for this chance to take a chance.

I don't know what the next chapter in all this is, but do stay tuned. That Girl may be coming back stateside, but she's always an International at heart.

Love, Crumpets and Sandwiches with Butter,
TGI

"That Girl" is Not a Size Zero...

Or a 2, or a 4, or a 6, or, one some days, not even a size 8. She's curvy, womanly, fuller-figured, natural, buxom, round, soft, thick, flabby, substantial, fat, etc. Use whatever word you like to describe the fact that, if spandex is a privilege and not a right, then she probably should abstain. She likes eating far more than she likes treadmilling. It's unhip to admit that, by there you go. And it's cool. I love my body. That sounds like a warm-and-fuzzy thing to say, but it is honestly true. I like being the way that I am. I don't hate myself. I don't cover up under layers and layers of baggy clothes. I wear clothes I like, in current styles, even though I don't have a flat stomach (and never ever had, nor will ever ever have). And in fact, I like my body so much that I don't mind when a performance calls for revealing a lot of it. Truth is, I feel confident inside my skin, and that's what really matters.

Nevertheless, I've been called a host of incredibly offensive things, because I have the audacity to reveal my imperfect body to the light of day. It seems that, because I feel ok wearing a bikini on the beach at Coney Island, it is also all right for people (generally men) to criticize my choice, and mock my figure. Or, because I don't believe in wearing multiple pairs of Spanx underneath my day-to-day wardrobe, it gives a guy the right to tell me I'm 'tubby' when I turn down giving him my phone number at a pub. It's not my body that bothers people... it's my confidence in my own shape, my own size, my own skin. That unnerves people, I think, and is threatening because it seems to be outside of the norm.

And that "norm" is frightening. I've been following the story of Nancy Upton, a gorgeous and incredibly clever woman who entered American Apparel's recent "The Next BIG Thing" competition, ostensibly a response to media flack stemming from their official comment that plus-sized women "just aren't [their] demographic." That may well be, but to me, this is endemic of a larger problem. This attitude towards "plus size" (which at American Apparel means anything above a size 10 generally -- ridiculous, as the average American woman these days is a 14) feels more like marginalization and a push for invisibility than savvy marketing. It also suggests that I am not a woman, but a "plus size woman," my body shape and weight determining my identity. In the AA contest description, they ask for "bootylicious" models who want to fill out their various spandex wares to send in photos, which will be voted on. The name of the contest and the language and terms that apply to it are mocking, suggesting a divide between the normal current AA consumer, and the giantesses on competitive display. The wording feels so silly that it doesn't surprise me that, when entrant Nancy Upton crafted her submission, she did so with a healthy dose of irony and a wealth of body positivism.

If you're new to this recent event, check out coverage here. Her photos are genius because they both comply to the demands of the contest, and show off Upton's creative mind in tandem with her beautiful body. Yes. These photos of a curvy gal covered in food were probably not what AA anticipated receiving. They are extraordinary because they take they piss not just of a contest looking for girls with plenty of junk in the trunk, but highlight the fact that AA is not truly aiming to cater to a new demographic. Calling girls like me out on our body flaws is a marketing method predicated on self-loathing, and not one I am particularly keen to get on board with. While Upton won the popular vote in this contest, but, as the article above points out, she will not be modelling for the company, because AA wants someone who "truly [exemplifies] the idea of beauty inside and out, and whom we will be proud to have representing our company." Apparently, creativity, sense of humor, body positivism and keen observation skills do not exemplify the mission of American Apparel.

To me, Upton's photos are genius, because she takes a central criticism of larger women in a modern American context and harnesses the power in it to turn it around on the fashion industry. She swims in food, covers herself in it, and gorges on it, making a spectacle of prevalent attitudes conflating curves with gluttony and a lack of self-control. The images are lush, made rich because Upton 'owns' this criticism, and throws it in our face. It's already a mindset propagated by companies like American Apparel, so why not use it to its best advantage. But, the bottom line here is that American Apparel had no intention of taking their own contest seriously. In seeking a "big" model, what they were really asking for was a somewhat-magnified clone of their current modelling stock, not someone who brings intelligence, humor and candor to the camera.

It's too bad that American Apparel feels that stocking clothes in my size is beneath them, as I really would enjoy protesting them. But, sadly, they're just not interested in self-loving fatties like me. Perhaps if I hated my body just a little bit more, I'd be welcome. But, that's just going to happen. Call me any name in the book you like, but you can't diminish my confidence in myself, jiggly bits (of which I have a lot) and all. Belive it or not, American Apparel, body fat percentage has no bearing on my "beauty." Just like the gorgeous Nancy Upton encourages us to believe, we DO INDEED embody beauty inside and out. Take pride ladies.

Love and 7 course dinners!

"That Girl" Has Just Ten Days Left....

It's very difficult
to find the way to articulate
how this all feels.

It's not that I hate change.
In fact, it's not that at all.
I love flux, shifting, moving from one thing into another.
Staying still scares me, so I'm always moving into a different something.

It is endings that I loathe.
The goodbyes, the finishing, the ending of a fantastic chapter,
with no way of knowing how the next one will start.
When things end, I find myself here.
In this sad little selfish place.

I don't want this year to end.
I want to get married, and see my beloved Apple...
And cuddle my sweet grey kitten.
But I don't want to lose the things I've found,
the life I wasn't sure I wanted until it found me in London.

I want to be an artist,
but not an actress that waits interminably on audition lines
for roles she, if she's honest, doesn't much care about,
and hope desperately for that one in a million chance.

I want to be an artist,
not shoving in stolen seconds of studio time around three part-time jobs
seeing the successful of the city sneer when I answer "what I do."

I want to be artist,
and pay my bills.
This shouldn't be so impossible.

Now that I've found all of this,
I'm afraid of losing it.
I have a heavy heart when I think of coming home
because I'm terrified that this will all disappear
in the haze of working and scrambling in the city.

I've been having a go at everyone who will listen
lately because of this terribly anxiety.
For that, I am sorry, but I just feel so inconsolably heavy.

I know I'm being incredibly unfair
to the people who love me at home
I sound ungrateful in this wanting to prolong
my time away.

I don't want to stay apart from you, no matter how it might sound.
I just don't want this past year to be the end
of this chapter of my life.
And I'm terrified that I don't know how to keep it carrying on.

I can already feel the weight of being a 'working artist' pressing into me.
The panic of not having enough 'real' work,
not being a commercial enough artist.
And it's dragging me down, making me heavy.

I want a space of my own, the chance to make work and write,
and the freedom to enjoy doing both.
This independence is precious, having had just a tease this year.

I'm already lonely
For this thing I wasn't sure I wanted,
and now can't bear to leave behind.

"That Girl" is an Insufferable Swot.

I love words.

No, that's not entirely accurate. To love something implies at least a tacit desire for reciprocity, for a mutuality of feeling between lover and loved thing. That phrase doesn't quite get at it, in this case.

I am in awe of words.

Getting closer, but still not right. To be awestruck seems to me to have more in kind with idolatry, an admiration from a distance, always acknowledging the gap between worshiper and worshiped. Again, not exactly my position.

I hoard words.

Now we're getting closer. Much as I do adore words and am consistently amazed by their power, I am not content with other a loving give-and-take or a reverent admiration. My connection to words is far more covetous, more selfish, more self-indulgent. I want to fill my pockets with them, to take them in and make them mine, to re-present them as my own inventions.

I've been obsessed with words for a very long time. I was an early reader, encouraged by my parents to feed my imagination with books and language. Even as a small child, I showed signs of the covetousness I speak of now. My parents were convinced that I was reading by age three, because I could recite Bread and Jam for Frances word for word. I had not learned to read. I had taken the text in and absorbed it, through frequent aloud readings and the repetition from my record-player. I had memorized the words before I could read them, before probably I even completely understood what they meant. Textual theft. A trademark of mine.

Incidentally, I now make a living drawing on that behavior in my professional life. I pride myself on being a 'quick study,' memorizing lines easily, without really needing to apply myself to the task. Truth is, I don't know how I do it. I love re-reading things... to me, a familiar book is just as comfortable as an embrace from an old friend. I want to carry that feeling with me, so I tend to pull passages of writing into my memory unconsciously. I'm a magpie for language.

