Chapter VII, We Travel to New Haven
Current mood: drained

In Which A Bag is Forgotten and Remembered, A System Both Works and Does Not,  The Culinary Mysteries of La Guardia Airport are Explored, A Musical Director Runs Afoul of Airport Security, and The Company Witness Such Exotic Sights as a Dog in a Diaper and a Professor With a Comb-over Attempts a Public Relations Coup

After some quick negotiations with the bus company she called me back assuring me that a new bus would arrive to pick us up within ninety minutes.  No doubt that would have been true had there not been a significant public event that made traffic dicey—the New York Marathon.

In the four hours we waited like vagrants without travel papers at La Guardia, we had the opportunity to observe many social phenomena.  Three of our favorites are listed below:

• A woman shaped like a beer keg with a mass of frizzy hair tending to her small rat dog with equally frizzy hair.  Inexplicably (or perhaps explicably) the dog wore a diaper.  Note to self.  Leave the dog at home.
• The Borders Bookstore was having a special event.  Some burgeoning author was holding a book signing.  Poor guy.  It wasn't exactly a hotbed of literary interest.  He stood at the entrance blissfully unaware that his comb-over did not hide the obvious and painfully aware that nobody cared that he had written a book—least of all his publicist who sat at a table nonchalantly thumbing through the Best Buy ads.
• If you open your bag at the airport, take out a bottle of cough syrup and gulp some of it down as Susan had to do, people will assume that you are a bag lady. 

 At long last the bus arrived.  The driver, perhaps surly after New York Marathon traffic, spoke not a word.  We loaded our voluminous personal items and began the trip.  By now it was getting dark and we were weary.  As we bounced along, Chip turned to me and said "Daddy, I don't think I'm tall enough for this ride.  I want to get off."

There is something eerie about riding a bus in the dark to a destination you do not know.  At long last we took an exit off the freeway.  I turned to Chip, "I think I saw this movie."  "Which movie?"  "The one where the homicidal maniac murders the bus driver and assumes his identity.  He picks up the passengers and—"  Chip interrupts.  "I think I feel a foot under my seat."

About the same time we arrived Sheri arrived with salad, chicken soup and wine.  Angel of mercy as always.  I assume all slept as well as I did.  Of course, there is the fact that our musical director missed the plane.  Somehow that seems like a story of its own—particularly since he has not yet arrived.

It’s aliiiiive!
Current mood: impressed

Hello, faithful readers. This is Lonelle, the aforementioned "multi-tasker extraordinaire," popping in to give you a quick update on the progress of our magnum opus. Steven has been simply consumed with the monumental task of directing the show (in two languages), coordinating with ASL translators, overseeing design elements, preparing to move the entire production hundreds of miles away to open on a stage none of the actors have seen…all while keeping up with all the things an Artistic Director does on a daily basis, such as meeting with potential donors, casting for the remainder of the season, attending Board meetings, signing checks, attending marketing meetings…well, you get the idea. Talk about multi-tasking!  Needless to say, there's a reason he hasn't written in a while, though he swears he'll have something to submit after this weekend.

I spent my Friday evening watching the final run-through before the actors' trip to New Haven – and wowie wow! The brisk fall weather has been taking its toll on the actors' health; Jason, the actor voicing for Archibald, was absent entirely in an attempt to regain his voice and Sarah, who plays Lily and voices for Mary, was present but unable to sing. In spite of the fact that the voices of two key characters were missing from the run-through, I was still riveted with fascination.  The ensemble's booming chorus in "The House Upon the Hill" gave me with goosebumps, and Dr. Craven's half of the bittersweet duet, "Lily's Eyes" left me moist-eyed, even with Archibald's voice missing. And I could barely tear my eyes away from the ASL signers, so expressive were their performances. Like Colin struggling dramatically out of his wheelchair, this gangly giant of a production is standing on its own two feet – a tad unsteadily, perhaps, but as it stretches to its full height, the beauty of it is unmistakeable. It's gonna be spectacular.

Stay tuned for more news from Steven!

-Lonelle

"Three weeks and it couldn’t be worse"
Current mood: exhausted

Another opening…another show..

