Artists I admire: Mother Nature

I like to run in the snow. And I mean while it's snowing. Call me crazy. Call me reckless. Call me whatever you want. There's something about running through snow that appeals to me. I hope for the opportunity at least once each winter, and it came this morning.

When I initially woke up, I didn't think it was going to happen. I'd been planning a run for Friday morning, and then this snow materialized with a lot of wind. At 8am I thought it was way too windy and probably too slippery. I ate some breakfast, puttered around a bit with emails, and then by 10am, I decided to give it go. The wind had died down, the snow was falling at a light to moderate rate, and the trees outside my kitchen window looked beautiful. I got my running gear on and headed out.

I decided I would do my standard 5-mile route, just in case the wind kicked back up or it started to snow harder. For my NYC running friends, I run from 145th Street down to the 110th Street / Cathedral Parkway entrance to Central Park. From there I run down to 102nd Street Transverse, across to the east side and down to the 72nd Street Transverse. Back across to the west side and then down to Columbus Circle. I always finish with a coffee from Whole Foods.

As I ran down to Central Park, I encountered wet roads and some slushy spots. Overall, not so bad. St. Nicholas Park looked very pretty, but it was hard to fully take it in because I was trying to look out for icy patches under foot. I ran down Frederick Douglass Boulevard, and the northwest corner of Central Park came into view. Every tee limb, and I'm not exaggerating, was covered in snow. It was like every tree had a layer of vanilla icing, and it was perfect. I stopped at the park entrance to stretch a bit, then ran into the park onto the Harlem Hills. I ran the short uphill section, kind of in awe of what I was seeing and #grateful that I could take it in because the pavements were so clear. I rounded the corner and started up the last part of the hill and was completely overwhelmed by how beautiful it all was. Quiet, perfectly covered trees, white skies, and this sense of peace. I suddenly became very aware of what a gift I had been given this morning on that run. For a moment, I cursed myself for not running with my phone, but then I realized that no picture would capture what I was experiencing. So I just ran, taking it all in as I moved down the hill to the 102nd Street Transverse. I made the left turn and continued on my way.

The rest of the run was fine, but nothing else in the park compared to that stretch from 110th to 102nd. I'll never forget it. And to think that I almost didn't go.

Two weeks ago Mother Nature opened a can of Whoop Ass on the Mid Atlantic and showed the beauty of her power. This morning she baked a cake and frosted it with all the gentleness and care that my own mom puts into every cake, pie, and cookie she makes. For giving me one of those runs of a lifetime, Mother Nature is the artist I admire this week.

Working through revisions and having some pride

I'm currently working on the revision of a book chapter that I've been asked to contribute to a new arts-based research handbook edited by Patricia Leavy. I've written chapters before, and it's always the same: arduous, terrifying, exhilarating. And the list goes on. But always #grateful for the opportunity.

Writing anything for me is difficult, because I have a really loud inner censor that screams, "That's shit!" a lot of the time as I write. That voice sometimes yells at every sentence. It even happens when I write for this blog. I've gotten better at ignoring that censor voice on here and in my creative writing. Now I wait until it's all out of me, and then I declare out loud that what I've written is shit. Some would argue that it's just as bad, but at least I'm letting the ideas flow.

In drafting this chapter, I tried to apply a similar technique: just let my thoughts on this topic come out of me, then go back and refine. I'm in the process of doing that now, already working past the agreed upon deadline that Patricia very graciously extended.  When I go back and read what I wrote on all those days when I was working in the fall, I shudder at a lot of it, and start to try and pare away at the excess of words and the awkward constructions. And then every once in awhile, I happen upon a sentence that I actually like, and it feels good not to have to do anything to it. At least this time around. I enjoy the drafting process, but I find that I make lots and lots of changes every time a new draft emerges. It's probably a good thing, but also maddening in a circular sort of way.

As someone who reads a lot of student writing, I think we've got to get better as teachers at encouraging our students to embrace the revision process. Just like everything else, we now complete assignments at breakneck speed without really paying attention to what we've been asked to do. Our work and the quality of it when we hand it off to someone else needs to send a prideful message about how we feel about what we've been asked to do and how we've tackled the task. That's why I'm trying to revise this chapter very carefully. The content is obviously very important, but if I've poorly executed the mechanics of the writing, then I convey a strange message about my level of care and investment in the project.

Just something I'm thinking about. Another way of considering why paying careful attention to our writing is important.

A compelling case about why we even have these options...

I think this New York Times article places a lot of things into perspective and explains why Trump and Sanders are appealing to so many people. I'm not sure I necessarily agree with all of what the writer has to say, but the piece certainly made me stop and think about some of the reasons why we are where we are.

At Capacity--Scene 9: Julia and the Midnight Visitors

(Lights up on the dining room, in the middle of the night.  It’s dark except for one small light on a table in the corner. There are four boxes left in the room. One with each of the children’s names on the side, plus a fourth box that has stuff sticking out of the top. Julia is asleep with her head on the table. The snowflake is in the plastic container that Steve bought, and it’s glowing. Where the caroler dolls were usually standing now stand three life sized carolers dressed exactly the same as the dolls. The life-sized carolers are played by the actors who play Mark (dark suit and top hat), Cassie (green dress and white muffler), and Claire (red dress with blue hat and gloves). They are frozen as the lights come up, holding caroling books. As the lights establish, they begin to glow like the snowflake, and as that happens, they begin to hum “Deck the Halls.”)