I like the tactility of language. Words stab. Words caress. They soothe, they admire, they belittle, they humble etc. etc. etc. Small line and hatches cooperate with one another to create a world of meaning. I think of words as physical objects often, imagining their invisible lines tattooed on living surfaces; to carry this image, if you turned my skin inside out, I suspect the inside of it would be coated in ink scrawls. I like carrying language with me. I wear a poesy ring on my right hand, and have for years. The text is biblical, and is often used on Jewish wedding bands... I like it for entirely different reasons. The engraving contains the word 'Beloved,' a word I find utterly satisfying in its simplicity. I like that all three syllables are evenly voiced, and to me, it manages to sound like a contradiction, containing both suppleness and strength. Just the word itself suggests those things to me, and for that reason, I love it. Hence the ring, aside from its religious or spiritual overtones.

I am drawn to old writing, because to me, the tactility of language feels more acknowledged. I feel it when I read for Shakespeare for example. The language is so delicately crafted, both for literary meaning and a sheer pleasure of the word. Individual words each here serve their literal function, but are also arranged so carefully, with an ear for painting larger pictures through the rhythm of phrases, then sentences, then sonnets then etc. Iambic pentameter, echoing the rhythm of the human heartbeat, is to me a kind of textual acrobatics, crafted in language letter by letter. Its complicated construction becomes more exquisite as the power of the words distracts a reader from its scientific assembly, reason giving way to the pleasure of the words. I am drawn to Shakespeare as well because, when existing words didn't suffice, the poet invented new words to convey just the right 'something.' That is incredibly satisfying and almost heart-achingly beautiful to me, a fellow language-lover.

I sometimes wish that I were synasthetic, that is a person for whom written words carry color, taste etc. Intellectually, I feel like I grasp the concept. Words to me often carry sensibility outside of their individual meanings... I love the roundness and open space of the word "spoon" for example (and, in a nerdy reference, feel kinship with The Tick for choosing it as his rallying cry). It's an entirely satisfying word, outside of its use to describe a metal utensil. It's a pleasurable word to say and hear. Other words work on the opposite side of the spectrum for me... words like "moist" and "squat" never fail to sound horrid and unpleasant, no matter their context (much to the amusement of my father, who discovered this quirk of mine at dinner a few weeks ago). Sounds and cadences make an impression on me, with and without the prescribed textual meanings. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to see words "in color," as it were, though I suspect this would be so overwhelmingly distracting for me to carry on with any semblance of a life.

If you had any doubts before reading this of my insufferably nerdiness, I should think they'd be suitably assuaged now. Words have been my longest friends, and will continue to be my constant companions. Except for words like "slacks," which I can happily do without.

"That Girl" Wishes She Had Gone to These Chapels!

If anyone out is there is confused what true love looks like, I think I have the cure. Check out some beautiful images of the the first same-sex marriages in New York State this past weekend.

It bears mentioning that, besides being happy-weddingy-photos (which I already love), these images document almost unfathomably long walks down the aisle. The first Manhattan couple, Phyllis Siegel, 77, and Connie Kopolev, 85, have been together for 23 years. For 23 years, these two women stood by each other's other's sides, through the the good time and the bad, in sickness and in health. They've withstood having their relationship given second-rate status, and through everything, continue to love each other. To me, that's what marriage is all about... For Siegel and her wife Kopolev, their Sunday wedding doesn't define their relationship... they've been a committed couple for years. This wedding does something more important, something that straight people have been afforded for decades. This wedding, and the accompanying legal certificate, make their love official, make a public declaration of their commitment for each other. After a 23 year walk down the aisle, it is much, much deserved.

Perhaps I'm feeling extra-sentimental about all of this because I'm getting ready to plan my own wedding. For the Donald and I, it is extremely important that our friends (many of whom are gay) and our family both feel welcome and really embraced by how we choose to celebrate our union. For me, I do feel some guilt about all of this: about how easy it is for me to get married in the first place, since the person I love is my biological opposite. I'm a member of Offbeat Bride, and spend a lot of time on the "Tribe Forum," reading ideas and advice. There are a number of bride-bride couples planning lovely ceremonies that really express the nature of their love for one another, and capture the hopes and dreams these women have for their now-united future. It's always mitigated for me however by knowing that many of these loving couples live in parts of the U.S. where their "wedding" cannot be an official one. I am blown away by their determination and dedication to each other, and saddened that only some love is considered "good love" in my country.

I wonder sometimes how many straight couples would make it to the altar if their relationships were put to the kind of tests that same-sex couples face on a daily basis. If I knew that my partner would be the other half of my heart, but not on my tax return, my health insurance, or maybe not in the eyes of some people I know, how would that effect our relationship? Would the stress of all of that, day after day, take its toll? Would a number of straight couples fall apart if they had to prove everyday that they were in fact legitimate? I sometimes wonder if things like gay marriage would be less of an issue in the U.S. if it weren't for this automatic privileging and desperate need to cling to that which is "normal."

So much of American politics reminds me of what it must be like for a goth girl growing up with "normal," average, middle-of-the-road kind of parents. To her well-meaning parents, she seems to be acting out, rebelling, proving a point, going through a phase she'll certainly have to grow out of. It seems to me however that she's instead just trying to live her life, in the way that feels most logical and right for her. Which is really what we all do from day to day... It would be really good however for us "normal" people to keep our noses out of everybody else's business, and let everyone get on with living their lives, just like we try to do.

For Connie and Phyllis, and all the newlyweds, many many MORE years of joy!

"That Girl" is, well...

There are a lot of things I should be doing, words that I should be writing that are not these particular words. But I can't. I just can't right now, because I'm too sad. Sad about some little personal things, but mostly, sad on a much more all-encompassing level. Call me childish if you like, but I'm sad for the world at large... I "have a little pain in my heart," to echo someone's sentiments from Oslo last night.

I started writing today because of my heartsickness over the tragedy in Norway. But there's more behind that ache. Children condemned and bullied because as boys, they paint their toenails pink, or as girls, they're just not pretty or girly enough. A website for "angry white dudes" both calling out Jane Fonda for her past protesting, and insinuating (via user comments) that she deserves to be raped as punishment. The harsh reality that my home government does not care about the health of its citizens, continually failing to provide affordable and available health coverage for all its people. A foreign policy that hinges on hunting-down evildoers, not creating strategies for growth and healing. On a tiny level, the knowledge that, by being an artist, I've condemned myself to a life of financial strife, and governmental insignificancy, bacause I just don't work 'hard' enough. And, should I ever be recognized finanically as an artist, I'd best sure to toe the conservative line, or else.

I was sickningly enthralled by the "angry white dude" website I stumbled on today... in part of it, the Head AWD condemns a group of compatriots for wanting to start "a Black tea party." He asks them why must they distinguish themselves in terms of race. He also criticizes Sarah Palin for saying that it's time for a female president by asking "why not a midget president etc." I have an answer for him, though I'm sure that he doesn't what to hear what a Rational White Dudette has to say. My answer is that perhaps people want to distinguish themselves from Angry White Dudes because we do not want to be construed as being like you. We don't want to be coloured with the same brush as a person who proposes rape as a fitting punishment for an outspoken woman. Perhaps we, in addition to taking pride in our non-angry, white, dude status, want to make it very clear to the rest of the world that WE are not YOU.

I want peace to be valued. I want soldiers worldwide to be able to stop being soldiers, and get to fall in love with their civilian lives all over again, trading the front lines for family, home, harmony. I want politicians to stop being the mouthpieces for big business, for Monsanto etc. to stop making its' interests my interests. I want my government to invest in me, to see me as more than a taxpayer number, but as a vital active resource, taking interest in my health and well-being. I want to give life to a child who will grow up not living in fear of school shootings, terrorist threats, not to mention bullying at the hands of 'normal' children and their cruel, small-minded parents.

We live in a world where, angry or not, one must shout to be heard. And what better way to make one's shouts heard than by having the money and clout to buy a very large and expensive microphone. I know that almost no one will read this. And those of you that will likely already agree with me. But I'm going to try shouting anyway, because I don't know what else to do.

I want to live my life. Fully.

"That Girl" is Heavy!

I can't lie... the past couple weeks have been rougher than Willie Nelson's scraggly beard-face. The pressure of a dissertation, a dwindling bank account, and a fiance back home (not any fault of his, I must clarify), as well as a whole lot of uncertainty for what the post-London future holds is starting to get to me. I'm the kind of person that likes to say I work well under pressure, and to some degree it's true. I like deadlines, for example. I set them for myself for most long-term tasks, and, even though they're self-imposed, they become law, and I follow them. I also work well in intense situations. When I was in high school (and on the forensics team), I was entered into the Extemporaneous Speech competition at National qualifiers as a sophomore,as what is lovingly referred to as a "sacrificial lamb." I'd never done the event before, but our team wanted a few more people to fill out the event. I wound up in the finals, and was one point away from advancing to Nationals. So, sometimes, pressure can be great.

