Growing Resentment

The tour schedule as of late has been nothing short of hellish. To say that everyone is exhausted would be an understatement. Typically, Sundays and Wednesdays consist of a matinee, build down, and transport. Then on Mondays and Thursdays we have build up in the morning, and the rest of the day off.

But for the month of July, we have had build up and a show on Mondays, leaving only Thursday afternoon and evening off. The temperature in the tent during performances has been in the high twenties to low thirties, and humid. Plus, we've been in the mountains, so the higher altitude has also been kicking our asses. Most days I feel weak and exhausted. I seem to have done a number on my shoulder (not to mention the continuing saga that is my back) and while the osteopath I saw told me I was on the brink of exhaustion and not to work for a few days, well, the show must go on. So much for getting better... At night, I read for a bit and then go to sleep.

And I am not alone. Pretty much everyone is just trying to make it from one show to the next. We have one artist working with a hernia, another who was in so much pain she was in tears before and during her act, another who, at 19 years of age, has thrown out his back, plus one of the clowns working on messed up ankle.

But the worst part, the very worst part of all, is that we're killing ourselves with this schedule and the tent is practically empty. I could understand really wanting to push the number of shows if we were playing to a packed house, but we've been consistently at 12% capacity for the past two weeks.

Now I've always tried to go in with the attitude that whatever the size of the crowd, those people paid to be there and deserve to see a quality show. But for the first time in my life, I've found myself cursing in my head when I take that first step on stage and see mostly empty seats.

Why is there that extra Monday show when they know Monday shows don't sell? Why are we doing four shows per town that are only filled to 12% when we could just as easily do two or three shows to more sizable crowds, especially in towns where they know from past experience that the crowds aren't there? And why, why such a heavy workload now (again, to an empty tent) when in the next three months we have almost as many shows to do as we've done in the last five months?

The resentment is growing and I'm really starting to feel angry. Three months to go is one thing, actually making it to the end is another...

Fashion, Faut Pas

When you're on a tour in the circus, a rhythm sets in and things can sometimes get to be a little monotonous. But every so often, an exciting side gig or special event comes along and shakes things up a bit. I was lucky enough to be chosen for just such a special event when I was asked if I wouldn't mind being part of a photo shoot for one of Switzerland's most widely circulated magazines!

At first, I was really excited. I was the only one in the troupe who would be featured in the shoot, and they were even flying in a model from New York for one day only, just for one shoot at our little circus! I would be in my wheel in full costume and make-up and I was told that as a main feature in the magazine, the photo would take up at least a quarter of the page, maybe more.

But my excitement quickly turned into some serious feelings of insecurity.

The model was stunning. She was exactly what you would imagine if someone told you to picture a fashion model in your head. Tall, slender, blonde, cheekbones to die for... and when the camera started clicking, she easily maneuvered from one sultry pose to the next with barely a second in between positions.

Me? Well, at first they wanted me upside down. But then they decided I was "so cute" that I could stand upright behind the model. Yipee... where she is tall, I am quite short. Where she is slender, I am muscular, almost boxy by comparison. I swear, in the photos I saw afterward, I looked like a squat little dwarf...

Moreover, no one told me what to do or where I should look. So sometimes I looked at the model, sometimes the camera. I had a very limited range of movement because I was standing in the wheel and any shift in weight would have caused it to roll out of the position desired for the shot. I had no idea why I was even there.

In the photos I saw afterward, I mostly look like I hate the model and maybe want to murder her. In the ones that I thought I looked good, the model was typically shifting from one pose to another. In the ones where she looked good, I looked like I was going to do her bodily harm.

When I pointed this out to the photographer, he insisted I just looked proud. I'm not so sure about that. Fortunately, he said he could just take her from one photo and me from another to make one super photo. I really hope he does.

The entire thing left me feeling terribly self-conscious and unattractive. I know that people have different standards of beauty, and many people at the circus reassured me that they like the way I look way more than the model looked, but my self-worth seemed to have decreased considerably from when I got up in the morning.

One thing I really like about circus is that very often it shows women of many different body types. They range from the petite and fit hand-to-hand flyer, the strong and slender aerialist, the muscular firecracker acrobat, and everything in between. Circus showcases every kind of woman, for the most part*, healthy and strong, each and every one of them beautiful.