In Philly Boston or Baltimo'

A chance for stage folks to say hello

Another opening…of another show

Another pain where the ulcers grow

Another opening of another show

Four weeks you'll rehearse and rehearse
Three weeks and it couldn't be worse

                                    --Kiss Me Kate
 

I am not a runner.  I walk—frequently and fast—but I do not run.  I have observed the agony of marathon runners and wondered why they do it.  Enduring great pain to prove something to themselves and, one supposes, others, is probably the motivation.  There is great satisfaction in doing something that only a few would try and at which fewer will achieve success.
 

The performing arts are like that.  Artists have a vision of what could be and strive to give it life.  Friday night was our first run through of Act I.  We completed one week of rehearsals—roughly thirty-five hours of work—it was time to see what we had to show for our efforts.  It had been a week of frustration and arduous tasks.  Monday night, first rehearsal and Costume Parade, while not a disaster, was fraught with problems.  One costume had completely disappeared, five had serious fitting problems and a significant amount of time was lost.  Having yet to master the art of being in two places at once, I found myself in the dressing rooms when I needed to be out in the lobby where the dressed actors were displaying their costumes and vice versa.
 

When I finally arrived in the lobby where the various partners were waiting patiently to see the costumes all together, I found a common sight when deaf and hearing work together.  Deaf people huddled in one corner and hearing in another.  What is so hard about breaking the barrier between the two?  Why do we humans find spoken language so essential to communication?
 

Interestingly, the internet has provided a new opportunity for communication between deaf and hearing.  When I began creating plays that incorporated ASL with spoken language we relied on a device known as a TTY which was a small electronic teletype that had a cradle in which to place the old style, corded, telephone receiver.  An LED panel readout showed what was being typed by both parties.  When you had finished typing what you wanted to say, you typed GA short for "Go Ahead".  More than once I left a deaf person on the other end of the line waiting interminably for my permission to answer my question.  Now we have email, instant messaging, and cell phone texts to aid in the process. 
 

Texting is not a skill I have used successfully in the past.  My first and last experience led to quite a bit of confusion.  Ecstatic over our first corporate sponsorship from National City Bank a few years ago, I sent a text message to a board member who had been helpful.  Feeling very cool and technologically savvy I said, "NCB a go @ 10K".  Almost immediately, I received a reply, "who is this?"  My reply: "Steven."  No response for a moment, then a phone call from a number I did not recognize.  Apparently I had misdialed and sent a text message to what we might call "a purveyor of illegal substances" who was anxious to avail himself of my ten grand in return for something for which I had no use and no prior knowledge.  My career in sending text messages was put on hold from that moment.
 

On hold, that is, until a week ago Sunday when I was to meet Samuel, the deaf actor who will play Archibald Craven, at the airport.  His flight was to arrive from La Guardia at 12:30 and we had agreed to meet him at the foot of the escalators at baggage claim.  My experience with air travel recently has been reflective of the general complaints of air travelers, "Late departure. Lost luggage.  Later arrival."   Although I have not lost any luggage recently, I have come to calculate their lateness in hours rather than minutes.  Imagine my surprise when I checked the airline's arrival website at 11:30—not to see if the plane would arrive on time but to determine how late it would be—discovering that it had already landed a remarkable fifty-five minutes early.
 

Fortunately, my ASL-fluent friend Lisette was ready to go early and we made a pavement searing trip to Port Columbus.  Half way there, Samuel sent a text message.  I threw my phone to Lisette and begged for her assistance.  If I can't successfully send a text message while standing in one place, there was sno-cone's chance in the underworld of me sending one driving ???mph on I-670.  All worked out well.  Samuel only had a brief wait and I recognized that it was time to master text messaging.  No new casualties to report on that score.
 

Speaking of casualties, that was really the point of this piece.  What were the casualties in Week One of rehearsals?  First casualty was my rehearsal schedule.  Painstakingly plotted for productivity, it was a master feat of time management.  It took into account music rehearsals, signing coach sessions, blocking rehearsals, dodging conflicts with church choirs, classes and the Star Spangled Banner to be sung by Leo at the open of every Blue Jackets game.  It was my masterpiece and to top it all off, my Assistant Director, Andrew, laid it out in color coding like no rehearsal schedule ever created.  Only one problem: it was totally unrealistic in its assessment of the time that would be required to put this play on the stage in two languages.  So when it came time for the run through on Friday night for the Lighting Designer it was what we call in the theatre, a train wreck.  My friend, Eric, said "Didn't you expect it to be a train wreck?  First run-throughs often are."  My response, "I expected a train wreck.  I just didn't expect every car to be filled with diesel that would explode into flames."  I am not having a lot of trouble being humble these days.  There is evidence of why I should be in abundance.
 