This though, I don't think, is that kind of pressure. This is the kind made up not of intense nerves and adrenaline, but worry. Lots and lots of worry. Can I make it through the next two months? Will I finish my dissertation? Can I afford to go to the festivals and conferences I'm invited to in September? Am I good enough to be a "real" artist? What do I do when I go home? Will I always have to feel this way because of the life I've chosen? I know this is all a bit whiny, but, nonetheless, it's keeping me up at night, and keeping in my bed for far too long in the morning. This isn't the good stress, but the sneaky kind that has a way of getting under my skin. As I type this, I'm on my flatmate's computer, as my laptop is inconveniently on the fritz... it seems I'm not the only thing in this room that is feeling overworked!

I'm starting to wonder if the build-up of these feelings doesn't have something to do with going home soon. Don't get me wrong. I'm looking forward to it. I miss New York City, my cat, my family, my Donald, and, most importantly, a breakfast that doesn't involve beans of any variety. But, I'll be very sad when this year is over. For the first time, I've been able to spend the majority of my time doing the thing that I am passionate about. I make art, full-time. It's really been a tremendous opportunity. I've taken so many risks in myself and in my art practice. I've become much more informed and, simultaneously, curious about the options I have in the 'art world.' I've gotten to travel to incredible places, gaining some killer experiences that have also informed my practice. I'm studying in a community that values the experimental, the risk-taking, the forward-thinking. And I guess I'm not ready for that to be over.

In some ways, I have a sense that, when I go home, that will be very very different. I'll be back to the 'make ends meet hussle.' I'll still be producing and performing my own work, but on a far more protracted schedule, to accommodate savings and day job schedules. I certainly won't be travelling... unless it's my daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan, that it. I'll go back to being yet another underpaid actor in New York City. And that's getting me down a bit. I don't want fame and fortune. I don't need a Broadway gig. I just want life to be more like this year has been. I suppose that, in and of itself, is a good goal to set, no matter how daunting it may feel.

"That Girl" Said This!

While I'll be writing a longer post in the next day or two about my time in Manchester, I did want to put this up. I wrote this in response to a panel discussion at the Flare Festival on "The Future of Theatre." The discussion was good, albeit a bit depressing... and then it came time for Q&A. A man from the Arts Council pointed out that, in the UK, we're already very privileged to have great theatre and art, and that we ought to take some time to reflect on that. While he does have a point, I felt very patronized by it, especially as he was speaking to a room for students in contemporary theatre who are about to enter the professional world where funding etc. is difficult to come by. So I wrote this. The original post, as well as the Flare Festival blog, can be found here.




Indebted Artists? A Futuristic Appeal



Breaking News

Attempt made on life of panel discussion.

Reminder issued from auditorium rear to appreciate art we are privileged to have.

Why ponder theatrical futurity when there is so much theatre around for which to be thankful?

Well.

I am not grateful.

I will not worship a cash-greased art machine that only propagates more of itself.

I will not content myself to witness big art at big venues for big prices.

I will not be an insignificant atom of an indestructible organism.


I will:

Make theatre with zero (nada, nothing, nil) budget. It is all I have, and I will put it to best possible use.

Support my fellow artists. I will write about their work and borrow their critical brilliance in theory and practice. I will reference Richard Schechner and my friend Ruth. I will foment a culture of discourse discreet from marketability.

Make love on the fringes. Dozens, not thousands, of people may see my work. But I will appreciate each one, digest their feedback, listen. I will take pride in my localized work and reject bums-in-seats agenda.

Continue to dream big. I will create effects without pyrotechnics and borrowed beach balls as props. I will turn financial poverty into artistic gain by investing in ingenuity.

Shout and not whine. I will not stop if funders cannot affix a price-tag to my forehead. I will make work and bartend and produce work and shuffle bills. My practice will not be dictated for me.

What will you do?

"That Girl" Takes a Continental Detour!

As you may know, I spent the past week in Austria with some others from my Master's programme, doing a performance in Salzburg. I thought I'd share some details about it, as it was such a grand experience. There's some information about the showing here if you're curious.

Toihaus, the theatre, graciously gave us free reign of their facilities, and with the their help, we put together an evening of works in progress. I showed a revised version of my piece "Martin's (words lost)," and all together the evening went off without a hitch. My piece is still in development, and really changing a lot, but I think it was good to show it again, and get some feedback. I feel like I'm getting close to something with it, and am so grateful to have had the chance to perform 'on the continent.' I have to say too that being back in a blackbox theatre was such a terrific feeling.... we spent most of Sunday doing technical rehearsals, and I just didn't want to leave the theatre. Funny isn't it, how we develop attachments, and find our niche in places like that. All in all, a veeeeeery pleasant week.

With any luck, I have a fair bit more travelling coming. I've had a paper accepted to a conference for presentation at the University of Kingston in September, and a collaborative project with my colleague Karin has been accepted to a conference in Helsinki of all places. I'm also doing the London Festival Fringe in a few weeks, and am hoping to travel to Istanbul within the month to make another piece. I'm trying to figure my budget out at the moment, as money predictably is very tight at this point in the academic year. But, with any luck, I'll manage it all... I figure it can't all help but hurt when it comes to job hunting in the good ol' US. And, at the very least, it'll be a hell of a time, job market be damned.

"That Girl" Pauses for a Commercial Break!

Are you a That Girl International fangirl/boy/other? She'll be guest blogging this week for the The Flare International Festival of Theatre in Manchester, UK... check out the blog here. You can also follow me on twitter (why, I don't know) at @MoxyMolly, or follow the Flare Festival at @FlareFestival.

Cheers!

"That Girl" is Extra-Value, not Budget-Economy!

As my Master's programme draws terrifyingly to its end, I've begun the arduous task of looking for a job back in the States, so I can be gainfully employed after my return. As I do so, I'm becoming increasingly disheartened with the position that the arts (in general) holds in my home country, and angry at the way artists are forced to regard themselves. I feel a rant coming on....

I've been looking for positions at primarily museums/arts institutions with an educational focus, in some kind of exhibit development/outreach/performance context. That would be my first choice of profession (considering I can't yet be self-sustaining as a practising artist, that is). A lot of these positions exist, both in the UK and the US. In both locales, institutions prefer candidates with graduate degrees, some facility or fluency in a foreign language, three to five years of experience in a related field, a competency in numerous computer systems. There is however one massive difference. In the UK, these are generally PAID positions whereas in the US, these types of jobs are reserved for "VOLUNTEER" interns (still with post-graduate degrees -- and loans, presumably).

I've been an intern - in my case, I interned with a regional theatre right after my college graduation, and it was a terrific experience. It even turned into contracting work afterwards, and the ability to join IATSE, the theatre technicians union. So, all in all, the slave labor and occasional tedium were worth it. So why am I grumbling now about the internship model the US is so fond of? Because I am no longer 22. I am nearly 30, and now am the proud owner of more student debt, (nearly) a Master's Degree, and eight years of professional experience in my field. Because I value myself as a person and an artist, I do actually now believe that my work has a value ascribed to it that can (should?) be recognized with a paycheck. Call me crazy, but still.

If I worked in another field, it would be crazy to suggest that I work a full-time unpaid job to garner experience, contacts etc. at the age I am (in most cases). In the UK and Europe, the state of the intern is a largely unknown one for adults, reserved for immediate university grads or people changing professional gears. Back home, however, it's very common, and we, as artists are forced to perpetuate the cycle. I could easily go back to waiting tables in the Big Apple, to supplement any income I could make from a contracting job (like the AWESOME one I used to have the Museum of Natural History). I could then use the money I make from these two or three jobs to pursue my "art hobby" of making performance and theatre. I could. Lord knows I've done it for years. But, the idea of this and the concept of the "art hobby" are starting to aggravate me.

I know that I, like most of you readers, work in a field that is generally regarded as light entertainment or non-essential. I'm just an artist after all -- I don't broker deals, save lives, or study distant universes. But, like all of you, I'm damn good at what I do. I'm a published writer, I've performed internationally, I run my own production company, and I'm the proud owner of an advanced research degree. My work has been seen in New York City, London, Salzburg, and, soon, in Istanbul, Stockholm and Helsinki. And yet, art for me is still a very expensive hobby. My travel expenses to conferences aren't paid for. I can't get access to any grant funding in the US right now because, frankly, it just doesn't exist. Because I'm still "emerging," I pay my own way, to present and perform my work, and also to do the research etc. to make the work. And this presumed culture of gratefulness continues into the job market. We artists are told repeatedly through job postings and audition listings that we should be happy for the chance to give away our talents for free. Being artistic (even within the institutional frame) is not valued the way that being a whiz with Excel or a master of data entry is. This rankles me.

