Author: Lauren

I Wanna Go Home–to High School

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Lately I’ve been homesick–for high school.

I’m not one of those “summer of ’69, those were the best days of my life” types whose flower bloomed when they were seventeen and who’s been wilting ever since. High school was an emotionally messy, facially pimply, gossip and insecurity-ridden angst-filled existence. But it was also a period full of promise.

When I was in high school, I thought 25 was old. I thought I would have a career (in the theatah, of course!), a husband, and maybe even a kid by now (ha ha ha ha ha). I felt like the only thing separating me from my dreams was time and a university degree. I guess I assumed the rest would just arrive in due course as time went by. What I failed to understand then was that time does bring our futures into our lives, but that we don’t make that step from here to there without choices along the way, and sacrifices. The fulfillment of one dream may mean the compromise of another. You don’t just wake up one day and BANG! your future  arrives. You get to where you’re going through the decisions you make.

In high school, the only decision with long-term consequences I really had to make was where to go to university. It wasn’t much of a contest–I went to the U of A because I wanted to audition for their theatre program in the future and they gave me money (and even that wasn’t long term because I transferred after first year).  Other than that, I didn’t need to decide anything. Love? That wasn’t a decision. I just knew I had to be with so-and-so because he was The One (update from 2012: he wasn’t). Friends? I’ve had the same bestie since kindergarten. Career? I had a part-time job, it was okay and then I quit but that’s alright because my parents were feeding and housing me.

Done and done. All of the pesky decisions regarding survival and building a future out of the way, I had plenty of time to obsess over my clothes and go to parties and have crushes and heartbreaks and decide that no one understood what a sensitive intelligent soul I was (I just couldn’t wait for university where my brilliance would surely be discovered and celebrated).

My journey from high school has been a good one. For the most part, I’ve had a great time, with great people alongside me every step of the way. I’ve learned so much–about me, about the world, about all kinds of crazy things I never dreamed existed. I’ve travelled, I’ve been in and out of love, I’ve lost some things and found new ones and here I am, doing just fine, though definitely an adult for real now with some adult choices to make about my life’s direction.

Things are pretty good.

But when I was in high school, friendships didn’t need to be maintained–there were only 23 people in my graduating class so by Grade 12 we had put our junior high pettiness aside and become a family. We had each other, without even trying.

When I was in high school, no one I knew had died yet.

When I was in high school, our potential was unlimited because of our ignorance about the way the world worked.

When I was in high school, tomorrow was a dream so tonight was Party Time.

When I was in high school, we were all invincible and there were no choices that had lasting consequences one way or another (or so we thought).

If today was April 13, 2004, the ditches at home would still be full of run-off water and snow would still exist in front of the north sides of buildings.

I would be training for track and field.

My class would be studying Hamlet and we’d be dressing up in silly costumes to read the parts.

Most of the girls would have their dresses for graduation already hanging in their closets (mine was ivory–I still have it).

The 23 of us would be engaged in the easy comradery that comes of having known each other most of our lives and from knowing that we’d be graduating soon–we were all forging ahead together for one last push towards the Unknown. There is almost a patriotism that binds the graduating class of a small rural town to each other and to the community. Respect and pride would be felt in all facets of our lives.

We would all be together, on the verge of our dreams, before the pits and rocks would become visible. We’d be suspended in a beautiful moment of optimism.

We’ve all experienced loss since we’ve been in high school. When we talk to each other now, there’s a weight in our voices and on our shoulders that wasn’t there before. Some of these losses have been felt by all of us, and they pull us together across time and distance. Some of these losses have been private. We are becoming the adults that had sent us on our journeys and wished us so well, whose bright hopes for us masked their concerns about what we would face. We’re growing up–we haven’t been spared it.

If I could capture April 13, 2004 in a bottle, it would be the colour of milky yellow sunshine. It would smell like wet grass. It would sound like easy laughter and taste like a warm clandestine beer. And if I had my way, all 23 of us would be there to see this distillation and shake our heads at our silliness together. All of us.

Invisible Suffering (and what we can do)

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Van Gogh’s Room at Arles

According to the Canadian Mental Health Association (CMHA), “approximately 1 out of 4 people know someone who died by suicide.”, which is a frighteningly high number of people confronted with shock and grief at the sudden loss of their friend or loved one. This post is an acknowledgment not only of the distress experienced by those who attempt or complete suicide, but also of the incredible loss experienced by those left behind.

I have been so fortunate in my life that I am able to say, and believe, that the world is a beautiful place and that life holds glorious things. But the sad truth of the matter is that the world is also full of pain, and for many people (more people than you’d think), the weight they have been forced to carry (by tragic events, an illness, etc.) is more than they can bear. Do not mistake this for weakness, selfishness, or ingratitude. This is simply suffering. Regardless of where it is found–in an old person, in a young person, beneath a tough exterior or behind a smile, it is suffering.

An important tenet of most (if not all) systems of ethics and morality is that people should, if possible, attempt to alleviate the suffering of others. This tenet does not extend only to those who are physically and financially suffering, but to those who may be suffering mental and/or emotional illness and distress as well. Unfortunately, unlike visible suffering such as physical illness or poverty, mental and emotional distress is often invisible–a secret pain closely guarded by the sufferer.

Unlike with visible suffering, there is no obvious solution—if we saw someone bleeding we would give them a Band-Aid. If a friend was ill we’d cook for them or offer to watch their kids for a while. But if someone is in mental or emotional pain, we seem to clam up, unsure of how to help, or if we should. If the sufferer doesn’t tell us they’re in pain, we often don’t even realize there is a problem in the first place.