So now we start a new week.  We are scheduled to do a run of Act II on Wednesday night.  Are there more train wrecks on the horizon?  I started out by saying that I don't run.  I think I may have to start.

New Haven
Current mood: enthralled

"To the theatre world ...New Haven, Connecticut is a short stretch of sidewalk between the Shubert Theatre and the Taft Hotel—surrounded by what looks very much like a small city.  It is here that managers have what are called 'out of town openings.' Which are openings for New Yorkers who want to go out of town."

So, I went to New Haven last week.  Seems like a simple thing to do but in the modern world of planes, trains and automobiles the travel was an adventure in itself.  I probably had been lulled into complacency by last weekend's trip to Portland, Oregon for a brief visit with my family.  Each plane took off on time and landed early.  Imagine my surprise to discover upon checking in that the 1 ½ hour flight to New York's LaGuardia airport had been delayed by 2 ¼ hours.  Hurry up and wait. 
 

The experts tell us that, as a Fifty-Something, I should have a minor phobia about technology.  It seems that as each decade passes we become more and more fearful of technological advancements.  Is that why I didn't rush out to purchase an iPhone?  At any rate, when I went into the office expressing outrage at an article in the Columbus Dispatch that cast aspersions on my generation's inability to adapt to change, I was met with this attempt by a Twenty-Something employee to sooth my ruffled feathers:
 

"For an old guy you do pretty well with technology."
 

He doesn't work for us any more.
 

My point in this technological diversion is that I successfully connected to the airport wi-fi for the first time and spent my time productively by answering email.  I noticed that there weren't many people waiting for the plane but assumed that they had been notified that the plane would be late and adjusted their arrival time accordingly.  Finally at 8:15 am the airline announced boarding.  I settled into my seat next to a business woman who seemed to be unbothered by our late departure.  "We were lucky," she said.  "How so?" I ask, "We are over two hours late."  "They usually just cancel this flight."
 

Okay, so we were lucky.  Lucky, that is, until we were routed into a holding pattern circling over Pennsylvania.  Finally we arrived at LaGuardia.   I went running for the street where there was to be a car waiting for me.  My first appointment was with the faculty at the New York School for the Deaf in White Plains at 11:00 am.  I got into the car at 10:50 am.  What ensued was a careening trip from LaGuardia to White Plains.  The New Haven contingent, whom I had not yet met, called a couple of times to check on my progress.  Each time they called, the driver would ramp up his speed by about 10 mph.  Whee!  I hopped out of the car, met the New Haven staff and walked into the meeting—not really sure what was expected of me. 
 

The School for the Deaf staff were wonderful and lovely and enthusiastic.  During the conversation I shared some of my most embarrassing moments trying to straddle the deaf and hearing worlds.  One of the faculty is the hearing child of deaf parents.  She had many amusing stories about this as well.  The most memorable was a story about her father's trip to the druggist to request some medication for her when she was a baby.  The earnest note he wrote was to the point:  "Help!  My baby has pimples on her a--."  She was, of course, suffering from diaper rash.
 

From there we drove up to Hartford to the American School for the Deaf.  This is the oldest School for the Deaf in the country.  Lots of history and tradition.  Once again staff were very enthusiastic and helpful. 

Finally, we arrived at the Shubert Theatre.  I was not prepared for its incredible history and place in the American Theatre.  If you have read the previous blogs, you know that the Phoenix staff can be what might politely be referred to as eccentric.  The Shubert staff is its equal—a pocket of characters from a French farce. 

After meeting some of the staff and discussing my vision for the show, I was to check into the hotel and have dinner with Vice President and Director, John Fisher.  Anthony the PR guy pokes his head into John's office.

Anthony:  So, you and I are taking Steven out to eat?

John: Yes.  After he checks into his hotel.

Anthony:  Why don't Kathleen and I come along?  Where are you taking him?

John:  I thought we'd go to (I don't remember the name of the restaurant)

Anthony:  Oh you don't want to go there.  Why don't you go to Kudeta?

