At 6pm last Saturday, I was walking out of the studio cradling a wet oil painting of myself. After a mad dash home to drop off the art and take the dog out, I headed for the John Anson Ford Amphitheatre. Nestled comfortable in the Hollywood Hills, a neighbor of the Bowl, I spent much of my youth in line for the summer Shakespeare performances at this gorgeous outdoor venue, clutching a can of chili as my price of admission. But not tonight. Tonight I was onstage.
About six weeks ago, My Man was hired to perform in a concert presentation of Sparks' new opera The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman. Filmmaker Guy Maddin had expressed an interest in creating the film version of the work and a show and tell was scheduled for the next to last night of the LA Film Festival, in order to generate financing. A small group of exceptional talent was assembled (including some outstanding representatives from the nation of Finland) to demonstrate the potential greatness of the work. Owing to my proximity and general enthusiasm for the piece, I nabbed a spot as an extra (or a super, as they say in the opera world.) Meaning I got to be on that stage. And look out upon a full house. With helicopters flying overhead. And the gorgeous score swelling from behind. And a wealth of gratitude all around me.
The after party was a casual but packed affair in the underbelly of the Ford with a bottle of Maker's Mark and some peanut M&Ms. I couldn't have been more thrilled.
The next day, my household and I were guests at the Finnish Consulate in Bel Air. (Yeah. I Know.) There was smoked fish and chardonnay and new solar panels they were very excited about and bona fide opera singers making conversation with me about The Burning Opera until I had to leave to go perform The Burning Opera.
Sometimes life is so extraordinary that you pause to say thank you to it.
Do keep an eye out for the film. I think it'll be quite good.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Places You'll Go - Day 2
Up bright and early Saturday morning, I was loaded down with gear and out the door by 9 for an all day modeling assignment at a San Gabriel studio. The morning session was easy. Short poses over 3 hours. The studio owner brought me a tasty bahn mi for lunch and I was able to stretch and relax for an hour. The afternoon session was a four hour pose for a painting workshop.
People are often curious about the life of an artist's model, which is understandable. The bummer is that they're always curious about the nudity part and rarely curious about anything else.
Here's an edited and condensed version of a conversation I have at least once a week:
"What kind of work you do?"
"It varies. I perform in theater pieces. I'm a musician. I teach. I'm an artist's model. And I write a bit."
"An artist's model?"
"Yes."
"So - like ... you have to be naked?"
"Usually."
"Huh. And you don't get embarrassed?"
"No."
"Your boyfriend doesn't get jealous?"
"No."
"You don't feel exploited?"
"I am exploited. And so are you."
And that's pretty much word for word how it goes. Every time. I try not to let it bug me. I don't always succeed. My job requires me to be nude in front of people. Obviously, if I had a problem with that I'd do one of the bajillion other jobs that don't require you to be naked. So when someone I've just met asks me if my job embarrasses me, it's hard to know how to take that. They're basically asking if I feel shame on a daily basis and I find that question condescending to say the least. No one ever asks a surgeon if they get grossed out by all the blood and guts they see at work. Because that's a stupid question.
But I've digressed. Oops. I have grown accustomed to peoples' prurient interest in the most sensational aspect of my job, to their amnesia regarding the highly-respected and centuries old tradition of nudes in art, to their unprompted concern for my personal dignity (as if it would be LESS exploitive to leave flyers on cars for minimum wage or make collections calls for a major credit card company or sit around a big desk with a bunch of fat guys brainstorming new ways to screw people out of insurance benefits they've paid for and are depending on. As if our entire economy were constructed on something other than institutionalized exploitation.) Sigh. But I mostly get miffed because I really love my work and I never get to talk about that. Nobody understands the extraordinary demands of art modeling or the euphoric pride I feel upon completing a 4 hour pose. It's like a marathon except you have to sit still instead of run. Most people have never sat still for longer than 10 minutes in their life so they have no idea. It's really hard on your body. Your muscles lock up and your circulation slows and sometimes you get bruises from resting your arm on an armrest. And you have to strive to maintain the emotional state you had at the beginning of the pose, even as your body goes on this journey of endurance. Plus, in stillness come thoughts. Often the very thoughts you've been avoiding take this opportunity to rush at you, demanding recognition. And as you ponder the deepest questions of your life, with the mother of all cramps in your lumbar, you have to keep your face arranged in the same placid lines you started with. Because people are counting on you. Artists, civilization - they need you. While in a pose, you are a bridge connecting the past to the future - allowing the people in the room to access the traditions of the masters and helping them to usher in their own personal renaissance.
And every once in a while, someone will gift you with the painting they've done of you. And you get to keep this tangible memento of you on this day, in this extended moment. This testament to your humanity. This labor of someone's love and talent. And as you take it from their hands, wondering how to get it home without smudging it, you know that someday you will be old. And then you will be dead. And this painting will only be a little bit dusty.