When I say that it is our responsibility to try to alleviate suffering, I am not by any means condemning those who were not able to prevent the attempted or completed suicide of a friend or loved one. In any tragedy, several complicated factors are at play and seeking to lay blame with those who are left behind will only further stigmatize issues surrounding mental health and suicide.

So what can we do to help someone, especially if we don’t always know who is in need of our help? First and foremost, I believe we should remove once and for all the stigma surrounding suicide. In recent years, several brave families have decided not to hide the cause of their loved one’s death and have brought mental health and suicide into our consciousness (in the media, in our communities, etc.).  Suicide is not an attention-seeking dramatic act perpetrated only by “crazy” people.  It is a desperate act committed (and attempted) by human beings of various ages, lifestyles, backgrounds, and cultures. What these people have in common is that they are in pain. The more we acknowledge that this pain exists, the less we try to sweep it under the rug and pretend it doesn’t happen, the more likely it is that those experiencing this pain will share their troubles with someone and seek help and support. Knowledge is power, and the more we know about suicide and mental health, and about what those around us are going through, the more we can help each other or ourselves.

To that end, I have come across some links which may be helpful:

If you are concerned that someone you know may be considering suicide, the CMHA’s website has a very informative page on suicide prevention. According to the CMHA, “There is almost no risk that raising the topic with someone who is not considering suicide will prompt him/her to do it.” so even if you’re wrong about a person’s intentions, it can’t hurt to talk about your concerns and let them know that you care about what happens to them.

In addition to the information above, on their “Media Guidelines” page, the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention (CASP) asks that the following information be included when someone (like me) is writing about suicide:

Warning Signs of Suicide

  • Suicide threats
  • Statements revealing a desire to die
  • Previous suicide attempts
  • Sudden changes in behaviour (withdrawal, apathy, moodiness)
  • Depression (crying, sleeplessness, loss of appetite, hopelessness)
  • Final arrangements (such as giving away personal possessions)

What to Do

  • Discuss it openly and frankly
  • Show interest and support
  • Get professional help
  • Call your local Crisis/Distress Line

If you are considering suicide, please know that help and support are available. To locate a crisis centre nearest you, please visit the “Find a Crisis Centre” page on the CASP website (suicideprevention.ca). To give you an idea of how important your life is, on CASP’s website there are 27 different organizations listing Crisis Lines in the province of BC alone. I urge you to reach out to one of these resources and/or a loved one.

Unfortunately, even with our best intentions, we cannot always prevent tragedy. For the survivors of suicide (i.e. those left behind), CASP provides information for those trying to cope with grief after a suicide. Their site also provides information and resources for helping you find Survivor Support. Like the crisis centres mentioned above, you can find these resources listed by province.

As with the suffering of those who attempt or complete suicide, it is important to remember that the survivors of suicide are suffering as well. If your friend or loved one has become a suicide survivor, the most important thing you can do is listen, without judgement, without “solutions”, and without pushing them to talk.

I wrote this post with the purpose of supporting an environment where anyone, no matter what their reason or background, will feel safe reaching out and seeking help for what they are going through. Sometimes this means seeking professional help and there is nothing shameful about this. Yes, the world may be full of a lot of pain but it is also full of people who want to help lighten the load, and professionals who have the tools to do so.

I am aware that Mental Health Week is in about a month’s time (May 7-13) but this post couldn’t wait–every week is the right week to try to alleviate any suffering you find, whether the suffering is your own or that of a friend.

Disclaimer – This post is technically an opinion piece, a result of my desire to minimize harm using the tools I have available to me (which include this blog). The information I have provided appeared on either the Canadian Mental Health Association or the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention’s website at the time of posting. I am not a mental health professional, and the content of this post is not a substitute for the assistance of a mental health professional.

Conceptual Art I Like (on Srikanth Reddy’s “Voyager”)

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

Cover of the Voyager Golden Record, on board the Voyager spacecrafts.

I must admit that before this spring, if you had asked me if I liked conceptual art, my answer would have been an unequivocal no. Signing a urinal, calling it “Fountain” and selling it for lots and lots of money seems to me to smack more of douchebaggery than of genuine creative passion. Oh I know conceptual art is about process, and process can be interesting. I know it’s often meant to be intellectual, not emotive, and the intellectual can be interesting.

But a bunch of scenesters making whatever crap it comes into their heads to make/write, giving it some smart or artsy-sounding title, claiming it’s about “the suffering of the existential spirit in a post-apocalyptic Nietzsche world” or some such B.S. and then labelling it “conceptual” as a way to weasel out and seem clever when someone points out that it’s just a huge piece of crap that took neither talent nor brains to create is NOT the kind of culture I tend to enjoy.

I’m not saying that I need the art I engage with to be accessible. I don’t. But I need to be able to see intention on the part of the creator, a real question or form being tackled. If the artist hasn’t invested time, talent, or brains in a piece of work, as an audience member (or reader), I don’t feel the need to invest even an iota of my time and my brainpower trying to respond to something that was never a sincere question in the first place. To those that smile smugly and say I just don’t “understand” their work, let me say that I can usually tell the difference between something that has energy and genuine engagement invested in it (even if it’s not my taste), and something that’s just a pile of trash thrown together. Let me also suggest that you stop being an asshole and make an actual effort next time.

Luckily for me, I have been exposed to two pieces of conceptual poetry this semester that have really knocked my socks off and shown me that the conceptual can be effortful. The first was Inger Christensen’s alphabet, a complicated alphabet poem that grows according to the Fibonacci sequence. The second is Srikanth Reddy’s Voyager, and if you ever want to read a really intentioned, committed, and effortful piece of conceptual literature with a concept that’ll blow your hair back, this is the book for you.