John:  We could I suppose.

Anthony:  What time are we going?

John:  6:45.

Anthony:  Oh that's too late.  Far too late.  I'm sure Steven is hungry.  Let's go at 6:15.  Aren't you hungry Steven?  6:15 would be much better.  I'll go get Kathleen.

We went to Kudeta at 6:15.  The meal and the company were superb.  It wasn't until the next day that I would discover Anthony's secret desire to make Mommy Dearest (the campy Joan Crawford biopic starring Faye Dunaway) into a musical.  His ad lib songs included "No Wire Hangers" and "It's Not You I'm Mad at, It's the Dirt" which he sang with abandon.

Next morning, a tour of the Shubert Theatre and some real insight into why it is truly historic.  Imagine a place where Rodgers and Hammerstein tried out most of their major musicals before they were seen New York.  A place where Marlon Brando shouted for Kim Hunter's Stella while Jessica Tandy's Blanche depended upon the kindness of strangers before any of them were seen on the "Great White Way."  A place that opened a musical called Away We Go and sent it on to raves on Broadway with a new song that would also be its new title, Oklahoma!  No matter what your taste in theatre--comedy, drama, musical—something that will knock your socks off had its pre-Broadway run in this beautiful jewel box of a theatre.  For a glimpse inside the theatre go to capa.com/newhaven/venues/.

In the lobby there is a wall of titles that pay tribute to all of the shows that the Shubert played a role in producing.  The Shuberts were a theatrical producing family and at one time were responsible for booking entertainment in over 1,000 American theatres.  For more information about their history you can browse their extensive link at shubertarchive.org/index_flash.htm.

Most impressive of all is the backstage area, where every vertical wall surface is covered with painted poster tributes to shows that have played there.   Adorning each are autographs of company members of each show.  It is a living museum, a tribute to the American Theatre and an inspiration.
 

Suddenly, I broke into a cold sweat.  The Secret Garden is playing a theatre with some of the richest traditions of excellence.  Of course, some of the plays that opened in New Haven also closed in New Haven and died.  A silent prayer passed my lips:  "Please let this show be good—really good.  Something this grand old matron of a theatre will be proud to have on her stage."

What am I sitting here for? I have work to do. 

Where in the World is Archibald Craven?
Current mood: apprehensive

             Where in the world, tell me where in the world

            Can I live without your love??

            Where on the earth, tell me where on the earth

            Can I stay now that you are gone?

            Why did I have to meet you, love you,

            Why can't I rid you from my mind?

            Why did you have to want me, won't you

            Let me put my life behind me?

                                            Archibald Craven, The Secret Garden

Rehearsals begin in just five weeks.  All of the months of planning and envisioning and dreaming about The Secret Garden are about to come to fruition.  Costumes are completed (and recovered); scenic designs are approved; orchestra is engaged; ASL translation is complete; blocking (where the actors move and are placed on the stage) is on paper; casting is complete—except for Archibald Craven, the lead role.  He is to be played by a deaf actor.  The actor who will provide his voice is cast but, as yet, we have not cast the actor who will give him life. 

The finance guy at CAPA asked me on Friday, "Are you worried about this?"  Let me see.  What is the correct answer to that?  If you are having a picnic and the forecast is for rain, you worry.  If you take your favorite shirt to the cleaners with a red wine stain, you worry.  If you make a new chocolate soufflé recipe for important guests, you worry.  Okay, I have a lot of worry in my life—some might call it angst—when it is a constant nagging you learn to compensate so it does not become all consuming.  Facing rehearsals without a full cast does not constitute a reason to worry.  It is not a mere fret.  It creates fear.  Terror of an exponential magnitude that produces loss of sleep, night sweats, memory loss and appetite reduction.

Years ago, when I did the New York casting for Players Theatre Columbus, our casting agent had a hastily written sign that was scrawled on notebook paper and tacked up over her desk.  It read simply, "Someone will play the role."  The first time I saw it, I thought to myself, "of course someone will play the role."  New York City is swarming with "out of work" actors who would give any part of their anatomy to land a role—any role—in a show.  That was before I tried to actually cast a show.