I've rambled. So you'll have to wait for the next installment to read about my evening's adventure.
People are often curious about the life of an artist's model, which is understandable. The bummer is that they're always curious about the nudity part and rarely curious about anything else.
Here's an edited and condensed version of a conversation I have at least once a week:
"What kind of work you do?"
"It varies. I perform in theater pieces. I'm a musician. I teach. I'm an artist's model. And I write a bit."
"An artist's model?"
"Yes."
"So - like ... you have to be naked?"
"Usually."
"Huh. And you don't get embarrassed?"
"No."
"Your boyfriend doesn't get jealous?"
"No."
"You don't feel exploited?"
"I am exploited. And so are you."
And that's pretty much word for word how it goes. Every time. I try not to let it bug me. I don't always succeed. My job requires me to be nude in front of people. Obviously, if I had a problem with that I'd do one of the bajillion other jobs that don't require you to be naked. So when someone I've just met asks me if my job embarrasses me, it's hard to know how to take that. They're basically asking if I feel shame on a daily basis and I find that question condescending to say the least. No one ever asks a surgeon if they get grossed out by all the blood and guts they see at work. Because that's a stupid question.
But I've digressed. Oops. I have grown accustomed to peoples' prurient interest in the most sensational aspect of my job, to their amnesia regarding the highly-respected and centuries old tradition of nudes in art, to their unprompted concern for my personal dignity (as if it would be LESS exploitive to leave flyers on cars for minimum wage or make collections calls for a major credit card company or sit around a big desk with a bunch of fat guys brainstorming new ways to screw people out of insurance benefits they've paid for and are depending on. As if our entire economy were constructed on something other than institutionalized exploitation.) Sigh. But I mostly get miffed because I really love my work and I never get to talk about that. Nobody understands the extraordinary demands of art modeling or the euphoric pride I feel upon completing a 4 hour pose. It's like a marathon except you have to sit still instead of run. Most people have never sat still for longer than 10 minutes in their life so they have no idea. It's really hard on your body. Your muscles lock up and your circulation slows and sometimes you get bruises from resting your arm on an armrest. And you have to strive to maintain the emotional state you had at the beginning of the pose, even as your body goes on this journey of endurance. Plus, in stillness come thoughts. Often the very thoughts you've been avoiding take this opportunity to rush at you, demanding recognition. And as you ponder the deepest questions of your life, with the mother of all cramps in your lumbar, you have to keep your face arranged in the same placid lines you started with. Because people are counting on you. Artists, civilization - they need you. While in a pose, you are a bridge connecting the past to the future - allowing the people in the room to access the traditions of the masters and helping them to usher in their own personal renaissance.
And every once in a while, someone will gift you with the painting they've done of you. And you get to keep this tangible memento of you on this day, in this extended moment. This testament to your humanity. This labor of someone's love and talent. And as you take it from their hands, wondering how to get it home without smudging it, you know that someday you will be old. And then you will be dead. And this painting will only be a little bit dusty.
I've rambled. So you'll have to wait for the next installment to read about my evening's adventure.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Oh the places you'll go...
The people you'll meet. The times you will have - filled to the ecstatic brim with art and music and wild opportunity. Bring it, I say. Bring it hard. Make it burn "like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars." (Kerouac)
It was a steamed clam pizza that kicked it off, delivering the direct message that this would be a weekend of discovery and adventure. Occasioned by a pair of delightful out-of-town visitors (our friends in Monterey,) we began our Friday night with dinner at Urbano Pizza Bar, where the Diva's dinner included Pizza Vongole - a standard mozzarella, garlic and parsley affair kicked up a notch by a scattering of perfectly steamed, in-shell clams. Really it was more like pizza with a side of clams than pizza but the side wasn't on the side at all. Whatever. It was delicious and the Market Salad and La Moto Chianti rounded the whole thing up beautifully. From there, our guests and I headed for a performance of The Burning Opera while The Man headed to his late night rehearsal for The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman at The John Anson Ford Theatre.
It was an especially great and especially hot show. Doing theater in a loft space presents special challenges. Doing it in the summer is just freakin' crazy. Industrial spaces have super-high ceilings but poor ventilation. While the audience remains relatively comfortable, the backstage and dressing area quickly become a sauna when filled with 20 hot bodies and heated by two enormous shadow lamps. By the end of the show, the entire company is drenched in perspiration and once the sweat-soaked costumes have been stripped off, the thought of putting anything else on in their place is simply unacceptable. This has led to a gradual increase in after-party exhibitionism which reached a fever pitch at this particular show. While her comrades strutted most or all of their enviable stuff, The Diva maintained a conservative decorum in her boy shorts, backless handkerchief top and stiletto boots. And of course, the Teeny Tiny Top Hat (required attire for The Teeny Tiny Top Hat Brigade, of which she is a founding member.) With the sensational DJ Jacques the Ripper burning up the dance floor and The TTTHB dancing on a table, it was tough to leave the party before dawn. But Divas need their beauty sleep. And Saturday was looking to be a big day...