To summarize the awesomeness:

Unless they’ve studied history or politics, people in my generation may not know much about Kurt Waldheim, former Secretary-General of the UN (1972-1981). I certainly didn’t before this semester. To bring you up to speed, Waldheim was Secretary-General when the Voyager spacecrafts were launched into deep space in 1977. It is his voice which speaks for humanity on the Voyager Golden Record, a copy of which is aboard both spacecrafts.

All of this would be well and good, (you know, the UN Secretary-General representing the planet, etc.) if it weren’t for the slightly unsettling fact that Waldheim has been accused of being a Nazi war criminal and though he apparently “didn’t know” about the routine execution of civilian prisoners close to where he was stationed, and “didn’t know” about the rounding up of Jews to be sent to Auschwitz, it does make one uncomfortable to think of his voice as being representative of the entire human race.

This “disappearance” from memory of major and obvious wrongs has since been called “Waldheim’s disease”, in reference to Kurt Waldheim’s convenient ability to not remember or know anything about the horrible atrocities which surrounded him during his time as an SS officer.

What does Kurt Waldheim and “Waldheim’s Disease” have to do with conceptual art and Srikanth Reddy’s Voyager, you ask? Well, Waldheim wrote an English-language memoir called In the Eye of the Storm and when Reddy sat down to write his political book-poem Voyager in response to “Waldheim’s Disease” he did so not by writing words from his head but by taking a chapter of Waldheim’s memoir and then crossing out most of it, leaving the words that comprise Voyager behind. Reddy did not use any words that were not in this chapter, and did not change the order that the words appeared in the book (he actually did this three times to the same chapter, making the three “Books” that comprise the poem).

This is what blows my hair back: Reddy wrote an entire book in response to a man’s erasure of history by erasing that man’s memoir. Reddy’s concept is his message. Reddy’s voice is within the voice of his subject (it doesn’t get much more “engaged” than that). He doesn’t tell us how erasure and disappearance changes that which is revealed. He shows us. Is your mind blown yet? Mine is.

The best part is that Reddy doesn’t rest on the laurels of his amazing process (which can be viewed at tiny.cc/voyagermethod). The incredibly intelligent and disciplined commitment to his concept aside, Voyager is just a damn good poem. In Book Three, a hell-dwelling Minister keeps a zoo of political leaders, harpoons one, and eats the man’s skin raw, “which he insisted/ was the best way/ to eat a respected/ former Congressman.” Keep in mind that all of these words do exist, in this order, in Waldheim’s memoir, and it is only the erasure of words by Reddy that leaves these lines behind. KA-BLAM.

"Voyager", published by the University of California Press

THIS is a concept I can get behind. This is art whose point is its concept (a very clever one, I might add) but because the work was sincerely tackled by the artist, who took the time to truly empathize with his subject (so much so that the poem blurs the lines between the poet as a separate voice commenting on Waldheim and Waldheim as a voice of the poet himself), the book becomes so much more than concept. This book is not even a condemnation of a former Nazi officer. It is a thorough and passionate engagement with a political figure and with what is shown and hidden in history.

Like a lot of conceptual art, Voyager will make you feel small. But you will not feel small in the face of inaccessibility and a sense of douchebaggery. You will feel small in the face of an overwhelming feat of creation and literature. This is the kind of small you want to feel when you experience any art, conceptual or otherwise.

Read it. Engage. Blow your mind.

I’m good at something. Now what?

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Scene de Cirque by Marc Chagall

When I was in high school, I read an essay in English class about a girl who wanted to grow up and play with Lego. When told that “playing with Lego” wasn’t a career like being a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer, the girl was undaunted. She went to university, eventually completing a master’s degree in architecture (incidentally, her final project model was built with Lego), and somehow or other she landed a job with the Lego company developing the new Lego sets. Now her office is filled with every Lego piece she could ever need (with people on call to provide her with additional pieces if required) and she makes her money playing with Lego all day long. The moral of the story for all of us high school students preparing to go out into the world and seek our fortunes was “Make your vocation your vacation!”

I guess this means that we’re supposed to find that thing we’re really good at doing, our calling, so to speak, and make pursuing it as fun and awesome (and lucrative) as possible. Appealing, but easier said than done.

The fact of the matter is that many people, like me, are decently good at several things but aren’t necessarily geniuses in any one thing. Our vocation is not obvious, and the means to turn whatever our calling is into our livelihood (i.e. into money we can LIVE on) are vaguer still.

It has now been almost three years since I finished my BFA in Theatre Performance, and finally it has begun to become abundantly clear to me why I have not jumped at every performance opportunity (for the most part unpaid) that has come my way since. At first, of course, I said I couldn’t possibly get time off work to audition or rehearse, and then, of course, I couldn’t quit my job because I had over $20 000 in student loans to pay off and then, of course, I moved into Vancouver from Burnaby and rent was simply too high to allow me to give up my job and then, of course, I got hired on a continuing contract WITH BENEFITS (and you’d be a fool to give those up), and then, of course, I was travelling, and then, of course, and then and then and then.

The result of all of these “and thens” is that I am not an actor right now. And you know what? I think I’m not supposed to be, at least not as my vocation. Obviously there are many actors in this city who aren’t acting all the time, but they are trying– they are getting flexible jobs that allow them to fit in rehearsal schedules, they are auditioning, they are continuing to train through workshops and intensives, they are performing in every damn thing they can perform in, and when they aren’t performing, they are itching to fulfill the artist within by getting back onstage, sinking their teeth into a role, and performing the hell out of something.