I'm not quite sure what to do about all of this... get a mainstream job I hate to earn a paycheck to fund my "hobby," even though from experience, I know that working a shit job will drain me of all desire I have to make art? Work an unpaid internship I love just to be vital and active artistically, and hope and pray that the internship will turn into a paying job down the road? Say a loud "fuck you" to the job market completely a go back to waiting tables and making art, and be desperately poor but crazy-happy? I don't know. If I worked in a normal field, I'd be incredibly marketable... I'm creative, organized, detail-orientated, self-motivated and smart. All those things make me a decent artist, but I can only make money using them if I forget about the art part.

All this comes to nothing I suppose. It is the way it is, and I suppose that the arts are not as "crucial" as medicine, law, science etc. But, having written that, I know I don't believe it. The arts are integral, to society at large and to humans on an individual basis. Us artists provide essential services, and we have the right to see ourselves and our contributions be valued, not shoved under the carpet. At some point, I'd like to not have to volunteer my time and talent, but instead to be treated like a professional, like a normal person... just like every other artist you know. We'll continue to make work whether or not we're paid for our labour, because it is a part of us. Most artists NEED to be making art to not self-destruct, to feel fulfilled, to use our gifts. Someday however there will be some value ascribed to the creative work we make. And I can't wait for that day to come.

"That Girl" and the Merry-Go-Round That Really Broke Down!

This is a story of the world's saddest clown. This story begins when TGI signs up for a week-long intensive clowning workshop, focusing on the red nose and the dark aspects of the style. TGI was anticipating the course for weeks, and, though full of trepidation about the newness of the experience, was ready for 40 gleeful hours. Had the workshop gone that way, this would be a very different story. Instead, our story here begins with the image of That Girl International wearing a red clown nose and crying... enough to fill a clown-sized bucket. Savor that image for awhile.

It seems that, for TGI, three days of intense clowning have awakened a host of strong and mostly unpleasant feelings. Please, allow me to introduce you them. There's Ada Inadequacy -- her high-pitched nasal voice resonates in TGI's ear, telling her that she's never quite good enough, especially where performance is concerned. For TGI, Ada often seems to speak for the audience, very insistently in her ear. There's also Tommy NotFunny, who insists that TGI ISN'T funny, will never BE funny, and should write FUNNY a Dear John letter. Most perilously however, Ada and Tommy have a silent but deadly friend. We'll call him Jed. Jed is sneaky. Instead of defining one tedious characteristic, Jed has a much deeper message. Jed takes TGI and turns her inside out. He sits on her little traumas, her collection of tiny little hurts, and pokes with pinpoint accuracy the bruises of her unpleasant thoughts. He rears his ugly head at inconvenient moments. Because of Jed, TGI sometimes fears being "authentic" or "real" or "honest" onstage or not. When someone tells TGI that she's 'at her best when she's not trying to perform' or 'most appealing when she vulnerable,' she cringes, because she knows that Jed takes those statements as open invitations. Jed is visiting our sad little clown right now, as she stands before you.

So, childish naming aside, let us return to Clown Central. Look at our sad clown. Her tears are bouncing off her little red nose. Look at her closely. You can see the insecurity, the fear of the not-funny, and, if you look very very carefully, you'll see the hurt. Our sad clown is not so much sad, as tender - tenderized like a steak that will next be grilled. She's whacked her insides so much with Jed's spiky little mallet-words that now she can't help but feel tender all over. She wants to be on the course. She wants to get more ease with improv, find more joy in the unexpected, see more wonder in open-ended play. But, our little clown is tender, and these very activities seem to be the salt in her teeny little pulverized places.

You see, TGI spends most of her time living in Fight or Flight. She's not sure why... life is altogether pretty good. But she finds that, if she's really being honest with herself, she feels quite bruised-up on the inside. There's probably some deep-seated reason for this, as this sad clown was once a very silly, very young, very naive clown, who took some fantastic and awesome (in the most somber sense of both of those words) tumbles... In the putting-back together, she lost both the negatives of that naivity and also some degree of the positives... Our little sad clown is usually saddest when she's longing for those good little innocent qualities. It seems that the thus far 24 hours of clowning she's been testing out crossed into those places a little too quickly and a little too unexpectedly for her. For a fight or flight kind of gal, that speed is terrifying and takes the wind out of the little clown's sails.

TGI has been hanging with Ada and Tommy and yes, that terrible influence Jed for so long now that they're all part of each other. TGI is a sad little clown because she simultaneously wants the red-nose joy and regrets that she's already had it and sort of lost it. She is sometimes very guilty (as people quickly point out) of "performing" because it can be too painful to show her little interior bruises to other people... she doesn't think she could ever handle it if you, her audience, laughed at her real little sore places. She has cultivated her tiny little hurts for so long now that they are grossly precious to her, and hard to let anyone else have a peek at. When she surprises herself, like when her clown-self improvises and something (anything) happens, those things reveal themselves so terrifyingly quickly. In those moments, she finds that "realness" that you ask for, and they display themselves automatically, with terrifying speed. It has it's very specific cost though, as we're now watching. She knows she "performs." She cries a little when she gets home after someone has repeatedly pointed that trait out to her. She knows. She really, really does.

So. Let's look again at our sad little clown, our TGI with a red nose and watery eyes. She's sorry for "performing" instead of always inviting this intense vulnerability to join her onstage and off. She protects herself in her tiny little clown armor because she sometimes needs it to face the world. Sad, she knows. She's working on it. She really is. But sometimes, she is just a sad little clown.

"That Girl" Said Yes!

Hello from New York City! I'm back in my adopted hometown for a brief visit and boy, has it been amazing! I came at the request of Donald, who wasn't able to come visit me in London this year, due to stupid dayjob-type restrictions. So instead, I hopped on a plane after my graduate showcase finished up for a six blissful days of bagels, rude New Yorkers and filter coffee... or so I thought! Instead, it turned into a visit of far more epic proportions. Donald proposed! And That Girl whole-heartedly said YES!



It's a great (albeit disgustingly sweet) story, so imma go ahead and share. On Friday, my first full day here, Donald and I planned to head off to Coney Island. The weather here was sublime and, tacky as it is, it is my all-time favorite place on earth! He had promised me that, just once, he would ride the Wonder Wheel with me, although he is very afraid of heights (though really, I think he's actually afraid of FALLING... but I digress). All morning, he'd been acting a little odd, and was so nervous abpout riding the stupid ride. I told him we didn't have to, told him I wouldn't mind if we didn't etc. etc. etc. I even said, right before we got on, and I quote, "would you quit being such a big baby." In retrospect, it all makes perfect sense.

If I were a fly on the door of non-swinging car #5 of the Coney Island Wonder Wheel at approximately 12:45pm on Friday, June 3, 2011, this is what I would have heard:

Donald: "I'm already terrified, so I thought I'd go ahead and..." (he digs in pocket)
That Girl: "Oh my god."
Donald: "Will you marry me."
That Girl: Oh my god."
Donald: " hope I don't drop it."
That Girl: "Oh my god."
A few seconds pass.
That Girl: "Did I say yes? Yes."

And so on. Donald did NOT drop the ring, That Girl DID say yes, and NO flies were harmed in the recording of that highly poetic engagement exchange. At one point, I told Donald that, if he wanted to look, we were at the very top... he did look, and amazingly, the look of terror that crossed his face as he surveyed Brooklyn at a height was nothing compared to the look he had right before he popped the question. So that's that. A proposal on a piece of Coney Island history. I'd like to take this opportunity to mention that I did in fact, in addition to saying yes, also apologize for the "stop being a big baby" crack. And I couldn't be happier.

I feel like I've waited a long time for this, and the wait has been completely worth it. He's a great guy with a good heart and he lets me beat him at video games from time to time. What more could a gal ask for? I got nothing. :)

Love,
TGI

"That Girl" is Awash!

I was going to post about the Royal Wedding. No, really. I started an entry last evening, and then saved it as a draft because I was too tired to finish it. I fell into bed at about 11:30PM, London time. And when I woke up this morning, things were very, very different. Suddenly, I'm finding it hard to remember what I wanted to say about the experience of joining with London in celebrating a wedding, because I'm thinking about a day almost ten years ago when I joined with Americans in a much more somber event. That day, the "Pearl Harbor" of my generation, is not something that I will ever forget, even though I have no blog entry etc. to mark its happening with. Even with that perceptible memory on the forefront, I can't help but be very very hesitant about the way some of my fellow Americans are commemorating the events of yesterday.