I know this to be true. But when all was said and done, I certainly didn't feel that way. And the blow was that much harder as it came at me from inside my own home. The entire thing shook me in ways that I can't express. They were made all the more confusing by events that would occur the following evening...



* Like many fields (or just plain life) where the body is subject public scrutiny, eating disorders lurk. Luckily, I haven't encountered it much in my career. But that is not a subject I wish to address at this time.

Circus Time

I've been working in the circus for a number of years now, but never has my sense of time been so incredibly skewed as it is on this tour. After the first two weeks of shows (or was it only one?) it felt like we'd been running the show for months. Name a town we've already performed in and it feels as distant in my memory as towns I performed in years ago, though it may very well have only been last week. Couples that have formed over the course of the tour feel like they've been together for years, even though it's been only a couple of months at most.

It's very strange, sometimes frustrating, and always very surprising. It's hard not to get lost in the bubble, and harder still to maintain contact with those who aren't in it with you. While in the bubble what feels like a month may only be a week, but that friend from the real world who wrote to you last week, the one you've been meaning to write back to? That really was last month, and they're wondering what the hell happened to you.

It's not so bad for me. I'm used to being on tour and maintaining friendships from a distance. But my worker friends on the tour, the ones who decided to run away with the circus for a season, are having a much harder time of it. And I know that more than one of them is worried about losing their friends by the time this is over.

It's a funny thing, this circus time. A funny thing indeed...

And the Crowd Goes...

"If you ask a kid to draw a circus, they draw a tent." -Pam Miller, Big Apple Circus

I came across this quote the other day and it was exactly the piece of grounding wisdom that I needed to hear. Maybe I’ve just always been spoiled, but in every show I’ve ever performed in, my act was always one of the most well received and often an audience favourite. Here, I feel like my act receives the least applause of any of the acts…

I try not to pay attention. I try to tell myself not to compare. And I know that it’s sometimes hard to really hear during your act or right after because you’re focus is elsewhere. But I hear the applause for the others, and I know mine is not the same. I assist in one act and I swear, I can feel the wall of sound at the end the applause is so loud.

I’ve had friends here tell me “it’s not the same”. My act is more poetic and therefore has a different reception. The first half of the show is much slower and the energy lower (the circus received an e-mail saying the first half was kind of boring with the exception of the last two acts, one of which is mine). And by the time my act rolls around people are anxious for intermission. And of course, when they come back, they’re full of sugar so… yeah.

Sigh…

I know it shouldn’t matter but there are days where I wonder if maybe I’ve gotten old and my material stale. I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing wrong. But at the same time, I feel like I’m able to connect with the audience, and individual members of the audience especially, more so than I have ever been able to do before.

Which brings me back to the above quotation.

It’s not an individual act that makes a circus. Sure, people will have their favourite numbers, and I’m sure every act is at least one person’s favourite. But it’s the circus experience as a whole that fills us with a sense of magic. The sudden appearance of a big top on the horizon, the smell of sawdust and popcorn, and the many and varied feats of those who step into the ring.

So the next time I go out there and wonder where my whistles and woos are, I will try to remember Ms. Miller’s words. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just pretend that everyone is so incredibly amazed by what they’ve just seen that they’ve lost all ability speak, let alone cheer.

Baby steps… baby steps…

For One Fleeting Moment

For the last four years I performed on a proscenium style stage. Now, for the first time since leaving circus school seven years ago, I'm performing in the round. It's nice to be in a ring. Maybe it's silly, but it feels more like a circus this way. But the best part is the proximity to the public.

The ring curb is probably about 50cm wide. That means the first row of the audience is probably about 60cm away. Sometimes, this closeness can be a real blow to the ego. You think you're doing a great act and you look out to the person just in front of you and... they're looking somewhere else. Or they look terribly bored. Or they're yawning...

Ouch.

But sometimes, oh sometimes...

Sometimes my wheel comes very, very close to the ring curb and I can look someone right in the eye while hanging upside down. It's wonderful to seem them lean back a bit in surprise and then, relieved to find themselves perfectly safe, they smile. Even more wonderful, though far more rare, is to have a dialogue with one person in particular over the course of my act.