These people are actors. These people are not me. Firstly, I am either too lazy or too cheap (or maybe both?) to find a more flexible (i.e. less secure and well-paying) job, audition, pay for workshops (which are pricey!), etc. Secondly, and more importantly, when I have gone through static, less artistic periods of my life, it wasn’t performing that I itched for. It was creating.

Although I’ve always loved performing, and when I do perform I will always try my damndest and have lots of fun, I’m not itching to be Blanche DuBois, or Electra, or Lady Macbeth (well, maybe Lady M because WHO WOULDN’T?). I’m not really itching to be any character, or any thing. I’m itching to be the one to call amazing things into being.

Being an actor seemed to be a natural choice for me because I always loved to play pretend. But was it being somebody else that I enjoyed, or was it the creation of these other versions of my childhood self (their world, their powers, their adventures) that I loved? I think somehow I’ve always wanted to be all the characters, I’ve always wanted to make their whole world. I want to manifest what exists in my imagination and try to communicate it through language. I want to tell stories. I want to plant images in people’s heads. And I don’t just want artistic fulfillment, I want intellectual fulfillment. I want to write.

And that is why I do. That’s why I blog. That’s why I loved co-creating Troika! last year with my friends. That’s why I’ve got a bunch of (mostly crappy) unfinished work languishing in notebooks and, more recently, on my computer. That’s why I agreed to adapt a Greek tragedy for some theatrical friends of mine. That’s why I went back to school to study English literature and am currently studying writing poetry. THIS is what I’m not too cheap or too lazy to do. THIS is what I’m itching for.

And you know what? I’m decently good at it. I’m not being vain. I’m just owning up to what is becoming more and more obviously my vocation. Funnily enough, it’s in poetry that it has been suggested that I pursue graduate studies. Apparently, I’m decently good at it. At poetry. Huh.

I know I’m no genius poet. I’m not Inger Christensen, whose alphabet (brilliantly translated by Susanna Nied), a 70+ page poem based on the Fibonacci sequence, is the most elegantly constructed piece of literature I have ever beheld (and all this intense mathematical form without sacrificing contact and image at all!). I’m not Franis Ponge, whose obsession (and faculty with) describing the thingness of things has been intriguing and inspiring to me this semester. But I’m decently good at writing poetry. I feel good about it. Writing poetry is, to me, a delicious act.

I found something I’m good at! Yay!

Now what?

The last time I checked, being a poet was not a…lucrative…career choice, and unlike acting, there is no way to “make it big”. Studying poetry at the graduate level would be incredibly artistically and intellectually fulfilling. It would also financially impoverish me (and let’s not forget I want to continue to study other creative writing forms too! $$$!).

I am at the point in my life where I have realized that I can’t live my “double life” forever: the life of a responsible full-time administrative assistant combined with the life of the unpaid creative. Though I’m delighted that I’ve found a vocation (and delighted that I have a job that allows me to live comfortably for now), there’s no vacation in working at work and then going home and working on my creative pursuits. It’s taking its toll on me, and when I’m older and have kids and a mortgage and backyard chickens or what-not I simply won’t be able to do it all.

I’m also at a point where I realize that to go any further into any kind of career (except within my admin job, I guess), I need to further my education through either graduate studies or professional certification. While on the one hand I am worried that it would be irresponsible to spend money and time on an education that will not advance my career and earning opportunities (like a graduate degree in poetry), I am even more uncomfortable with the idea of spending time and money obtaining certification or a graduate degree in something that will not make me happy, especially when it’s not really the thing I’m really meant to be doing anyways.

So what to do? I’m not sure. At the moment, I’m grateful that I can make my life work for me. I’m grateful that I’m beginning to understand what my goals are. I’m grateful for my job and for all the amazing things that I’m learning in my classes. I’m grateful for my theatre degree–without it I would not have cultivated the work ethic and artistic questioning necessary to be as creative as I want to be. Hopefully I’ll find my way. We can’t all play with the proverbial Lego all our lives, but I’ll build my magical cities for as long as I can. I’m meant to.

Not Just for Kids: A Year With Frog And Toad at Carousel Theatre

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Going "cookie for cookies!" - Todd Talbot, Josue Laboucane. Photo credit: Tim Matheson

Every once in a while I am lucky enough to see a production that I find so in every way delightful that even the act of writing or telling other people about it is delightful too. This is how I feel about Carousel Theatre’s A Year With Frog And Toad, playing at the Waterfront Theatre until April 8.

I have been to Carousel productions before (The Wizard of Oz and Aesop’s Fables), and I’ve always been a young-at-heart-believes-in-fairies person who is interested in and enjoys stories for younger audiences, be it through theatre, film, or literature. My past experiences with Carousel have been great.

But A Year With Frog And Toad really takes the cake. The theatrical experience begins, as it seems it always does at a Carousel production, with entering the theatre and seeing an absolutely beautiful set onstage, waiting, like us, for the magic to begin. Set designer Heidi Wilkinson created two picture-perfect homes for Frog and Toad, outside and in, and the effect this set has on everyone, not just the kids in the audience, is palpable.