It was a steamed clam pizza that kicked it off, delivering the direct message that this would be a weekend of discovery and adventure. Occasioned by a pair of delightful out-of-town visitors (our friends in Monterey,) we began our Friday night with dinner at Urbano Pizza Bar, where the Diva's dinner included Pizza Vongole - a standard mozzarella, garlic and parsley affair kicked up a notch by a scattering of perfectly steamed, in-shell clams. Really it was more like pizza with a side of clams than pizza but the side wasn't on the side at all. Whatever. It was delicious and the Market Salad and La Moto Chianti rounded the whole thing up beautifully. From there, our guests and I headed for a performance of The Burning Opera while The Man headed to his late night rehearsal for The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman at The John Anson Ford Theatre.
It was an especially great and especially hot show. Doing theater in a loft space presents special challenges. Doing it in the summer is just freakin' crazy. Industrial spaces have super-high ceilings but poor ventilation. While the audience remains relatively comfortable, the backstage and dressing area quickly become a sauna when filled with 20 hot bodies and heated by two enormous shadow lamps. By the end of the show, the entire company is drenched in perspiration and once the sweat-soaked costumes have been stripped off, the thought of putting anything else on in their place is simply unacceptable. This has led to a gradual increase in after-party exhibitionism which reached a fever pitch at this particular show. While her comrades strutted most or all of their enviable stuff, The Diva maintained a conservative decorum in her boy shorts, backless handkerchief top and stiletto boots. And of course, the Teeny Tiny Top Hat (required attire for The Teeny Tiny Top Hat Brigade, of which she is a founding member.) With the sensational DJ Jacques the Ripper burning up the dance floor and The TTTHB dancing on a table, it was tough to leave the party before dawn. But Divas need their beauty sleep. And Saturday was looking to be a big day...
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Burnification of The Diva
I'll pass over the tedious business of recovering my voice (read The Sound of Silence for a quick refresher. Or don't.) and tell you that the first third of 2011 was dominated by teaching (Literacy Through Music for Underserved Youth. Voice, piano and acting for Children of Privilege.) The second third has been eclipsed completely by the juggernaut known as The Burning Opera.
The Burning Opera is a most unlikely creation: an original musical/opera about that exercise in temporary utopia known as Burning Man that does not (as everyone expects it to) suck. Not only does it not suck, it may be the greatest piece of live art I've ever been involved with. Only time will tell...
I became aware of The Burning Opera last year when its composer asked me to record some vocals for the demo and gave me a cd to help me learn the songs. It stayed in my player long after the sessions were concluded, its hold on me growing stronger with repeated spins. Needless to say, I was over the moon to be offered a role in the new production - a concert/shadowplay/interactive art event being staged right in my own backyard, at a 10,000 square foot loft in the Fashion District.
I was hired for my movement theater experience (crucial to the shadowplay,) my vocal range and my skill with harmonies. The score is a beast and the composer one of those mad geniuses who keeps making adjustments until the last possible second, always pushing his people to get just a little closer to the magic playing in his head. So I was a bit daunted but completely energized at the first rehearsal, when Genius Composer asked if any of us had instrumental skills to lend to the production, at least until the rest of the band had been hired. I boldly offered up my primitive piano skills (hey, I teach it. I don't play it.) and my oh-so-elementary bass ability. I was put to work immediately.
It took a couple weeks for the callouses to return and my hands to remember how to make the necessary shapes (weeks I also spent getting back into dance theater condition and learning vocal music that would make a theory major cry.) Somehow the arrival of the promised musicians did not reduce my instrumental responsibilities at all. It was like realizing the summer gig you've accepted is actually a reality show called Rock Star Boot Camp. But whatever. I booted my butt into gear and now I'm a professional bass and piano player. My students like to place this massive divide between where they are and where they want to be. I assure them it's just a matter of a few steps taken everyday. Oh look - I proved it.
The Burning Opera is now up and running and the production team (a colorful ragtag collection of jaw-dropping talent, sultry swagger and varying levels of deviance in personal matters) has bonded into a single-cell organism (with a lot of sexy arms.) Since our opening, our ranks have swelled with the Burning supporters of Los Angeles, who have surrounded the show with a bubble of love while singing its praises from the enormous rooftop.
For a gal who's never been to the Burn, this has all been quite the eye-opener. My vocabulary has changed. (I say "participate," "expression" and "community" at least once a day.) My thinking has evolved. I have a bazillion new best friends and a fab new wardrobe. I'm on a blinky-light rollercoaster, smothered in glitter and gropes, careening toward a moment of inevitable sadness, when the ride comes to an end.
But it's so far from over...
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