Maybe it's a spectator who is particularly appreciative and claps far more than her peers. Those people stand out and you can't help but take that extra moment to smile right at them, as if to say thank you, and they just glow at the attention. Another look a little later really cements the exchange.

The most powerful and truly touching exchange I ever had was with a woman in the front row. I felt as though we spoke the exchange was so clear. There was more than one moment during the course of my act where we looked at each other, made eye contact, had a dialogue of head nods. Like with Amanda Palmer, I really felt as though in that moment, each let the other know "I see you. Thank you for this moment. Thank you for sharing this with me."

It was absolutely incredible. I have never had such a profound experience with a member of the audience while on stage. Who knows if I ever will again?

One thing is for certain. Even after seven years of working, this traditional tour and Swiss audience continues to teach me new things about my art and myself. And for that, I say thank you.

As Old As You Feel

You're only as old as you feel! Age is only a number! How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I've heard all these things before, and I'm sure you have as well. And I try to keep them in mind, I really do. But there are some days were I really do feel old. Okay, maybe not old. But definitely older. Or perhaps just not as young as my fellow artists.

While most of my counterparts on stage are in their early twenties, I'll be turning thirty in the fall. With my last company I was easily one of the youngest and with most of my colleagues there was an age difference of ten to twenty years. But I never really felt the difference. Here a mere six years feels like a full generation.

I know I'm a very different person now than when I was 23. And I certainly have different wants and needs. But holy crap, sometimes it feels like I'm in kindergarten. During one rehearsal before the premiere, one of the artists literally bent over, turned his butt to us, started smacking it and yelled out "I need attention!"

I don't know if he was serious or not, but you would think someone would have sense enough to know that if it was a joke, it was neither the time or the place.

As time goes by, I find myself spending more and more time with the workers, and less and less with the artists. Funny how it always tends to work out that way.

Smooth Move

It was the worst build up yet. We were in a field masquerading as a mud pit, it was pouring rain, there was snow on the ground, and it was freezing cold. This circus puts down sawdust when it's wet, and I think we may be responsible for some serious deforestation considering the amount that was put down on this build. For reasons that I do not understand, the build up took five hours instead of the hour and a half I hear it should take (we've never even come close to this).

When it was finally time to break for lunch, we were all pretty miserable. But that's when this circus showed us just how classy they are.

The circus director missed the beginning of the morning's build up. You know know why? He went to a local bakery and bought everyone beautiful and delicious pastries.

Delicious cake may not be the way to your heart, but it sure as hell is to mine. Well played, circus. Well played!

First Stop, Hell

After a smashing premiere, the circus packed up and continued on its merry way. Despite not having the faintest idea of what we were doing, the first build down actually went pretty smoothly. It only took us two and a half hours to get everything packed into the trucks. I think that's still an hour and a half longer than it should take, but still!

Sadly, this victory was short lived and did nothing more than fill us all with a false sense of hope as far as the build up was concerned. I'm told the build up should really only take an hour and a half. It took us four and a half hours.

Four and a half hours.

And the only reason we stopped after four and a half hours is because the kitchen is on a tight schedule and we had to get to lunch. The truth is, we were only mostly finished after four and a half hours. There were still little things to do like set up all the backstage and sweep up what seemed like eight tonnes of sawdust.

After inhaling my lunch I ran back to the tent because it was absolutely imperative that I test the floor before the show. That's right, we took a break for lunch an hour and a half before we were to start the first show of a two show day.

When I got to the tent, I discovered that the Chinese pole girls had left their eight million pound pole in the middle of the stage. Unable to move it myself, I tried to set it to the side, only by that time they had to clean the floor, so I still couldn't do wheel. At that point I was told to go put on my make-up and come back. When I did get back, the floor was still unavailable and now everyone was clamouring to do their pre-set.

Eventually I managed to try the floor and sweet merciful crap it was a disaster. It was super sloped from back to front, and also down to the right. In spirals, I was flung back up or driven down to the corner where I would have to end my spirals prematurely or risk falling off the stage or hitting the ring wall. As for straight lines... forget it. In one direction, any effort on my part meant slamming into the decor I was rolling so fast, and in the other direction I had to push with every ounce of strength I had, and even then, I barely had enough height/momentum to complete my figures.