Todd Talbot, Josue Laboucane. Photo credit: Tim Matheson

What follows is 60 minutes (that’s right, it’s short and sweet!) of pure delight. I am able to look at this show the way I look at a show meant for adult audiences because it is just that tight. The cues are tight, the funny bits (and the show is very funny) are perfectly-timed, and the costumes (designed by Yulia Shtern) are exactly what they ought to be down to the last dapper polka-dot (for Frog) and floppy mitten (for Toad, of course, for sledding!). The show is delivered by a seamless and talented ensemble of five performers who sang, danced, croaked, squeaked and chirped their way right into my affections in the first number and had me hanging on their string right until the finale.

But my heart, of course, goes to the dandy and particular Frog (Todd Talbot) and his slightly more disgruntled, ruffled, but no less loving best friend Toad (Josue Laboucane). To watch Toad try to coax his flowers into growing is to watch one of the sweetest and most genuine theatrical moments I have seen in YA theatre. The friendship of Frog and Toad, complete with swimsuit issues, too many cookies, and plans for rescue, feels sincere and tremendously touching. A Year With Frog and Toad is, quite simply, a year in the life of two best friends, with all the humour and heart that goes with it (I must admit I cried, I tried hard not to, because I was sitting next to a stranger, but I couldn’t help it).

In short, Carousel’s production of A Year With Frog And Toad is not just a show for kids, and it is not just on its technical and theatrical merits that adults will find entertainment and joy. Many artists I know dislike YA theatre in general because they feel it “talks down” to its audience. A Year With Frog and Toad does nothing of the sort. The fun and humour in this production are universal. And so is friendship.

Which is the point, I think. Aside from the tap-dancing forest creatures and the gorgeous set, the real story of A Year With Frog And Toad is one of friendship. Kids will love the show because it is beautiful and magical and fun. Adults will connect with the show for all of these reasons of course, but also because they’ve (sadly) had enough knocks in life to know how important and incredibly special a good friend really is.

Rebecca Talbot, Todd Talbot. Photo credit: Tim Matheson

A Year With Frog and Toad will run until April 8 at the Waterfront Theatre. Tickets can be purchased online on the Carousel Theatre website, or by calling the Carousel box office at 604-685-6217.

Disclosure: My ticket to A Year With Frog And Toad was arranged and provided by Jessie van Rijn, General Manager for Carousel Theatre. I remain the sole author of the content on NiftyNotCool.com.

“Chasing Home”: an interview with co-Director Pedro Chamale

/ Lauren / 2 Comments

For the past five months, a group of emerging and non-professional Vancouver theatre artists have been working together as part of Screaming Weenie Productions‘ All The World’s A Stage project. The result of this collaboration is Screaming Weenie’s brand-new play, “Chasing Home“, directed by Sean Cummings and Pedro Chamale, playing March 15, 16, and 17 in the Vancouver Playhouse Recital Hall.

From Screaming Weenie:

Home is more than a place you sleep and keep your stuff, it’s often a community, a feeling of belonging, a sense of security. What is home to someone who is an immigrant to Canada, or a refugee from a war-torn country, or someone who has been disowned by their family for simply loving someone of the same gender?

Chasing Home is a creation piece that explores the theme of ‘home’ from the viewpoint of cultural outsiders, immigrants, refugees, and others who have been forced to flee and create a new life for themselves in Vancouver.

To gain more information about the show and the All The World’s A Stage project I decided to ask co-Director Pedro Chamale (who is also the co-artistic director of Rice & Beans Theatre and my good friend) a few questions:

Tell me about the “All The World’s A Stage” project. How did you get involved?

ATWAS is a Screaming Weenie project that is giving non-theatre/emerging artists an opportunity to be mentored by professionls and then given the chance to develop and produce their own show. I was invited by Screaming Weenie to participate as an emerging artist, and upon hearing about the opportunity to gain more experience as a director and to collaborate with new people I jumped on board.

Who are the cast/company members in “Chasing Home”? (Are they students/ professionals/ emerging artists, etc.)

The cast members for Chasing Home are Christopher Casillan, Evelyn Chew, Jeremy Leroux, Damian Rumph, and Sheryl Thompson, who are a wonderful group of professional actors .The crew of our show is a great mix of professionals, emerging artists, recent immigrants–all the way to a first generation Canadian like myself. We are: Sean Cummings and myself (directors), Carolyn Yu (stage manager), Nicole Holas (lighting designer), Esta Mun (props & outreach coordinator), Hanno (set and costume designer), and Stacey Sherlock (technical director).

For how long/how often were the “All the World’s a Stage” participants meeting? Can you describe your training/creative process?

We started meeting back in October. Back then we would meet bi-weekly, and at first we were focusing on the mentorship part of the program. We were partnered with our professional counterparts who were working on Screaming Weenie’s production of Falling In Time. We volunteered with the production’s run and observed a professional show being put up. After Falling In Time closed we then shifted the focus of our meetings to what kind of show we would like to do.

What, in your mind, were the core impulses that led to the creation of “Chasing Home”?

“Chasing Home” came from common themes that occurred during our discussions and meetings and one of the prevailing themes was the idea of what is home. All of the other participants were born in another country, and I was not born here in Vancouver. So a lot of our talks were about what it was like to be in a new city and culture. We each came in and presented things we would like to see in our show and also we told stories of our lives, which in turn inspired the play.

Why might this play be vital to our community? Why now?
I believe that [“Chasing Home”] is vital to our community because most of us are searching for what is home to us. Or if we are not searching, we have at least felt it before. This play is also vital because not only is it a new piece of  Canadian theatre but the show has been made by and is cast with a non-Caucasian majority, which is not always seen on the larger stages in Vancouver, and it is nice to see a show that is a little more representative of the population in our city.
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Event Details:
Performances: March 15, 16 & 17, 2012, at 8:00pm, with a matinee March 17 (Saturday) at 3:00 pm.