Let me explain. I don't disagree with the use of a strategic military operation to kill a known and acknowledged enemy, particularly when said operation is carried with precision of a an almost-surgical nature, to protect both the civilians in the area and the military personnel involved. It makes me squimish, yes, but then again, so does the whole concept of warfare, historical or modern. I can understand its purpose and admire (some) of its carefully planned methodology without liking the necessity of it. The death of Bin Laden is not what is giving me pause. I am instead struggling with my feelings surrounding the images and accounts of celebrations, mainly in the U.S. to mark the occasion.

I am not intending herein to judge those who feel that today is a day of celebration. I am just expressing my discomfort in equating the death of Bin Laden with festivity, when I'm personally feeling much more trepidation. I do not believe, much as I desperately want to, that this momentous event has ended the war/s my home country is engaged in. I do not for a moment feel my country (or others around the world) is out of the woods when it comes to attacks on our soil, or risk for our servicemen and women. In fact, much as I am loathe to admit it, I fear that, in coming weeks and months, we are probably at a higher state of threat, particularly from sloppy retaliation. While I think some people interpret yesterday as a settling of scores, I suppose my natural pessimism drives me to see as another link in a very dangerous chain. Granted, I'm relieved that Bin Laden is no longer at the helm, but I don't think that the cells he's created etc. will go away overnight. For me, today was not a day of dancing in the street, but rather one marked by a great deal of introspection.

I don't particularly subscribe to the "eye for an eye" school of thought. I can appreciate the necessity of the act, and applaud those who planned and carried the action, particularly with regard for containment of collateral damage. I can't however bring myself to celebrate the death of another human being, no matter how vilely he squandered the life he had. I don't feel like the relief I feel at having one threat removed compels me to dance at Ground Zero. This is of course just my opinion, just one woman's perspective, but I had to put it out there. The footage of the partying and celebration made me bit sick, as I can't help but wonder if that makes us any better than those we seek to defeat. If we're in the right (and I believe we are) then I would wish to behave with more dignity, taking today as a chance to commemorate our dead and thank our servicemen and women, not gloat over the death of one man.

The more time I spend away from my loved ones back home, the more I find myself loving and craving their company. My heart goes out to those people who, on September 12, began facing a life where that separation became the norm. I cannot fathom that pain, and do not pretend to be able to. I do not presume to judge the way that people impacted directly by that terrible morning choose to react to the news that the mastermind no longer breathes. For me, however, I need a little less bragging and gloating, and little more quiet gratitude and hope for the future.

Just my two cents.

"That Girl" is the Personal Space Police!

This is going to sound harsh. It's probably going to make me sound like a very cold, very withdrawn, misanthropic kind of woman. But so be it. I can't take anymore. I must speak up on behalf of my fellow no-touchniks. I, That Girl International, do solemnly swear that I do not like, enjoy or seek out physical contact with people I don't know and/or don't like. I do not like touching bodies with strangers on the tube. I really don't enjoy it when someone I don't know touches my arm, back, shoulder or worse at a bar, without even knowing my name. And don't even get me started on the Hug From the Unknown Entity.

I'm not a cold-blooded person. I'm affectionate with my family and friends. I love my Donald's bearhugs, holding hands with the little kids I babysit, and the comfort of embraces etc. from family. I am often the initiator of said physical contact in these friendly and familiar circles. What I don't appreciate and actually even dread is the imposition of forced physical encounter with a stranger. I know. I sound like an overreacting weirdo. But hear me out.

Some of my discomfort here comes from, admittedly, a gendered perspective. Unless you are under the age of 5 or are helping me to my feet after I've fallen down the subway stairs, if you are male, and I don't know you, please don't (and I can't emphasize this enough), don't touch me. Understandably, there will be days when the bus is so crowded that our personal space bubbles will mingle. But I'm doing my best to keep myself to myself, and would appreciate it if you did the same. Let's touch shoulders; let's not be pressed so close together that the nuns in a Catholic School down the block are panicking. These situations of commuter chaos, while still unpleasant for me, do come with the territory of living in a large city. So I deal. What I do not understand is the profusion of men who think it ok to touch a woman they have not even been introduced to. At a pub for example, we can chat without you grabbing my arm or worse, my knee. And actually that's about the only chance you have to say more than a sentence to me. While I can appreciate that my personal space bubble is much larger than other women's, please do me a favor and take your kindergarten lesson of "hands to yourself" to heart.

And women, I don't like it when you touch me either. As a waitress, I don't ever touch my customers, and I like it that way, because I know how uncomfortable I feel as a restaurant patron when my server's hand settles on my shoulder. It's nothing personal. I just don't like it, and I don't think I'm entirely alone here. Furthermore, unless were related or very close friends, I don't want to hug you. Again, please don't be offended. I do not want a shared pressing-of-the-entire-front-body experience with the majority of the people on this planet. A hug is a moment of intimacy, and to me, is something that I only enjoy with my intimate circle. It won't comfort or cheer me up, no matter how good your unfamiliar intentions may be. If I'm meeting you for the first time, assuming you're not a future mother-in-law etc., I'd much much much prefer to shake your hand.

I'm a person who agrees with Johnny Castle: This is my dance space, and this is yours. You don't come into mine, and I don't come into yours. This caveat also applies to armrest hogs whose elbows drift into my midriff, close-talkers who emphasis their points with saliva to my chin, and the handsy patrons at every pub in this country and others. We'll sit next to each, we'll have a great chat, I'll enjoy myself, and I hope you will too. And I won't touch you, at least until we've spent more than a few minutes breathing the same oxygen. Please do me the honor of reciprocating my hands-off policy. We can shake on it... but that's it!

"That Girl" is Zen...ish!

One of the head honchos (well, honchas, as she's a woman?) of my Master's program gave us all a good talking-to a few weeks ago, telling us that, as artists, we need to pay attention to what our Zen Questions are. Those things that get in your head, eat away your brain, and threaten to turn you into a Shaun of the Dead SAG extra until you payattentiontothemnowplease. You know, those. We all have them, and I've been devoting most of my non-art-making, wine drinking, idle-facebooking, Golden Girl watching time this week trying to identify mine. I thought I'd share -- for me, I don't phrase them as questions, but just leave them mostly as thins. I'll call 'em my Zen Nuggets (like McNuggets, only made of non-petrochemical waste). Here, in no particular order, is:

THAT GIRL INTERNATIONAL'S HAPPY MEAL OF ZEN (TM):

1. Slang/Cursewords: I love non-ways of saying something. Instead of telling someone that they're speaking un-informedly, I'd far rather tell him (usually a him, I admit) that he's being a fucking smartypants. I can't help it. It gets to the point, and is a far more accurate indicator of both my mood (generally cranky) and the degree to which I feel it. Also, I love the mutability of the English language. I love that way that random words strung together acquire a sort of hidden meaning through the use of slang. My favorites of the slang and swear varieties (including the aforementioned F-word -- sorry, Mom, but it's true) include: navel-gazing, can't be arsed (not ass, an important distinction), liar liar pants on fire, gold-star gay, BALLS! (my favorite expression of ultimate displeasure), in like a lion out like a lamb, hole in the wall, and tightie-whities. I also include, more out of embarrasment than glee, my propensity for talking about my PANTS here in London. Pants of course in London meaning my underwear, not the cute jeans I just bought on sale at T.K. Maxx... those are apparently trousers. Balls.

2. Shakespeare: Haters, check your attitudes at the door. As, currently, I'm working as a live artist and devised theatre-maker, it is uncool to admit a passion for iambic pentameter and to be able to pick an anapest out of a line-up (which I can - oh snap). But I can't help but but bow before the genius of the language, and revel in the freedom that heightened language gives to an artist. I've got a whole mess of monologues and innumerable fragments floating around in my head, and I think of some part of them everyday. They've become a part of me, starting from when my Dad would read me A Midsummer Night's Dream as a bedtime story. I will never be done with the Bard.

3. Argentine Tango: Yeah I know. Looking at me, with my 5'2," chubby, short-waisted frame, you'd immediately assume that I've been around the milonga a time or two. But humor me. Something about the freedom that the dance finds in the extreme restrictions of the dance, namely a frame which requires the follow to physically lean into the lead's chest, is intoxicating to me. When I first experienced it as a dancer, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was a bit apprehensive about a dance invented for a pimp to show to off his whore. But then I checked my hesitation at the door (see, more slang!) and just went with it. The music and the dance speak volumes to me about sexuality, gender, power and masquerade; these concepts are the foundations of nearly all of my work, consciously or not. My Astor Piazzola playlist is the most played on my iPod, mostly put down to when I'm working in the studio.

