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What Artists Ask

10/28/2016

Like many artists, I sometimes think about my resources more than the art I make. How do I do this and eat at the same time? How can I afford to write and live and make theater? How do I get paid a living wage to do what I do every day?

The reality inside those curiosities is hard. That's why a lot of people give up, especially the older they get. Giving up isn't something I want to do. It isn't something most artists want to do. Working out the time and money equation is where longevity tends to break down.

Since May, I've been reading amazing interviews between Anne Bogart and theater-making giants from her beautiful book of 24 Conversations with Anne. One way or another, every single one of those greats -- including Zelda Fichandler, Richard Foreman, Bill T. Jones, Tina Landau, Charles L. Mee., Jr, Meredith Monk, Mary Overlie and on and on -- gets into those problems from a personal, national and/or international perspective. How to pay for what they do, what we do, what the younger generations are doing. How to keep up the stamina, the balance, the sustainability, the productivity?

Often their thought trains funnel into the fundamental stories underneath those costs of how to live, eat and make art that matters. And those stories stem from questions. What is it that you do? Why do you do it? Why does it matter to us (the people with money)? Why should we pay you for it? It seems the clearer each individual and organization is on these answers (these STORIES), the better and longer they'll do what they want to do, the more impact and difference they'll make.

Money and time are difficult parts to the art/life equation, but they aren't forever missing or impossible to find. We need to fight for our resources as artists, through storytelling, through asking ourselves and our community tough questions. The more we understand what it is we're doing and how to relate its meaning to others, the more likely that money and time will be granted to back us, and we'll be able to continue doing our important work.

I'm going into this here because this frustratingly necessary question continues to needle me, as I'm sure always will: How do I make this work? Again it comes down to more questions. What am I doing with my art? Why do I do that? Why does it matter to me, to my community, to the world? The answers change. The questions don't. Questions beget questions, but at the core they're all the same. It's the asking that's transformative.

As I ask me what I'm doing and why, I'm so thankful for my Creative Inquiry education. That school of thought I learned from California Institute of Integral Studies lives at the heart of everything I'm doing now. As I want my art to be better, my plays to reach wider scope, my income and lifestyle to afford me time and space to make art, those questions are always my first to grab. What? Why? How?

What questions are you asking yourself in your process today?

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A Few Friday Reminders (from me to me)

10/21/2016

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Remember when the work gets hard, that's the time to find the joy in it -- anywhere in it.
Remember when the work gets emotional, to keep pressing in. That's the core juice.
Remember when the work goes awry to take a breath and reset. Begin again.
Remember when the work gets in the way of living, it's best to reevaluate priorities.
Remember when the what-to-say runs out, your body/mind is asking you to wait.

More will come. Creativity is patient listening.

And if someone isn't into a something created, it may not be for them.

Photo Buzz Anderson.

The work always goes up and down. There is no steady fire stream.
But then sometimes the volcano erupts into a mountain, an island.
And new beings learn how to live there.

Coexist with them. With all these stages.
It's the art that makes the art, the writing that does the writing.
Your task now is to open up, listen and translate.

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Speaking Up to Move Forward

10/14/2016

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One thing that takes some learning for me as a teaching artist, workshop leader and sometimes-director is how to step in boldly and say what I think, as though what I say is the right answer. I'm more interested in a collaborative process than a dictatorial one. There are several right answers. I'm always conscious of the truth that others in the class or rehearsal will have as good or better of an idea as the one I propose.

But I've also noticed that I can take too much time hearing out every new opinion and perspective that arises in a classroom or rehearsal space. We can go around in circles that way, and forward movement comes to a standstill. Plus, often the same few voices pipe up again and again, which silences those in the room who really want to keep striving ahead instead of discussing every point.

This isn't news here, either for longtime teachers and directors out there or for anyone who's been part of a class, production process, or who's lived in the world. For me though, I have to keep reminding myself that the most generous thing can be to speak boldly from a leadership position in the name of what's best for the learning, the process, the work in front of us and the whole group.

It's scary for me to speak up loudly for what I think is the best next choice. I spent most my life thinking I was wrong about everything. Much of my adult life I was unable to trust my own brain. I also know that this difficulty is worthwhile in the long and short run.

This up-speaking is a learning that helps my writing and art-making as much as my teaching, leadership and general life skills. When I make a bold choice and stand by it in a play or some other piece of writing, people may react against it. Instead of buckling, that reaction is reason to step forward and stand up.

I'm thinking right now of an upcoming play production that could experience some walk-outs and push-back. It's already stirred up opposition among some of the cast, which I didn't expect, for its political statements and departing from status quo. This is exciting to me, but also nerve-wracking. My task in that uncomfortable moment of pointed questioning after our first read-through was to avoid the impulse to be nice and change things to make the script more likable by the larger public and everyone in that room.