I have never been so miserable on stage. Every second, behind a very plastic smile, I had to calculate how much speed I needed, how much I had to adjust, what was the floor doing, will I make it? And I fell, and struggled, and fell some more. All my technique was useless. It was like I had never done wheel before in my life. Each move had to purposely be done incorrectly in the hopes that it would cancel out the flaws of the floor. And the whole time my mind was screaming "That's wrong! You're doing it wrong! You're going to get hurt! NO!"

It is not fun to be on stage and second guess everything you are doing. It is not fun to be on stage and have to do so much mental math in order to execute your figures that your face freezes in a fake smile and your eyes glaze over. It is not fun to feel humiliated because you cannot even remotely do your job correctly, through no fault of your own, and have an entire audience bear witness.

And there was still a second show to do! But before that, we had a group rehearsal. And after that, I had some solo training time. It was about as disastrous as every other attempt at wheel I'd made that day, but at least I found a few ways to be safer.

From there, I inhaled my dinner once again, then had dish duty, and then had my first break of the day (I worked concessions during intermission and would do so again during the second show). One half hour to myself before I had to be back in the tent.

The second show was just as bad as the first.

Finally, the fifteen hour day came to an end. I was so tired, so worn, so broken, so miserable... If it had been that hard but I could have at least taken pleasure in my work and my performance, it would have been one thing. But the entire experience was just brutal on all levels with no silver lining in sight.

I got back to my caravan and cried. How? How on earth would I make it through the season? That night all I wanted to do was quit and go home. My only comfort came the next day when I spoke with some of the workers who assured me that after that day of hell, they too wanted to go home and wondered what they had gotten themselves into.

I can only hope things get better from here.

Nerves

I've mentioned before that I tend to struggle with nerves. I spend a lot of energy on this. Worrying, fretting, general malaise, you know. It can be pretty exhausting. I've gotten better over time, but it's still an issue.

However, I suspect that that soon may change. It was the third or fourth show, though with all the run throughs it was actually the seventh or eight that week. With the hours of rehearsals leading up to the premiere, as well as nightly run throughs, we had been busting out 14 hour days every day that week. Needless to say, I was pooped.

So as I prepared for my number and began the usual whipping of nerves into a frenzy, something inside me held up it's hand and said "enough". I barely had enough energy to make it through the show, there was simply none to be spared for my nerves and my ego. It was kind of surprising, but also a welcomed relief. Will the exhaustion of this tour be the thing that lets me finally break free of my fear? I guess we'll find out in 8 months and 250 shows time...

The Art of Asking

This is a really great talk given by musician Amanda Palmer. She touches on so many wonderful points that it's hard to pick out just one. If you're an artist, you should definitely watch this. And if you're not, you should still probably watch it.

Then and Now

Not too long ago I read some of the early posts from this blog. I wanted to compare this creation to the creation with my previous company. I read about the premiere of that show and how nervous I was. It would seem I spent most of that day wandering around in a panic, trying not to cry and/or vomit.

Super.

Fast forward to this show's premiere. I felt pretty calm for most of the day. By that point, we had run the show every night that week so in some ways, it didn't feel like a premiere so much as the fifth show of the week. Of course when it was time to roll on out, I'm pretty sure I had that look of grim determination that you might have on your way to the gallows. There was tension and an underlying nervousness, sure, but also the steely calmness that comes with resolve. And once I got out there? It felt like I was simultaneously sharing a secret and giving a gift (to myself and the audience). It was wonderful.

Afterward, two things came to mind. My very first wheel presentation in the first year of circus school, and my performance at the closing ceremonies of the winter Olympics in Torino.

My first ever wheel presentation was perhaps 45 seconds long and I was so incredibly nervous (terrified) that my face was a deep dark red. I'm pretty sure I held my breath the entire time.

At the Olympics, I was still pretty deliriously nervous. I mean, we're talking performing in front of 30 000 people! But what most struck me is how I was barely aware of what happened. It all went by so fast that I couldn't appreciate what was going on and really experience the moment. Afterward, I remember wishing I was more experienced as an artist so that I could have been more present.