One of the first plays I helped to cast was a Romulus Linney play called Precious Memories.  The casting call was in late November with rehearsals beginning just after New Years.  For three days we watched some of the most talented actors in the country vie for roles in this beautiful Appalachian adaptation of a Chekov story.  Five minutes per actor, eight hour day, how many actors is that?  Two hundred?   Three hundred?  We were well pleased.  We had real depth—six or seven actors ranked from first choice on down for each role.  The offers went out and I flew west to be with my family in Oregon for Christmas.  These were the days before cell phones and email.  Pray how did we live?  I had given the casting agent my mother's home phone.

Trips home are real events.  There are no direct flights to Portland from Columbus, so it takes anywhere from seven hours up to ten hours to fly there—if there are no cancellations or delays.  Big If.   This time I flew through Chicago.  (Note to self, "Don't fly through Chicago at Christmas.")  After arriving in Portland and claiming baggage, there is a three hour car trip up the Columbia River before I have reached my destination.

When I finally arrived my mother said "Some woman is very anxious to talk to you.  She has called several times.  Says she's from New York."  I call.

Casting Agent:  Where have you been?

Me:  In the air.

Casting Agent:  Me too.   Actress A has turned down the role of the young girl.

Me:  Offer it to Actress B.    Remember we spent days deciding which was our first choice.

Casting Agent: There's a problem.  Actor D has accepted the role of her love interest.

Me:  What happened to Actors A, B, and C.

Casting Agent:  (Wearily)  Not interested, soap opera, took a play in Louisville, respectively.

Me:  So what's wrong with Actress B?

Casting Agent: She is tall.

Me:  Not a crime.

Casting Agent:  (Mumbling through a bite of what I know is a tuna on rye)  Too tall—at least too tall for Actor D.

Me:  I don't have my notes handy.  Which one was he?

Casting Agent: The short one.

Me:  Right.  What does the director think?

Casting Agent:  He said to ask you.

Me:  What is the difference in their heights?

Casting Agent:  Eight inches, if she doesn't wear shoes and he wears lifts.

On and on it went.  After Actress E, who was height appropriate was offered the part and accepted it, Actor D returned his contract saying he felt like doing a musical instead, another actor left the business abruptly citing personal fatigue and mental anguish, another suddenly developed a phobia about flying.  I was on the phone most of the four days prior to Christmas.  

Finally, my family had gathered to open gifts.  My mother has a talent for making holidays just right.  Her house is always decorated stunningly—one more candle would be too much and one fewer angels would not be enough.  We take our holidays seriously in a Hallmark way.

Anyway, Bing is crooning about something in Latin, my siblings, their spouses and off spring are poised to shake, prognosticate about and open perfectly wrapped packages, and cameras are at the ready.  The phone rings.  I leap up.  "Don't you dare," my mother intones in a way that I know from decades of experience means there will be consequences.  I decide to chance it and answer the phone any way.  It's the casting agent.  "We are taking our presents back if you don't open them now," my mother warns.  (This is an empty threat.)  Yet another casting problem.  The next day before I leave Mom tells me how nice it was to have me and that if I am casting a show on the next visit...not to bother coming.

Back to The Secret Garden.  It's not like I haven't been looking for an Archibald.  Word has gone out on the internet to deaf artists all over the country.  For a few heady days it even appeared that an actor who has just released a couple of feature films was going to be able to take the role.  In the mean time the tailor who is to make his costume sits with her needle at the ready.  It is hard to build a suit without some idea of the actor's measurements.  A few days ago I made contact with a deaf actor from New York.  He is reading the play. 

Someone will play the role.

Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Costumes
Current mood: panicked

It is said by some that theatre artists like their drama both on and off the stage.  That is a nice way to say that we are overly dramatic and self centered in our private lives.  I console myself that I am not one of the divas who need to have an audience for their wrath, their disappointment or their self pity.  There are certain tell-tale signs that belie that assertion—I am for instance sending my experiences creating this play out into cyberspace for complete strangers to read with their morning latte and I have been known to tell the same story over and over again.  I prefer to think that these lapses are endearing idiosyncrasies or mere exceptions that prove the rule and not evidence that my need for drama is so great that I need an audience 24-7.

With that in mind I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that this project has had the potential to balloon into a financial nightmare.  Any musical theatre piece can do that without much trouble.  When you add the components of translators, sign coaches, and interpreters; transportation to New Haven for twenty-two actors, designers and technicians; housing and meals for all of them for a week; the list continues.  My job was to forge a show that looks like a million dollars but costs considerably less.