4. Why do I remember that?: Really a foundational question for me. I'm almost haunted by wanting to know how memory WORKS. Why can't I remember the bliss of a good kiss in December for example, but instead, I remember, in great detail, falling down the front steps of the Political Science building at my undergraduate college, painfully skinning both knees? How does my body choose what becomes long-term memory? How reliable is my memory? How much am I "faking it" just to make the story better/easier/kinder, etc. The questions keep on coming.... I also think a lot about things like Alzheimer's and dementia, as I've had some family experience with them. It's a sick kind of fascination, I suppose, but it's there nonetheless.

5. Down to come up: I had a dance teacher and general life mentor in college who used this phrase a lot. Usually, she meant it in a technical way. If you're going to jump into the air, you'll go higher if you really push into the floor, gathering your momentum by pushing your feet into the floor. That sort of thing. But I hear this phrase in my head a lot, in relation to emotional state as well. I do tend to see experience as cyclical, the "high" of one experience growing out of the "low" of another and so on. I think about it a lot, and it seems to keep recurring for me in my artistic practice. So thank you, Jan Hyatt. For this, and so many things.

6. Nonliving "Actors" Onstage: I'm quite taken with Julie Taymor's early non-Spiderman work (like her stage version of The Tempest, in which she uses puppets in truly evocative and innovative ways. In that play, for example, Ariel is represented by the right hand of the actress who speaks her lines, and manages to convey a whole character with a palm and five little flexible digits. I'm very fascinated by the role that "animated objects" can play onstage, and by the capacity for interplay that these lifeless things hold. I'm exploring this constantly, as it seems, even when I consciously try not to. Which seems like a sign that I should NOT try not to, but just embrace it.

7. Einstein's Dreams: I can't seem to ever get too far away from this book, written by MIT professor Alan Lightman. He teaches both Physics and Creative Writing, and uses this text to explore the possible interpretations of Einstein's theory of relativity through the lens of fiction. The book continues to blow my mind. It asks a lot of reader, requiring a fair bit of imagination along the journey, but for me at least, these imaginative leaps of faith are rewarded in spades (slang alert). These short little essays are more like invitations to play, and to think through what it WOULD be like if a lifetime was only one day etc.

8. Travel: Short or extended, walking, train or plane, English-speaking or non, so on and so on. Doesn't matter. I am thoroughly inspired by changing my geographical locus. Sometimes, when I'm too broke to travel far, just jumping on the subway for a few hours helps fill my head and give me grand plans and ideas and things to mess around with. Travel (large and small-scale) will always be an important part of my process. And I will always have a visceral image of travelling around Horseshoe Curve on an Amtrack train as part of my lived vocabulary.


Well, there you go. The Zen of That Girl. What works for you?

Love,
TGI

"That Girl" Misses!

I’ve been thinking a lot about a good friend of mine the past few weeks. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, and worlds (both of ours) have changed in that time. For awhile, we were very close. It’s rare for me to find someone that I feel like I don’t have to explain myself to, but that they “get” me. When I was having a down day, I never had to explain what was going on, or why I wasn’t able to be in a good mood etc. This friend and I had that kind of friendship, and it was awfully nice. We'd go to see a lot of movies, then go out for a beer and dissect them ad nauseum. We'd talk comic books, regular fiction, and trade dating stories. While we were friends, we were both in (and out) of relationships with other people, and it never really complicated our friendship, even though he and I were close. But, as happens, things changed, and it’s been two years since we’ve really spoken. I’ve been wanting a chat with him, mostly as I’m doing so much creative writing right now, which touches on his preferred creative outlet. I could use some advice, and just a little experienced encouragement, I guess. But, he’s married now, and my spidey senses tell me that’s probably why we’ve lost touch; he doesn’t need a friend like me anymore, I suppose.

I have to admit though, that sometimes, even though it’s been awhile (and months will pass when I don’t think of it), sometimes I really miss our friendship. We used to bounce ideas off of each other, in our different creative pursuits, and I wish, now that I’m working so hard to find my artistic voice, sometimes that I could call him or send him an email to throw some ideas at him. I suppose it makes me think a lot about trust and about the need to maintain friendships (especially those with people of the opposite sex) when one gets into a romantic relationship.

I just got off the phone with The Donald because, as I’ve been thinking about his friend of mine, I’ve been wondering if I make it hard for Donald to stay in touch with his female friends (some of whom are exes). I’m not a particularly jealous person, and do try really hard to let him know that not only do I not mind his girl-friends, but that I like the fact that he has them. I am human however, and sometimes feel a little competiveness (internal, not coming from him). I want him to have those friendships though, as they’re important for him, and ultimately, good for our relationship too. I wouldn’t want to put him in a situation where he felt like he couldn’t talk to them. Fortunately, he concurred – I don’t make that hard for him, and he certainly doesn’t for me either.

I suppose there’s really no point to all of this. I ‘m just missing a particular friendly voice in my life, and really don’t have much confidence that we’ll be friends anytime again, certainly not in the near future. It does however make me much more aware of my own behaviour, and a real need to help both the Donald and I to be sure that we can maintain our friendships and our relationship simultaneously. While I do miss this friend of mine, I suppose that, if nothing less, this is an important lesson to learn, and a crucial commitment that I can make to myself and the Donald. So that’s something.

"That Girl" is Sickened!

To those of you who are currently stateside, these articles are probably old news. But as I get a bit behind on my depressing American news these days, I've only recently stumbled across them. And I think they bear mentioning in conjunction with one another, as a pretty grotesque example of the war on women currently being waged in the United States. The first article is a New York Times piece (!!!) that deals horribly with a case in Texas of an 11 year old girl who was gang-raped by 18 men. That explanation alone repulses me, but, believe me, the article compounds my disgust. The article can be found here for those who haven't seen it.

In this piece, reporter James C. McKinley, Jr. has managed to craft a piece in which blame for the attack goes to the "provocatively dressed" child victim, and asks for sympathy for the gang of men who thought it was all right to rape a child. According to the residents of the town that McKinley interviewed, much concern goes to the perpetrators who, although innocent until proven guility, will "have to live with this for the rest of their lives." Yes, they will. But I don't think that makes them the victims here. The outrage is incorrectly placed in this matter. Let's forget for a moment that the victim here is a child. That in and of itself should be a compelling reason why she should NOT have been a victim of a vicious assault. One person quoted in the article says the victim dressed more like a woman in her 20s than a child. So, the obvious question for me then is, what if she were a woman in her 20s? Would this be ok, as she was clearly 'asking for it?' No person ASKS to be the victim of sexual violence. As a woman, I should not have to live in fear because I wore a skirt and some heels out of my house one night. As a human being, I should be able to walk down the street naked without worrying about what some jerk thinks that entitles him (or her) to do to me. As a reporter, McKinley does have a duty to report on what public opinion is in his stories - but as a thinking human being, he could also have sought out some balance in his story, so as to not blame an elementary school-aged child for the hellish ordeal some adults decided to put her through.

And then we move to a charming email sent out by a fraternity brother at USC, in which women are not even considered people anymore, but "targets." The entire piece is fairly offensive, but do have a look if you are of strong stomach. Jezebel.com has printed the entire here. (At this point, I will mention that there is a suspicion that these could be a potential intra-fraternal prank. That however does not excuse its light-dealing with sexual assault and misogyny.)

While I could fill volumes with the reasons why this philosophy is heinous, I will instead focus on the one line that nearly made me vomit. According to our intrepid emailer, "non-consent and rape are two different things. There's a fine line so make sure not to cross it." No, sir, there isn't. Non-consent is what qualifies a sex act as rape. This is where the handy phrase "no means no" comes into play. By replacing 'woman' with 'target,' our writer justifies treating her as an inconsequential piece of the pie (pardon the terrible pun). We make less than men when we're employed full-time, we're treated as second-class citizens from time to time by our goverments, but goddamit, we have the right to determine our sexual limits. According to our writer, I, a strawberry pie, am just out there for the picking. To that, I say fuck off.