Upon leaving the stage the night of the premiere, I could feel the last ten years under my feet. While I still have nerves, they didn't overwhelm and control me. And as for being in the moment, I feel like I can still see individual faces of the public in my mind, and reconnect with that joy I felt while on stage.

It's an incredible thing to be able to see the arc of your own growth and connect the dots between then and now. There are 246 shows to be done in the next 8 months. I can only imagine where I'll be by then.

The Fear

I am utterly exhausted. I knew I was spoiled rotten at my old job, but holy moly this is hard. The circus never stops. Right now it feels like all I do is get up, eat, do a show, eat, do another show, tear down, eat, and go to bed. If I'm lucky there's a shower in there some place too.

On the day of the fourth show, our seventh day of work in a row, I thought my arms would fall off and my legs would give out. It wasn't even that I was sore, I just had no energy, no strength, no nothing. My temper is short and my mood is a little grim. I have never been so tired on every conceivable level in my life.

Not only is it only the beginning, but there are eight months of this ahead. And I'm terrified I'm not going to be able to make it. Am I strong enough? Stable enough? Fit enough? Will I crack under the pressure? Will the strain of it all wear me down to a nub?

Right now, I don't know. Right now, it feels like I won't be able to. In the end, I don't really have a choice in the matter. We're all in this together and without every single person here, it won't work.

If you need me, I'll be whimpering in the corner while I wait for my body to toughen up and adapt to this harsh new circus reality.

When Things Get Tough...

Make good art.

The FIrst Time All Over Again

Stepping into my new big top for the very first time was a pretty powerful moment. I've performed in a tent before, but this is different.

For starters, this is the first time I'm in a tent that performs in the round. The ring has a ring wall and everything. It's like walking into that romantic vision of the circus you have from childhood. But what really gets me is the smell. Oh how I just love the smell...

This circus puts down a fair bit of sawdust. The tent smells of canvas and cedar and it is absolutely intoxicating.

I stared doing circus ten years ago, I don't know that I ever expected to feel that kind of magic again. What a gift...

That Point

I was making the trek from the circus lot to the winter quarters for an afternoon of training. The tent has just gone up for the first time this season and they aren't quite ready to bring in all of the equipment. The rest of the cast was busy choreographing one of the group numbers, but as it's right before my act, I'm not in it.

As I was walking it occurred to me that this isn't really a creation for me. I mean, yes, we're putting together a show, but hardly from scratch. With a couple of exceptions, everyone came in with an act. It may have taken some time to adapt them to the music from the show, but that hardly takes two months. Due to the order of the show, I'm not really in any of the group acts, so that leaves me with considerable free time as well.

There are transitions to work out, but even then, they're very short as the clowns do all the real scenes between acts. Just the other day we set four transitions before lunch.

No wonder I feel bored. Training is nice and all that, but every afternoon is the same. I don't really feel all that challenged or motivated. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel like I'm working toward something. That can be dangerous, especially since the premiere is only two weeks away!

I have a feeling that all that is about to change. Tomorrow I try wheel in the actual space for the first time. The stage looks minuscule and slippery as hell. It's also uneven and I strongly suspect it's going to sound like the apocalypse when I roll on it. I have some serious adapting to do.

I think we're about to come face to face with just how much is actually missing and how many loose ends there still are. Hopefully all the props and accessories will soon arrive and everything will start to come together.

But if experience has taught me anything at all, there's still some serious falling apart that needs to happen before things can truly come together.

Transition

I was walking back to the circus after a trip to the grocery store and was surprised to see white and red wagons with red and gold lettering all over them. Then, I felt strangely sad...

I spent the last four years on tour with the same circus. I'm so used to seeing a yellow and maroon tent, with big yellow trucks with maroon lettering. At this circus, everything looks impeccable, shiny, and new. My old circus was kind of shabby, but the familiarity made it feel like home.

I'm sure that in time this place will feel like home too. And I really am truly impressed with their philosophy and how things are run. Sometimes it feels like there are way too many rules and regulations (we spent an hour and a half talking about them this afternoon), but I suspect that in practice, it really won't be a big deal at all.