At times like this smart people enlist the help of their friends--designers with whom you already have a shared vocabulary and rapport.  I have engaged the services of Linda Pisano, Assistant Professor of Costume Design at Indiana University to design the costumes.  Linda and I have worked together before and she has a truly inspired eye.  (For a peek at her vision for this show SEE THE PHOTO ALBUM)

BalletMet, our local ballet company, has a brilliant costume shop which I discovered when I worked on Alice in Wonderland with them in 2006.  This hybrid of dance and drama employed both dancers and actors to tell the familiar story.  BalletMet doesn't produce in the summer, so their costume shop staff goes on hiatus.  It seemed like the perfect thing to employ them for the summer to build the costumes.  Only problem was, that forced us to cast the show in May so that they could begin work in June.  Yowza!  (Is "yowza" a word and if so is that how you spell it?)

I have taken a moment to reference "yowzah".  The internet is a wonderful thing.  I did not even have to get up from my chair, no wonder we are a nation of ever-increasing obesity.

Main Entry:        Yowzah

Part of Speech:  Interj

Definition:          An exclamation of delight or approval; also called yowzer

Etymology:        1932

Rehearsals don't begin until October 8.  The show opens November 9 and the costumes are already built.  Yowzah!  Yowzer!  Yowzah!

The build was fraught with scheduling snafus. Calamities, both major and minor, reigned supreme.   It seems the theatre is not the only place where high drama can be experienced.  Erin Blood, who served as shop manager, and I were in constant communication.  One of the actresses went to Europe to sing with an opera company.  Another was in a remote part of Pennsylvania doing summer stock for the duration.  There were summer camps to be attended.  Family vacations to enjoy.  All perfectly understandable but we did not have the luxury of time to wait.  On top of that the role of Archibald Craven had not been cast.  Erin's bright and cheery response to each obstacle was "We have to roll with the punches."  My response was less positive.  "Are you dizzy yet?"

We were two weeks from the scheduled completion date for the project when Erin pulled me aside.  She wasn't just dizzy, she was suffering from vertigo.  She had calculated the time left to complete the costumes.  There was no way they could finish.  The various delays caused by actor availability (rather unavailability) had taken their toll.  She would speak with Seamstress A to see if she could take over and complete them in her small shop at home.  Next day came the word that Seamstress A would not consider taking on such a project.  Erin was sorry.  Perhaps Seamstress B.  On and on it went.  Each day, when I visited the shop, the staff were "sewing with a red hot needle and a burning thread" as my mother, a pretty impressive seamstress in her own right, would say.  The mountain of trim, and buttons, and braid, and lace still to be attached seemed to grow.  We would definitely be over budget.  We scheduled the day for load out of the costumes with sighs of disappointment.

On August 3 my faithful companion and fellow Phoenix Theatre employee, Lonelle Yoder, and I set out to transport the completed and uncompleted garments from the BalletMet Costume Shop to the Riffe Center dressing rooms.  It was like something from the fairy tale of The Shoemaker and the Elves.  Not only had they completed the garments, they had come in under budget on labor!  Would it be overusing an interjection to say "Yowzah" again?

I will digress a moment to describe Lonelle.  She will undoubtedly figure in future posts.  Lonelle has a job description that defies any category or management structure known to not for profits.  She can be found doing dramaturgy (a big word that means doing research about plays that provides deeper understanding), booking school tours, hanging lights or editing my work so that it resembles something like standard English.  I have a rare allergy to punctuation marks of any kind.  I don't mind the occasional period, but commas and quotation marks are eschewed at all costs.  To put it succinctly, Lonelle is a generalist and a multi-tasker of the highest order.  That sometimes creates problems.  Here is a sample conversation:
 

Lonelle:  Cathy called and wants you to call her back.

Me:  Cathy who?

Lonelle:  Cathy from the Council.

Me:  Which Council?
Lonelle:  The Arts Council.

Me:  Which Arts Council?  (There are two)

Lonelle:  I don't remember.

Me:  (Searching for context)  Did she say what she wanted?

Lonelle:  For you to call her back as soon as possible.

Turns out it was not Cathy at either arts council but a staff member of a foundation.