To me, taken in tandem, these two situations are a clear indicator that women are in danger in our country. Either we're overtly asking for it, by the way we behave and dress and act, or, even if we're not, it's okay to treat us like we are, as we don't count for much anyway. It's a classic case of "damned if we, damned if we don't." It would be easier to brush these two articles off, were it not for mainstream American political issues of late that seem to reinforce these damaging ideas. Recent legislation proposed in the form of HR3, superficially an anti-abortion law, would have sought to change the definition of rape, making a distinction between forceful an non-forceful sexual assault. Under this definition, spouse rape, date rape and all sorts of other types of sexual violence would be considered lesser form of assault, as opposed to those rapes which resulted in broken bones and bruises. A black eye is not what defines rape - non-consensual sexual acts are. Period. And then, in addition, when you consider the current fight in the US Congress to defund Planned Parenthood, the battle gets even hotter. Without Planned Parenthood, low-income women (and men, and children!) will not have access to affordable medical care. So, women are in effect targets: targets for sexual violence and then targets for subsequent abuse by our own government.

Perhaps this all sounds a bit reactionary and overblown to you. If it does, I must say that I envy you, because that must mean that you have been blessed to never know a person who has been a victim of rape. You could not feel that way, I'm sure, if you'd been woken up in the middle of the night by a freshman student who was your responsibility in college, who had just been raped by her then-boyfriend. I am positive that, as an empathetic human being, if you had seen first-hand the sadness, anger and confusion on her face, you would not in any way believe that there was any grey area when it comes to legislating against sexual assault. As you've clearly not had to look face-to-face with a woman like her, you wouldn't understand. Sadly, that's not my only brush with sexual violence. It happens more than most people want to believe. And I envy your disbelief - frankly, I'm a little jealous of you. To me, these are crucial issues because they're part of my life. And because of that, I ask you to consider very seriously the way that we treat women (and men and children) who are plunged into this ordeal. They didn't ask for it, but they are asking for our help. Please, if you are a woman, love a woman, or are raising a woman, take a stand against misogyny, and start making other do the same.

TGI

"That Girl" Has Creature Envy!

Have you ever been in the audience for a show and, throughout the whole thing, you find yourself wishing and dreaming that you had thought of it all first? That, somehow, you'd magically be sitting and watching your own terrific ideas unfold in front of your eyes? Yeah, me too. Especially last night, at the National Theatre's new envisioning of Frankenstein, scripted by Nick Dear and directed by Danny Boyle. While having some marked shortcomings, the overall vision of the production is a fusion of intelligent staging, executed with a daring commitment to the power of engaged physical theatre. If you are planning to see the show, please, do yourself a favor and stop reading this blog right now. Give yourself the rare pleasure of being surprised by a theatrical production - Frankenstein may not be a perfect play, but it is a damn good night at the theatre, particularly if you let yourself get carried away by it.

Last night's cast featured Jonny Lee Miller as the Creature, and saw understudy Daniel Ings stepping nervously (at first) but well-deservedly into the shoes of Victor Frankenstein. Miller is exquisite in tracing the arc of the Creature from inarticulate birth to thinking, rationale man, and finally to calculated "villain." I couldn't tear my eyes away during the first fifteen minutes, in which the Creature grapples with his unfamiliar body, and finally, beautifully, discovers how to master it. The movement vocabulary here, meant to evoke the process of learning to walk, is unpredictable and fresh, and feels like it's discovered on the spot, quite a feat in a well-rehearsed and choreographed production. Immediately, I became invested in the Creature, because I was drawn into a relationship of physical empathy with him. We see the bruised, scarred body, hear the mangled voice, and then get to watch this newborn thing learn something, before our very eyes. Through the workings of this human body, I came to "know" the Creature, without text, without narrative, and immediately put my "knowing" into the frame of relation to my own humanness. It's a risky choice, I think, to begin a 120 minute performance (with no interval) with a speechless quarter-hour, but one that, for me, paid off in spades. It's also a brilliant example of the strange power of simple physical theatre on a modern techno-saturated audience.

The performance does feel quite filmic at times, switching locations even faster than the Creature learns passages from Paradise Lost. These scenic changes are eye-popping, inovative, and really draw on the craft of scenic designers and artists, led by designer Mark Tildesley. On the Creature's first foray into town, he is met by the arrival of a steampunk train, a rain shower, and two glorious flocks of birds in the sunset - I am not ashamed to admit that the sheer simplicity of that final image moved me to tears in my seat in the Olivier Circle. Overall for me, the lasting success of this production is in those moments of utter simplicity, as when the Creature, drawn towards an orange and red-lit sun on the back wall of the stage, is gleefully shocked by paper birds that are pulled from a barrel and flock up towards the rafters. Those cinematic moments captured by the magic (and innovation) of live theatre, paired with a commitment to solid physical acting are really quite arresting, and my lingering impressions of Frankenstein.

For the clarity of those moments, and the strength of the performances of Miller, Ings and the elderly benefactor De Lacey, rendered compassionately by Karl Johnson, I'm willing to forgive the falterings of the script and the timid acting by some of the supporting cast. Because the script spans years in a matter of hours, traversing a wide landscape, there are moments where Dear gives way to pastiche of Shelley's novel, instead of the caring adaptation found throughout the rest. The scenes with the Creature sparkle, and fly along at a healthy clip, but some others get bogged down by sentimentality, and, sometimes, a rush to get to the next 'good' scene. In contending with these rough patches, some of the actors like George Harris and Naomie Harris (as Frankenstein's father and fiancee respectively) can't seem to get a handle on their characters. Although likeable, the wind up being unremarkable in the midst of the duet between Frankenstein and his creation.

At this moment, I will again repeat my request that, if you haven't seen this production yet, but plan to, to please stop reading. I'm going to spill my favorite moment, but don't want to deprive you the pleasure of your own shock... So go away.

For those of you still reading, I'm interested in talking about the climactic scene near the frenzied finish, as the Creature first lures in Victor's now-wife Elizabeth to trust him, and then repays Victor's broken promise in-kind, by both raping and murdering her. I call attention to this moment because it reminded me veyr viscerally how magical live theatre is. You see, as I study this year, I'm surrounded by people who say that they don't go to see plays because "it's just a bunch of actors pretending" etc. While I don't agree with them, it does sort of get into my head from time. But then, every once awhile, one has the distinct pleasure to be reminded how powerful watching live acting really is. In this production, the moment I refer to is quite simple; it's a visual and aural trick that most actors have been a part of at some point in time. But it works on the audience every time. The Creature, having finished with Elizabeth, straddles her, takes her head in his head, utters a meant "I'm Sorry" and then, without hesitation, snaps her neck. A simple, quiet cracking sound effect accompanies the action. And three-quarters of the audience growns, grimaces, growls or otherwise (audibly and physically) reacts. Yes. It's a moment of pretending. If it weren't Elizabeth would have a very valid posthumous lawsuit to press against the NT. But the pretending is so invested, so committed to by the actors, portraying characters that we've, in this production, happily accpeted our invitation to relate to, that we CARE. Wr're affected. And we allow ourselves to "believe" what we've seen. That's where live theatre gets me every time. It is a distinct pleasure, in a sick sort of way, to be fooled like this.

Frankenstein is not by any means a perfect play - Dear would perhaps have been better to focus on his two main characters whom he gives the most care to, and leave out the supporting ones, who don't seem to captivate his creativity. But, under the eye of Danny Boyle, the National Theatre's production sings, showing us just what can be accomplished with an exquisite design in harmony with well-explored acting. As an example of what solid actors can do with sensitive direction, Frankenstein comes to life in the best possible way.

"That Girl" is Counting!

I've been thinking a lot lately about the relevance of art, and by natural extrapolation, the relevance of art-makers. In my education as a kid, art was always on the fringes. An integral part of elementary learning then becomes a choice of electives in middle and high school, often pitting music against art against (if you're lucky) theatre. I never took a theatre class until college, because my high school didn't offer one, and yet I've always know I wanted to work in theatre, because I grew up in an art-filled house. Art was always relevant in my family, even when it seemed extracurricular to others.

I'm wondering about that lately, as I more and more think that, possibly, art (as a form of expression) is one of the single-most relevant things we have. As a kind of object, things like poems, sculptures, sonatas, performances, leave a trace. They leave behind something of the art-maker as well as something of the experience with the art, and they remain in the world and in our sort of collective consciousness potentially forever. Art in this way functions as a bookmark, I think, kind of an indication of where someone's head was at a particular moment. To me, it's important to cultivate that kind of awareness, that we are all part of something bigger, with relations and responsibilities towards each other, and we all fundamentally spend most of our lives trying to communicate with others.