Venue: Recital Hall, Vancouver Playhouse at 601 Cambie Street

Admission: $10* | Tickets available at the door or on-line at:

https://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/231203

*no one turned away for lack of funds

Other Important Notes

While it has (sadly) come to my attention that at a press conference this afternoon, the Vancouver Playhouse announced that it will be closing its doors after the run of “Hunchback of Notre Dame” is complete, I have, as yet, received no information indicating that “Chasing Home” will not be performed as planned in the Recital Hall.

Disclosure: In return for helping spread the word about “Chasing Home” (via any social media means I so chose), I have been offered a ticket to the opening night performance on March 15. I am happy to help create buzz around a project such as ATWAS, and the idea to interview Mr. Chamale was mine. As always, I remain the sole author of my content.

Leap Day 2012

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

February 29 everybody, it’s February 29!!!

This is not an amazing blog post really, this is just a post to say HOLY CRAP IT’S FEBRUARY 29, WHICH IS A LEAP DAY, WHICH ONLY HAPPENS EVERY FOUR YEARS!

This year has 366 days in it y’all, and I simply cannot let Leap Day pass me by without posting something for the future me to look back on. Now that Facebook has that snazzy (and embarrassing) timeline thing, I was able to check back to see what, if anything, I had posted to the world the LAST time it was February 29 (2008). Ahem. According to Facebook, I said, “Lauren Kresowaty is feeling flexible.” Huh. Not exactly profound stuff.

And neither is this. But it’s Leap Day. LEAP DAY! Which means that today is the one day in every four years that people who are born on February 29 actually get to celebrate their birthday on the correct date. Some people might complain about this but I think it is pretty freakin’ magical. Like Brigadoon, every four years the birthdays of Leap Day babies rise out of the mist, and then disappear from the face of the calendar, not to be seen again for another four years. In years that are NOT Leap Years, the true birthdays of these Leapies would actually be the stroke of midnight between February 28 and March 1, at the precise moment when February is turning into March and today is turning into tomorrow. At this time, and only this time, Leap Year babies would be able to catch just the smallest moment of their real birthday, caught in the witching hour between evening and morning, between one month and the next.

I am in fact so taken with this idea that I actually bothered to figure out that if I were to conceive a child around May 29, 2015, there is a VERY good chance that my baby would be born on Leap Day in 2016 and an even GREATER chance that they’d be a Pisces, which would be great, because apparently Pisces are psychic. Which is cool, if you’re into astrology and stuff. Which you would be, if you were a magical psychic Leap Day baby.

This is not to say that I would actually do this, as timing is everything, you gotta be ready, “kids are a big responsibility and you shouldn’t have them just because you think Leap Day babies are cool”, blah blah blah. But the thing is, today is the NIFTIEST day of the four years, and though I try not to do things just because they’re cool, it’s hard to avoid giving into that which is nifty. And what day could be niftier than February 29?

Think about it. And enjoy the rest of your Leap Day. It needs to last you four years.

Aesop’s Fables at Carousel Theatre

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Mishelle Cutler and Kayvon Kelly, photo by Tim Matheson

By now, anyone who has passed through a Canadian elementary school is familiar with Aesop and his fables. We know by now that slow and steady wins the race (Tortoise and the Hare) that warmth is stronger than force (The Sun and the North Wind) and that sometimes even those who seem weaker than you can prove helpful in a sticky situation (The Lion and the Mouse). What we don’t know, or may have forgotten, is the magic and opportunity for learning that comes with seeing children engage with these tried and true morals for the first time.

It was this spark of brand new engagement that I was able to experience on Saturday, when I attended Carousel Theatre for Young People’s opening of their production of Aesop’s Fables, scripted by Mike Kenny. Joining me at the Waterfront Theatre once again was a friend and former mentor of mine, and her five-year-old daughter, my Little Guest (LG).

Those of you who have read my post inspired by watching Carousel Theatre’s The Wizard of Oz may remember that my LG got a little scared being close to the stage and did need to spend a short time in the lobby while the Witch was onstage. Jessie van Rijn, General Manager of Carousel Theatre, certainly did remember as she confirmed with us at the box office that our tickets this time were farther back and also right on the aisle, for the possibility of a quick exit. I’m grateful to Jessie for providing us with these seats but also delighted to report that LG remained happily in the house through the entire performance and has given her approval for seeing more theatre in the future.

Carousel’s production of Aesop’s Fables is certainly for kids. The humour, music, and “audience participation” moments are directed towards them. Judging by the reactions of the children in the audience, these moments were received with great enthusiasm by the young (and young at heart) who were happy to puff up their cheeks, fluff up their feathers, make silly sounds, and helpfully point out where sneaky animals like wolves and mice may be hiding. I should also point out that the house was almost consistently filled with laughter, which is always a good sign that kids are enjoying themselves.

Melissa Oei, photo by Tim Matheson

Though many of the moments in the production are not geared towards the adult members of the audience, there is much for us to appreciate: great music (much of it played live by members of the cast), strong (and often funny) physical performances by cast members, and (my personal favourite), an absolutely enchanting set designed by Drew Facey. Facey’s set is simple, but somehow elaborate at the same time, and when coupled with Darren Boquist’s elegant but not intrusive lighting, Aesop’s Fables is full of visual whimsy.

After the show, the actors returned to the stage to take questions from the children in the audience. Every question was answered, whether it be a question about how an effect works, where the sound comes from, who made what, how long the actors rehearsed, or even a request to explain the fables themselves. I think this chance to have questions answered is a vital part of the show, removing it from a magical, untouchable “onstage” world and introducing children to the ways in which stories are told, problems are solved, and things are made.