I am now going to admit to a pretty odd behavior in myself.  Simply put, I have begun to secretly visit the costumes.  It's not like I talk to them.  I just visit them.  I have not divulged this odd behavior to anyone.  It's not a compulsion or anything like that.  I just find a time every once in a while (say once a day) to go up to the dressing room where they are stored and visit them.  Did I say once a day?  Some days—most days it's three or four.  I repeat, it is not a compulsion.  It is a little routine that I engage in that gives me pleasure eight or nine times during my normal work day.  I don't really think about it.  It's kind of like the popcorn you eat in a movie.  I just find myself peering in the door at them without consciously saying to myself, "I am going to check on the costumes."

One day last week I found myself on the fourth floor, where the costumes are stored and I noticed that all of the doors to the dressing rooms were propped open.  My pace quickened a little as I headed for the end dressing room that the objects of my affection inhabited.  Their dressing room door was propped open and the lights were on but no one was home so to speak.  The costumes were missing!  Someone had kidnapped them.

I am fifty-three years old—fifty-four in October.  (October 3 if you feel like sending a birthday greeting.  Gifts are not expected but wouldn't they be a nice surprise?)  This is a time of life when people begin to worry about the physical state of their heart.  They submit themselves to stress tests and EKG's and the like to affirm that their heart is in good working order.  I will need no such tests.  If I were, ever in my life, going to suffer a cardiac event, I would have dropped dead of a coronary at that moment.  Granted there was a little shortness of breath but I chalk that off to panic.  Where were the costumes?  What was I going to do?  I should have visited more often.

I hurried down to the office where I encountered Lonelle.  Did she know anything about this?

            Me:  Do you know anything about the costumes?

            Lonelle:  Like what?

            Me:  (Shrieking)  Like where they have been taken?

            Lonelle:  Oh, I had to move them to the rehearsal hall so they could wax the dressing room floors.

            Me:  Why didn't you tell me?

            Lonelle:  Well, I didn't know you would be visiting them every day.  Did I?

            Me:  I wasn't visiting them.  I was looking in on them.

            Lonelle:  (Mumbling.)  Geez.  It's kind of weird.  You know?

            Me:  What?

            Lonelle:  Cathy called from the Council.  She wants you to call her right back.

It is only because of great restraint on my part that this lengthening post is not titled Nancy Drew and the Murder in the Office of the Phoenix.

Finding Mary Lennox
Current mood: embarrassed

The leading role in The Secret Garden is a character named Mary Lennox.  We determined from the very onset that she would be played by a deaf actress and a hearing actress would sing and voice for her.  Mary is a complex character who begins the play as a sullen, self-centered and pampered girl who is transformed bit by bit into a loving and compassionate young woman.  The only snag is that the character is supposed to be twelve years old.  Finding just the right Mary was going to be a major key to opening our garden.

In my typical optimistic, this play is charmed, everything I touch will turn to gold way, I envisioned a line of hundreds of prospective Mary's—all desperate for me to choose them.  Columbus has a very large and dynamic deaf community so I was certain I had no worries.  Audition notices were posted at the Ohio School for the Deaf and at the various schools in which there are programs for deaf students.

There was a lilt to my step as I entered the first school.  Did my perfect Mary await?  My spirits were somewhat dampened when I discovered that there was only one young actress signed up to audition.  To top it off I was told that she was seventeen.  My spirits flagged as I began to wonder if this would be more difficult than I had thought.  

Before I proceed with this story, I want to dispel a myth that is perpetrated by actors.  They believe that directors sit in the audition hall just waiting to hate them and their work.  Like some sort of sadistic judges, the myth goes, directors have chosen their profession so they can watch intrepid actors go through the agony of rejection.  Quite the opposite is true.  Directors and casting agents wait at the table hoping—desperately longing—to be delighted.  As much as an actor feels vulnerable and unprotected, those who do the choosing suffer the cold sweat of not finding the right artists to give their play life.  While actors are silently whispering the mantra, "Choose me.  Please, choose me." directors are whispering its twin, "Be the one.  Please, be the right one."  Theatre breeds a lot of angst.