I suppose I've been thinking about these sorts of things a lot lately because, for the first time in my life, I am free to make art as my full-time job right now. I'm not trying to audition and run a theatre company while also working two jobs just to pay my rent. Although I'm broker than broke, I've been given this gift of time out of the rat race where art is peripheral to one's "real" job. I've been blessed with the gift of a year. It's a beautiful thing really, to be given the gift of 365 days. To me, that's what this year is. A selfishly awesome gift.

I've been allowed to move to a foreign country. I've been granted the extreme privilege of (thus far) not having to work a regular job while I study. I've been welcomed into other foreign countries, to tour their museums, visit their monuments, drink pints with their citizens, and butcher their languages cheerfully. I've been granted the opportunity to make friends here, enlarging by a power of 1000 what my conception of "home" is. I've been invited to make work that people will watch, comment on, critique, respond to etc., and have been given the chance to do the same for them. I've stood in the sacred spot of Celtic kings, shivered in the Globe's wooden O, stared blankly at the weirdness of Trafalgar Square, and lit a candle in Notre Dame Cathedral. And, because I have this luxury of time, I've been allowed to let my brain wander, and figure out how it can use these things to inform my artistic practice, to "make art." This year, I make art. Period. And I still have time.

This year, I am getting my first taste of what life as a working artist is, and I am beyond positive that I never want to let it go. I may not be a "good" artist. My art may not matter. It certainly won't topple a government, change hearts and minds or shift many paradigms. But it is without a shadow of a doubt what I am supposed to do, what I am doing. It is not for a peripheral activity, but rather the thing that I do. And that counts.

"That Girl" Has Big Plans for the Next Twelve Months.

I need to confess to all of you here in InternetsLand, right here, right now, one of my deepest darkest secrets. I am a compulsive list-maker. They exist in all manner of written forms, littered across the physical and psychic landscapes of my life. Dinner napkins, post-its, various journals, backs of receipts, plane tickets... the "list" goes on. I derive great pleasure from crossing items of said lists; so much pleasure, that sometimes, just to get the ball rolling, I usually start a new list with a thing or two I've *already* done, just to get my kicks giving that item the ol' crossero. So here, culled from several distinct lists, is my dream to-do list for the next 12 months... because I believe in deadlines as well as lists.

1. Move to Chicago. Just to try it out.
2. Move back to NYC. If Chicago sucks.
3. Assemble cabaret show for self and surpass crushing anxiety re:singing in public.
4. Let the Donald make me an 'honest gal.' Assuming this list doesn't freak him out.
5. Call my grandmother more often.
6. Purchase a pair of sassy black pants that both a) look hot and b) don't cut of circulation to feet.
7. Finalllllllly do the production of Othello that I've been pondering for well-on three years now.
8. Go on big real auditions. Seriously, Seremet. You can do this.
9. Read War and Peace. it's a book, not a paperweight.
10. Take a refresher Spanish course. And/or visit Spain and talk to everyone.
11. Make plan to cope with immense weight of student loan debt. Cry first.
12. Update classical monologue repetoire. Give Bertram's Helena a freaking break.
13. Write incredible, amazing, genre-altering dissertation. And/or pass.
14. Spend more time in sunlight.
15. Visit someplace from which my family origins can be traced to (NB: besides Pennsylvania).
16. Go back to my undergrad college for a visit.
17. Audition for a musical again. Do self proud and don't vomit during/after.
18. Shell out the bucks to see Warhorse in London.

So that's that. Eighteen easy-peasy tiny little tasks to accomplish prior to January 29th, 2012. Riiiight. But, there is something very satisfying to see all that stuff on paper - somehow, getting it onto a page makes it feel more important than if it's in my head. So that's that.

Sometimes, making lists of things I need to do sometimes overtakes the list I could make of the things I have managed to do so far in this life. So, here, I leave you with some of my stranger "accomplishments."

A. There is a book floating around in this world that is dedicated to me. In original drafts, the main female character was named Molly. Although the author and I have lost touch, it make me feel special to look at the acknowledgements.

B. I once entered a beauty pageant. I did not win. Surprisingly, I cried buckets afterwards.

C. I am a recipient of an "Ugliest" title in my hometown, for a particularly stellar Halloween costume one year. I was so crowned in my local newspaper.

D. Marlo Thomas, Brian Murray and Kim Staunton have all worn costumes that I've had a significant hand in creating.

E. I was a cheerleader for over eight years. And I was good at it.

E. I produced and performed in a one woman show in New York City that got decent reviews and was well-attended. Opening night is still the proudest moment of my life.

See? So, even if my current 18 hopes/dreams don't pan-out, I'll always be the Ugliest loser seamstress, going broke to working in NYC fringe, with small-run books in her cheery honor. Nothing like keeping life in perspective. ;)

Love,
TGI

"That Girl" Understand Virtuosity. She Thinks.

Last night, I got to be part of something that, cheesy or no, has been a dream of mine for nearly 3/4 of my life. I got to see the Royal Shakespeare Company in action in London. And, I gotta tell ya, it was brilliant, and, where language is concerned, an exercise in virtuosity.

I know it'll sound strange to anyone who has seen some of the recent work that I've made, which has tended towards the abstract and truly bizarre, but my real true artistic love is classical theatre. I'm always intrigued by the way Shakespeare's poetry, for example, is choreographed, bringing out colors and nuances that regular ol' prose can't quite get at. Having been introduced to Shakespeare at an early age through my father, I grew up on iambic pentameter and blank verse, and learned early on that "it's just words." But, oh, what exquisite words.

Oftentimes, I'm disappointed when I see classical theatre performed (example: Hamlet at the National Theatre) because the text gets treated with such elevated reverence that it just sounds like pretty syllables, not actual communicative language. In the US, I think it has a lot to do with the way that Shakespeare is taught in our schools, as this utterly unintelligible other language, meant to be endured not enjoyed. It's always such a pleasure to be present for a performance in which the language is used to its fullest potential, without becoming precious. And last night's production was an excellent example of this pleasant experience.

From right off the bat, the pacing of the dialogue was, spot on. In Orlando's opening monologue and his subsequent scene with belligerent brother Oliver, the dynamic blocking (working the large diagonals of the thrust stage, an energetic physical confrontaion) worked nicely with the fragmentation of the poetry in these opening scenes. One thing I love about Shakespeare is the way the structure of the language gives clues about the relationships between characters/concepts in the plays. In the scene between these two distant brothers, there's a disconnect in the language. Orlando and Oliver's words do not flow together, the way the speakings of characters who are in tune with each other (like Celia and Rosalind a few scenes later) do. The RSC capitalizes on these 'clues' to their best effect, highlighting the choreography of Shakespeare's text with sympathetic blocking, bringing the text alive.

One of my favorite aspects of this production has to be Rosalind, played by the lovely Katy Stephens, and her 'transformation' into the masculine Ganymede. Oftentimes, I find that these moments of cross-dressing in Shakespeare are difficult, because they become moments of characterlessness. For me, it's not about believing that Rosalind IS a dude. It's about seeing the way that Rosalind frees herself from the requirements of being a courtly woman by taking on the behaviors of a rustic boy. That transformation has very little to do with physical appearance or really even gender difference, but rather a freedom in movement and in language. And Stephens accomplishes this in spades for the RSC.

In an early interaction with the Duke her uncle, she eloquently (as Rosalind) defends her honor and that of her banished father, in lovely iambic pentameter, complete with definitive statements, resolving in soft feminine endings. Stephens uses this common structure to best effect, by physically standing her ground, and using the softness of the structure to entreat the Duke, played by Sandy Neilson. His responses are curt, short and definitive, and generally complete the poetics of his niece's first and last lines, making him feel like an interruptor, excising the quiet logic of her words. Neilson and Stephens play this moment perfectly, and I think it's a lovely example of Rosalind's feminine speech.

For me then, her transformation into Ganymede largely a linguistic one, although Stephens does look cute with her painted-on five o'clock shadow and slight swagger. Her transformation however is most believable in the way that she speaks as Ganymede, adopting a faster pace and more brusque use of the poetry, especially in her "lovers" scenes with Orlando. From their first meeting in the woods, Orlando and Ganymede have a casual bantering style with one another, resolving each other's thoughts easily, much in the way two good friends are wont to do. At the RSC, Stephens and Jonjo O'Neill as Orlando work this banter to full effect, letting the playful patter infect their physicality. In this way, we do believe that they're bros, without having to endure a Rosalind who is trying desperately to show us that she's a man.

Altogether, the show was a total pleasure. With simple yet effective scenography and costumes, the virtuosic use of language drives this production, and is used to best effect by cast and director alike. I am so thrilled to have gotten to be part of the audience at the Roundhouse for this enjoyable romp through the forest of Arden!