So far, when writing about my experiences with Carousel Theatre, it has been helpful to refer to my large unwieldy copy of the Anthology of Children’s Literature (Ed. Edna Johnson, Evelyn R. Sickels, Frances Clarke Sayers, 1959) which I picked up at the SFU United Way book sale a couple of years ago. About fables, the Anthology has this to say:

…while children shun moralizing they are drawn to morality. The drama of the fable, the animal characters, and the quick flash of its single illustration of a truth–these hold the attention of children. Fables are like small, bright pebbles picked up from the shore, stored in the pocket as reminders of past experience, and held in the mind when needed.

I remember my own introduction to fables very clearly. We had a small picture book of them at home, and although I can’t remember every fable that was in the book, I remember the colours in the illustrations, the image of a thirsty crow drinking the water he earned through his cleverness, and the voice of my dad explaining the stories to us and what the morals meant. Fables are as familiar to us as fairy tales, and oftentimes, a lot more useful. The experience of being introduced to them for the first time can be a very rich memory later on.

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Mike Stack, Mishelle Cuttler, Melissa Oei, and Kayvon Kelly, photo by Tim Matheson

Aesop’s Fables runs at the Waterfront Theatre until February 26. For the times of public performances, please see Carousel’s Public Calendar on their website. Tickets can be purchased online on Carousel’s Box Office page or by calling 604-685-6217.

Carousel’s season this year is based on literary classics, so if you’re interested, I believe the next production is A Year With Frog and Toad.

My ticket, as well as the tickets of my guests, were provided for me by Carousel Theatre. I was not asked to write a review for this performance, and I remain solely responsible for my content, regarding this production or any other.

In Defense of Valentine’s Day

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Happy Valentine's Day! I made it myself!

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody! Whether you have a sweetie to share this particular Valentine’s Day with or not, the point of this non-holiday holiday is to celebrate love (at least, I think it is, though commercials seem to be hinting that it’s about me receiving a jewellery thing called an “Eternity Band” or some such).

While I’m not all that supportive of the idea of FORCING people to be loving on a particular day of the year, or making people feel like dummies if they happen not to have a paramour at the moment, I am very supportive of love. It makes my world go round.

And you know what? I’m sick and tired of Valentine’s Day having a bad rap. Sure, it’s been hijacked by jewellery stores and florists and candy companies and the people who make those shiny heart-shaped balloons. But hey, some people like shiny heart-shaped balloons, and those that don’t do not have to buy them.

When I was in elementary school, everyone had a little paper Valentine box on their desk and it was customary to give a Valentine to everyone in the class (even icky sticky boys…). I thought this was fun, and I also always loved making Valentine cards out of paper (folding paper in half makes PERFECT hearts and paper doilies make great fake lace). When I was in grade 4, our teacher sent pieces of paper around the class, one for each student, that said, for example, “I like Lauren, because…” and everyone else wrote something nice that they liked about the person whose name was at the top of the piece of paper. On Valentine’s Day, in addition to the homemade cards we got from everyone, we also got this sheet of paper. It was lovely, at the tender and impressionable age of nine, to read that I was liked because I was intelligent, or because I could make someone laugh, or because I was cute. I wish we still did that now.

And why don’t we? Sure, a lot of people focus on the romance of Valentine’s Day, but for most of my life I haven’t actually had a sweetheart on Valentine’s Day to be romantic with. What I have always had are friends. Last year I went to my friend’s house to celebrate Valentine’s Day and we ate heart-shaped sugar cookies (with pink icing of course!) and gave our (usually very intellectual) brains a rest by watching “Wedding SOS” and “Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta”. And that was perfect.

Another year one of my bosom besties sent me a picture of a whale that said, “Have a WHALE of a Valentine’s Day!”. What’s wrong with that as a celebration of love? NOTHING, that’s what. I love my friends and family. And I’ve been lucky enough to have their love and support as well.

So you don’t have a special someone or a significant other this Valentine’s Day? I know it can suck sometimes, especially since we all do want a little romance once in a while, and since advertisements seem to be force-feeding us “romance” by the bucketful, but there’s no reason to hate an entire day just for that. You may not have a “someone special” this year, but I bet you have special people in your life. You may not have a “significant other” but I bet there are people whose friendship has made a very significant difference over the years. If you don’t have a paramour this year (or even if you do) why not tell THOSE people they’re special and significant on Valentine’s Day?

Stop hating Valentine’s Day. It’s not designed to make you buy things, or feel bad. It’s definitely not about hate. It’s about love, the people you love, and the people who love you, whether it be platonic, familial, or romantic.

I have a lot of special and significant people in my life, and while my TC is certainly one of those (and we will be celebrating today–a rack of ribs has been marinating since last night, woot!), I am also lucky to have my parents, my sisters, my bosom pals, besties, and childhood friends, great coworkers and a good community to fall back on.

So Happy Valentine’s Day everybody! I like you because you are smart, you are kind, you are cute, and you lift my spirits. I hope February 14 is a a smiley and warm kind of day for you, whether you feel like celebrating anything or not.

xoxo,

NiftyNotCool

PuSh 2012: Taylor Mac at Club PuSh

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Waiting for Taylor Mac to take the stage at Club PuSh

If you were a very lucky person last Friday or Saturday, you may have had the benefit of spending 90 minutes breathing the same air as performance artist Taylor Mac, as he rocked my world with his latest show, Comparison Is Violence or The Ziggy Stardust Meets Tiny Tim Songbook as part of Club PuSh at Performance Works on Granville Island. Often identifiable as a performer by the glitter on his face and the ukulele he plays, Mac has been described by the press many times throughout his career as a “Ziggy Stardust meets Tiny Tim” performer. Annoyed both by the comparisons, and by the obvious lack of originality within the press, Mac decided to battle Comparison (as an action) with a show devoted entirely to the singing of Tiny Tim and Ziggy Stardust songs.