Back to the story: the interpreter had been detained so I went into the school room to meet the seventeen year old auditionee, feeling confident that my rudimentary ASL skills could get me through the introductory pleasantries.  Surely even I could manage "My name is Steven Anderson"  "I am the director of The Secret Garden"  "How are you?" and so forth.  Picture it, like a 1930's  "B movie;" I open the door and there rising from her chair is the perfect vision of Mary.  She may be seventeen but she can pass in a heartbeat for twelve.  Violins soaring in my head, I know that she has to love me.  I have to make her want to be in this play.  She is the only one I can imagine playing Mary Lennox.  "Be the one.  Please, be the right one."  

I launched into overdrive.  Charm at Mach Speed.  "My name is S-T-E-V-E-N (fingerspelling)  A-N-D (why is my last name so long?) E-R-S-O-N.  I will be—" (Uh-oh!  What is the sign for directing?  I knew it a minute ago.)  I ask with more laborious finger spelling.  She answers helpfully.  Now stating the obvious, "I sign a little but very slowly.  Signing is hard for me."  (Where is the interpreter?  I am sinking fast here.)  We continue with all of the pleasantries.  "How are you?"  "I am fine". I struggle to finger spell and cobble together the signs I need for a reasonably interesting conversation for more than ten minutes.  Finally, I have only four signs left in my memory bank.  They are the signs for "sick", "dead", "bacon" and "later".  I search desperately for a sentence in which I might use them to my advantage.  My face must have registered my despair because at that moment she said using very clear spoken English, "I read lips well with the help of my hearing aids and people say my speech is clear.  Would you like to talk for a while instead of signing?"

There is a funny thing about assumptions—we should not make them about each other.  This was the first of what I am sure will be many humbling revelations.

Welcome to the Garden
Current mood: creative

Did you hear the one about the dog that loved to chase cars?  It seems it satisfied his heart's desire to lay waiting for unsuspecting motorists in the shade of an old oak tree.  When the occasional car would pass he would run after it as fast as he could, barking like the dickens.  This pursuit apparently gave him great pleasure until one day it all came to an end.  He caught the car and couldn't for the life of him think of what to do with it...
 

That's me—the dog that caught the car.  In my career as a director, I have directed all manner of musicals from the sublime (Candide), to the pedestrian (You're a Good Man Charlie Brown) to the edgy (Assassins).  I have also written and/or directed a number of plays for children and adults that incorporated deaf actors and American Sign Language.  When I saw Deaf West Theatre Company's Tony Award Winning Musical, Big River, the yearning began.  Directing a musical production that incorporated deaf and hearing actors on the stage together was an automobile with my name on it.

Suddenly, I was presented with the opportunity to do just that—and not just any musical but one of my top ten, my-career-will-not-be-complete-until-I-direct-it musicals, Marsha Norman and Lucy Simon's adaptation of Frances Hobson Burnett's The Secret Garden.  I have seen numerous productions of this play over the years since it was first produced in the early 1990's and its story of the regeneration of the human spirit touches something deep within my formerly agrarian soul.

If we were just producing this play locally, it would face enormous challenges.  Communication between deaf and hearing actors; hearing actors learning to sign the lyrics to their songs as well as their dialogue; creating clear stage pictures that transport the audience into a world of 100 years ago; and finding time for sustenance and basic hygiene, to name a few.  Those did not pose a significant enough challenge for us.  No, we needed a really big motor car to catch—a metaphorical Hummer, if you would.  Get this—we will rehearse the play in Columbus, transport cast and crew to New Haven, Connecticut, see the multi-level set for the first time on a Monday and open the play three days later.  If you can imagine playing three dimensional chess, without a chess board, in the middle of a busy thoroughfare, which is inhabited solely by drivers whose heart's desire is to do you an injury, you would understand the complexity of the situation.

It's not as if I have no experience with American Sign Language.  Two decades ago I made a name for myself when, while using sign language, I asked an actress to begin the scene that occurred "at the duck pond."  Only problem is, my rudimentary skill (or lack thereof) had me requesting the scene "at the chicken vagina."  True, the signs are similar, but it took many years for the deaf community to stop calling me the "chicken vagina man."

So this is the challenge I lay before you:  if you are the sort of person who rubber-necks to catch all the details of a four car pileup, or enjoys the disappointment of a toddler who can almost—but not quite—stand up; if the misery and frustration of others makes you feel the tiniest bit superior, I suggest you check in regularly to see what is going on.

Steven C. Anderson
Director