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 It's probably going to make me sound like a very cold, very withdrawn, misanthropic kind of woman.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!
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
"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 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
Sunday, March 27, 2011
"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.
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.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
"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
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
Friday, March 4, 2011
"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.
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.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
"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.
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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
"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
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
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