Poster image from ME AND MY SHADOW, my last play that stirred a vocal, hostile, polarizing response. Since then I've been resistant (scared) to keep working on the play. I'm learning better ways to respond to opposition. Image by Jason Willford.

Looking through theater and art history, some of my favorite works caused conflict, walkouts and polarizing responses in their audiences, or were outright hated at first. With this piece, I know the work is good, or at least that I love it and my director, production team (and much/all? of my cast now) is behind it.

I'm interested in seeing what audiences think, but as a writer I'm starting to trust my instincts, make bold choices and speak up for what I need my play or piece to say and do. Yes I'm writing for an audience, but I'm not writing to entertain or placate, and I'm also writing for me.

These are good growing pains.

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Drop-In Workshop October 2016

10/7/2016

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Grounding the Magical in Images

For this week's Free Drop-In Writing Workshop at The Cabin, we read an illustrated story about monsters and childhood by Lynda Barry from her book What it Is, and worked with a process inspired from that same book to ground something magical into something we can hold onto through images.

I suggest everyone who needs a volcanic burst of creative inspiration go to their local library or bookseller to pick up this book immediately. Consider these passages a tiny glimpse into her process -- but really you need to see it in full illustrated goodness and hold that big book in your hands.

Lynda Barry, a self-portrait of exceptional inspiration

Introduction to the Process (after reading the Barry excerpts)

What I want us to play with today are the stories we have locked in us,
Stories we have in our bodies, that can come to us without forcing them out
And without thinking so hard.
Something that will help us a lot is using images that come from memories.
As opposed to depending on information and emotions.
Have two or three pages in front of you – one for doodling and notes.
You can always get more pages.

Relaxation

Before we start writing or even dreaming up ideas,
We’re going to start by relaxing.
Start by paying attention to every part of you
From your feet, working up the body to your head, and then back down
Imagine a little pixie touching each part of your body with a relaxation wand.
The soles of your feet. Your ankles. Your calves. Your shins. Your knees.
And and and up up up all the way, and back again.
Take a good five minutes to do this.

Now, Make a List

Number your page from 1-10 and make a list
Of ten monsters you knew in your early life.
These might be imaginary friends, monsters you were fascinated with,
Creatures or animals you knew, or people that behaved like monsters.
Monsters you actually knew. The first ten that come to you.

If monsters feels too weird and distant, you can list ten of something else, like ten cars or ten dogs or ten of other peoples mothers, but try to go for monsters. Experiment. Whatever noun you choose, let things come up from your early years. Write down names or easy descriptors.

If you get stuck or finish early, try writing the alphabet until you can start up again.

Choose One

Look over your list and choose one of those monsters.
Choose the one that seems most vivid to you.
Try to choose one that came to you, and not one you thought up.

Now, Write the Name of the Monster on top of a new page, or section.

Take a look around in this image.
Picture your monster in a place where you’ve seen it/him/her/them before.

And answer these questions. As you look at this image:

You only need to write a sentence or two in response to these questions. Picture the scene and write down what you see with your mind’s eye. If you don’t know, guess. This should take about ten minutes.

Where are you?
What are you doing?
What is the monster doing?
What time of day does it seem to be?
What season?
About how old are you?
About how old is the monster?
Why are you there?
Why is the monster there?
Is anyone else in this image? If so, who?
Is there anyone who just left or may be coming?
What kind of mod does this monster seem to be in?
What does it/she/him/they look like?

Now, let’s turn around inside of this image. This will take another ten minutes or so.

What’s in front of you? (take notes)
What’s to your left? (what’s there?)
What’s to your right? (write it down!)
What’s behind you? (small details are good!)
What’s above your head? (you see more when you write it down!)
What’s below your feet? (little things add up)

Now really into the writing:

Beginning with the words “I am,” show us where you are and what is happening with the monster image that has come to you. Fill as many pages as you can. Try and do it without stopping (if you get stuck, try writing the alphabet or drawing a spiral). Try to stay inside the image. Write for at least 10-15 minutes.

In closing, two thoughts about images and childhood by Lynda Barry:

“An image is a thought, a memory, a location of an experience.” Lynda Barry

“Stuart Dybeck wrote a book called Childhood and other Neighborhoods and I think this begins to describe it, the idea of our childhood as a neighborhood with something like streets and houses, school yards and cemeteries, short cuts and long ways. It’s a good way to start, by thinking of childhood as a place rather than a time. A place that already exists like an unplayed-with play set, needing only one thing to set all things in motion.” Lynda Barry

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Notes: A Little Blog Page

What Artists Ask

A Few Friday Reminders (from me to me)

Speaking Up to Move Forward

Drop-In Workshop October 2016

Heidi Kraay

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