MALE CAROLER (counting them in, then humming)
5, 6, 7, 8

(The humming is soft at first, but then grows in volume, and then actually becomes the song itself with full on lyrics and full voices. Julia wakes up to see the carolers, jumps out of her chair, and shrieks. The carolers continue, as if they don’t notice her.)

JULIA (yelling, panicked)
What’s going on? (no response) Who are you? What are you doing here?

(The carolers ignore her. Julia grabs a pair of scissors from the table and holds them out threateningly, jabbing at them as she speaks.)
 

JULIA
You need to get out of here. NOW! The door’s over there. CLAIRE!  STEVE! WHAT’S GOING ON? GET OUT! I SAID GET OUT!

(The carolers get to the end of the song, take a ritard on the final verse, and finish with some simple harmony. Then they close their caroling books and stare at Julia.)

JULIA
I must be dreaming. That’s it. I’m still asleep. (Frantically laughing to herself.) It’s ok. They’re not really there. They're just dolls in the corner.

RED CAROLER
We’re here, Julia.

JULIA
How do you know my name?

GREEN CAROLER
We’ve known you forever.

JULIA
No.

MALE CAROLER
Yes.

JULIA
Now I’m imagining things. Too much time in this house.

MALE CAROLER
It’s not your imagination.

JULIA
It is. You never talked before.

GREEN CAROLER
We never had anything to say.

JULIA
What?

MALE CAROLER
But we do now.

JULIA (sitting down and holding her hands over her ears)
You’re not really here. You’re not really here. You’re not really here.

RED CAROLER
You can’t run from us, Julia. We’ve seen it all.

JULIA
No.

GREEN CAROLER
Saw it all.

JULIA
Stop it.

GREEN CAROLER
Every Christmas since your parents brought you home from the hospital.

JULIA
Shut up.

MALE CAROLER
That time when you were five.

JULIA
SHUT UP!

RED CAROLER
The one when you were seven and you wore the green dress just like that one (pointing to her fellow caroler).

JULIA
No, I never wore a green dress like that.

GREEN CAROLER (to the others)
She’s not remembering.

MALE CAROLER
It happens.

RED CAROLER
Such a shame.

MALE CAROLER
Then there was that year you wore pants.

JULIA
I said, stop it. Please?

GREEN CAROLER
You thought it would help.

RED CAROLER
But it didn’t.

JULIA
Please stop?

(Julia is not handling this very well. She moves to the table and sits with her head in her hands.)

MALE CAROLER
He still got to you.

JULIA
NO!

RED CAROLER
You looked at your mom when he asked for your help with the gifts in the car, and she didn’t even notice.

JULIA
Please stop talking about this.

GREEN CAROLER
Why? We saw it happen.

MALE CAROLER
It’s the truth.

JULIA
No, it’s not.

RED CAROLER
You know it is.

JULIA
SHUT UP! I SAID SHUT UP! (she starts banging her fist on the table as she’s yelling) STOP SAYING THOSE THINGS. IT DID NOT HAPPEN. NOTHING HAPPENED. GO WAY GO AWAY GO AWAY. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!

(As Julia continues to yell and pound, a very loud humming starts to happen and the glow of the snowflake grows in intensity. The carolers continue to say “You know it is” in unison. Under the humming, Steve can be heard yelling for Julia, as if he’s coming from another part of the house. As all of this is happening, Julia continues to bang on the table, not looking at the carolers, and they disappear, replaced by their three doll-sized versions. The dolls glow in their usual spot. Once that transition is complete, Steve enters in his boxers and a t-shirt, obviously woken up by Julia’s yelling. He enters and goes to her.)

STEVE
Julia, wake up! Julia! (He touches her and she starts, lunging at him with the scissors.)

JULIA (jumping up)
DON’T TOUCH ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!

STEVE (totally startled and shocked)
WHOA! Whoa! Julia! It’s me. Steve. Your brother.  It’s ok.

JULIA (trying to figure out what’s happening)
What?

STEVE
It’s ok. You were having a dream.

JULIA
No. They're here.

STEVE
They? Who?

JULIA (not looking in their direction)
Them. The carolers. (pointing over her shoulder)

STEVE (confused)
Uh, . . . yes, they’re right there. Where they’ve been all week.

JULIA
No, they were just talking to me.

STEVE
What?

JULIA (turning to face them)
Where are they? They were right there.

STEVE
They’re still there.

JULIA
No, I mean they were real. Like real humans.

STEVE
I think you better sit down. Are you feeling ok? Do you want some water?

JULIA
They were right there, but they were big and they started singing and then saying scary things, like they knew stuff.

STEVE
Knew stuff?

JULIA
Yeah.

STEVE
I’m gonna get you some water.