[Side note: I had always imagined Tiny Tim to be some adorable, soft little man. I had no idea he was so creepy-looking. Yikes.]

I fell in love with Taylor Mac three years ago when I watched his Palace of the End on YouTube. The performance was interesting, and provocative. Mac used the tools he uses best, glitter and a ukulele, to tell a complex story and I was very drawn to and inspired by that. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend Club PuSh in 2009, the last time he was performing in the city. That is why the minute I saw that Taylor Mac would be returning to Club PuSh for the 2012 PuSh Festival, I rushed to buy tickets to Comparison Is Violence.

I suppose many would describe Mac as a drag artist–he’s certainly sparkly enough, and the Ariel-like mane of his red wig certainly isn’t all that manly. Despite his clear stilettos and red lipstick, however, Mac didn’t actually try to appear to be a woman (no stuffing a bra or referring to himself as a “she”–come to think of it, I’m not sure Mac referred to himself as belonging to any gender). To me, the performer Taylor Mac is simply a creature–a sparkly, gorgeous, who-knows-WHAT’S-going-on-with-that-human creature. He has a powerful singing voice, a slight Southern drawl, and a sense of humour that is by turns incredibly diva-esque in its selfishness or incredibly generous in its intent. Mac owns his stage, and by default, his audience.

For a show that, on the surface, seems to consist primarily of a “gender-bender” covering Ziggy and Tiny Tim songs and saying FABULOUS funny things between-times, I found Comparison Is Violence to have a lot of depth. Mac himself stated that there was what he was saying he was doing in the show, and then there what he was actually doing, and that these things were actually different (although even this sentiment he buried in a discussion about why we shouldn’t get too drunk during the show). This might seem to be an overly-confident, or perhaps pretentious, claim to make about one’s own show, but I found it to be true, at least for me. Yes, I found Taylor Mac to be outrageous and hilarious (his referring to his Christian mother as a “fundy cray-cray” for telling him that “Jesus wouldn’t have a feminine walk” almost made me wet my proverbial pants) but beneath the spontaneity and the almost overwhelming energy zooming from Mac on all sides there was a sense of stillness and quietude, belonging to a person who really does seem to feel the violence inherent in the act of comparison, and really does want us to think before we box in someone by labeling them with someone else’s name. Why is it that we can’t describe something without comparing it to something else? Why do we always have to compare people to pop culture, to our past lovers, to politicians? Whatever happened to comparing ourselves to nature, experiences, and ideas (if compare we must)?

Taylor Mac also shared with us the fact that he finds reviews of shows to just be saying “Buy This” or “Don’t Buy This”. He said a critique is more useful–addressing where this art form is coming from, and where it might be going. Unfortunately, I have never seen a performer like Taylor Mac, so I don’t know where he came from, and I am not sure where it’s all going. But I can rest on review and say, yes, if you get a chance, buy into Taylor Mac, Buy This Buy This Buy This. Even if you don’t like it you’ll have an experience you’ve never quite had before. Which I think is the point? Yes. Probably. Buy This!

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And now a note about the PuSh Festival itself, the festival that brought the electrifying Taylor Mac into my world. Last Thursday, I attended the reception for PuSh sponsors and members of the board at Subeez Cafe. I was one of a handful of bloggers invited partially as a thank you for spreading the word about PuSh in the past, and also I think as encouragement to continue doing so if I so choose. And I do choose to.

As Max Wyman, Board President of the PuSh Festival, put it that night, every year the performances on offer as part of the PuSh will “provoke, sometimes enrage…always engage.” As if to prove this point I also received a complimentary ticket to attend last Thursday’s opening night of El pasado es un animal grotesco (The Past is a Grotesque Animal) which played on a revolving stage in SFU Woodward’s Fei and Milton Wong Theatre. The play was entirely in Spanish with English surtitles, unflinchingly narrative, and quietly, terribly sad. Had it not been for the PuSh Festival I highly doubt I would have had much chance to see work by an Argentinian theatre company and this story, though universal in its themes, would never have reached me.

And here is the part where I talk about money (which is no one’s favourite part but which is necessary). An international performing arts festival of this size and scope requires a lot of support and costs a lot of money. Though of course the point of the festival is that people come to PuSh and take in some amazing events, PuSh cannot support itself through ticket sales. As both the provincial and federal governments have made significant cuts to arts funding in recent years, festivals like the PuSh have been forced to rely more and more heavily on private and corporate sponsorship and donations.

I love PuSh. I want it to exist. I know many of you who have been to PuSh events agree. If you are a Vancouverite who wants to continue to experience the spellbinding intrigue of the PuSh Festival each year, or an incredibly altruistic non-Vancouverite who wants to help Vancouverites enjoy the PuSh each year, and you have a bit of money to spare, or work in a company/corporation that may benefit from supporting the PuSh Festival, please consider visiting the festival’s donation page and giving them “a PuSh” (their pun, not mine).

Sadly, the PuSh Festival has finished for another year. Until next time, this is NiftyNotCool, reminding you to keep mid-January to mid-February open on your calendar for 2013, and to remember to PuSh it good.