JULIA
NO! Don’t leave me in here with them.

STEVE
They’re just dolls. Decorations.

JULIA
Don’t leave me here!

STEVE
Julia, I think…

JULIA
I’m serious. Don’t leave me. What if they come back?

(Steve looks at Julia and he realizes that she really thinks they were there.)

STEVE
Uh, OK. Uhm. Wow. OK. . . . So, what do you want to do?

JULIA
I don’t know.

STEVE
Well, I’m thinking that maybe you should come upstairs with me to bed.

JULIA
And leave them down here?

STEVE
Yes.

JULIA
All alone?

STEVE
I don’t think they’re going anywhere. Not until we decide what to do with them.

JULIA
I’m afraid they’re going to come find me.

STEVE
Julia, they're not going to come find you. This is like when you were a little girl.

JULIA
Stop it.

STEVE
It is!

JULIA
I don’t want to talk about it!

STEVE
Why not?

JULIA
Because I don’t. OK?  I just don’t.

STEVE
OK then. Can you come upstairs with me?

JULIA
I don’t trust them.

STEVE (moving towards her with caution)
OK, Julia. Why don’t you bring the scissors with you up to your bedroom? You can keep them on your nightstand just in case.

JULIA (still eyeing the carolers)
Uh…

STEVE
I need to go to sleep. It’s an early morning for me, and you need rest.

JULIA
Uhm, OK. But can you stay in my room with me?

STEVE
No, I’m not going to—

(Steve stops himself as he realizes this may be the only way to get her up to bed.)

STEVE
Yes, OK. I’ll bring a blanket it and sleep next to you on the floor.

JULIA
That’s what we used to do.

STEVE
That’s what we used to do. Yes, I remember.

(Steve looks at her, but Julia is not moving.)

STEVE
OK?

JULIA
OK.

STEVE
Let’s go upstairs.

JULIA
OK.

STEVE
You go first. Bring the scissors. I’ll shut out the lights.

JULIA
OK.

(Julia exits with the scissors, turning one more time to look at the carolers before she heads out of the room. Steve goes over to the table and checks to make sure the snowflake is OK in its case. Then he looks over at the carolers, shakes his head, and exits the room, shutting off the small light. It’s dark in the room, and as soon as he clears the threshold, the carolers and the snowflake start to glow brighter, the humming returns, and the carolers chanting from before comes back “You know it is.” The glowing and the sound builds, then the lights fade. End of scene.)

Artists I admire: Anna Deavere Smith

Last night I started teaching a new course at NYU, "Creating Ethnodrama: Theory & Practice." I've taught variations of this course under other titles in the past, but this new course represents an arrival of sorts. I've been working with interview data and field notes to create play scripts for over fifteen years now, and as I prepped the opening lecture for the course, I realized that it might be helpful for my students if I explained how I got there. Like literally what were the steps that lead me to this moment of standing in front of a room teaching a graduate course on this very specific style of work.

As I sorted through those steps and placed them onto slides, I was reminded of the moment, the spark of intrigue, that set me on this particular path. I was in drama school and had a graduate assistantship teaching three recitation sections of an introductory theatre course for non-majors. The professor for the course, Harley Erdman, included Fires in the Mirror on the course outline, and when we screened the teleplay version for the students, my mind proceeded to be blown. Who was this woman and what was she doing? How was she doing it? Why am I having such a strong reaction to what she's doing? How can I do what she's doing? That woman was, and still is, Anna Deavere Smith, and she continues to make things that move me, astound me, and reawaken my awareness about the world around me and how I'm moving through it.

Anna's work gave me the courage to make a play and share it with people. The first time I made a piece of interview theatre, it was with my performance partner, Kate Nugent, and we worked kind of in an homage to Anna. Neither of us had studied with her, but we had studied about her. Her work guided us through our own process. It was a humbling experience that illustrated just how hard it is to do what Anna Deavere Smith does, up on stage alone, bringing countless of portraits to life so that audiences gain an understanding of why people think, feel, and act the way they do about a particulate incident, experience, or current event.

I've gone on to create many pieces of interview theatre since that first piece with Kate, and I always begin with the company I'm working with by watching Fires in the Mirror. For my practice, it's the creation story, and I want people who work with me to know where our origins come from. Whose shoulders we're standing on as we attempt to answer a new question, shed light into a dim place, amplify the voices of the silenced. All of this because of Anna.

Two years ago I had the privilege of working with Anna at her workshop in San Francisco. Again, I was humbled to witness her at work with others, shaken awake to consider who I am as an artist, and transformed by knowing that Anna continues to push herself harder than anyone I've ever worked with. Her newest work, The Pipeline Project, "examines the lack of opportunity and resources for many young people living in poverty, and how these circumstances often lead them into the criminal justice system." Anna is shining light where it needs to be shined, and she fearlessly looks at what she discovers and helps audiences to do the same.

Because of what she has meant to my own growth and development as an artist and educator, because she works relentlessly to achieve social change around topics that many people fear and avoid, and because she finds a way to maintain her sense of humor while she's doing it, Anna Deavere Smith is the artist I admire for this week.