I just don't understand these feelings of sadness. It's definitely feels strange to act out the same old routine in such different surroundings. Maybe it has to do with the knowledge that my old circus is starting the new creation at this very moment, and it hurts to feel left behind. Familiar tasks in an unfamiliar setting should be comforting, no? Not a reminder of what you've lost.

It's a funny thing this circus life. Sometimes I wonder how much longer I will be a part of it...

Frigthening Reminder

My very first circus history class, our teacher asked us what we thought of when we thought of the circus. There was a chorus of "Trapeze!", "Clowns!", and "The chapiteau!". Our teacher looked at us and said one word: death.

I woke up this morning to news that a member of my immediate circus community had an accident on stage. I'm still unclear on the details, but it would seem that the acrobat in question fell on his neck while performing an acrobatic figure of some kind. He's broken some vertebrae in his neck. We're waiting to see what will come next.

A few of my friends have had serious accidents on stage, and this isn't even the first time someone I know has broken their neck. And you would think that having your friend in a coma for months would wake you up to just how dangerous your career choice really is. But the truth is, you quickly fall back into the habit of taking it for granted that you're good at what you do, you're well trained, and that things like that happen to other people, not you.

I suspect a lot of that is a defense mechanism. How could you possibly go on stage night after night if all you could think about is how it could very possibly be the last thing you do? I know there are moments where I see myself falling off the stage, crushing audience members and doing all kinds of damage to myself. But if I didn't push those thoughts aside and focus on what I need to do, it would paralyze me.

But the reality is that this job is dangerous and accidents do happen. Every time we step on stage we take a risk. All it takes is a momentary slip in concentration, a miscalculation, having an "off day", or worst of all, someone else's bad call. Sometimes, you don't even know the why and the how of it.

It's a terrible thing when you have to be reminded of that in such a way as this.

Our thoughts and positive energy are with him, and we wish him a speedy recovery.

For those of us who have to step into the ring, be safe.

Thanking the Past

Wow.

I’ve been reading my old blog posts and reliving my last creation. Sometimes I’m disappointed that I didn’t go into more detail as I don’t really remember the big important thing I was alluding to. With so much distance, I now see just how abnormally difficult that creation was and that, quite frankly, that is not how a creation should be. But most interestingly, I see how much I’ve grown and just how much I learned from that tour.

The other day, in a fit of bitterness, I was thinking of how my time with that company was kind of a waste. Yes, I was able to put some money aside, but artistically, it wasn’t what I wanted to be doing, and that I gave up the better part of my twenties to a company that barely wanted circus in its circus show.

But now, reading old posts, especially those where I’m super defensive about my creative process and so forth and so on… I mean… wow. Wow.

In some respects, I feel like the opposite of what I thought then is now true. I see how I wanted to work then and look at how I work now and see that I’ve found much more efficient and effective ways to accomplish the same things. Also, I’m in much better shape, apparently. But at that time, I hadn’t been working for a few years so it was much more challenging to get through my number. That is no longer the case.

But what really knocks me on my ass, and makes me grateful in the begrudging way that only someone who has had what they stubbornly defended proven wrong can feel, is how their insistence I get out of my little wheel bubble has been ingrained and proven valuable. I resisted opening up so much, was so reluctant to include the musicians, found those placed looks out to the audience so forced… and now… all those things are second nature. Not only am I very much aware that I need to do it, but find myself thinking of how to best include an audience in the round (something new to me) and trying to make sure that everyone is given the focus at least once during my act.

If I needed any more convincing, I only need look back to the day we presented our acts here. The directors were so pleased and made a point of how I already include everyone in the audience and have a connection with them. That it’s perfect and that they don’t need to worry about me. That’s a pretty big deal.

The more I read, the more I find myself thinking "That's good advice, maybe I should try that now."

It's a funny thing to see how much you've grown from your old self, while simultaneously taking the advice your old self has to give.

The Directors

I am completely smitten with our directors. It’s only been a couple of days, and I’m sure there will be moments where smitten is the furthest word on my list of descriptives, but right now, smitten.

They just seem really down to earth, a little silly, and have managed to strike a great balance of “one of the gang” and “boss”. I really like their approach to creation. So far we haven’t done anything specific to the show, just lots of games. They’re taking the time to let us get to know each other, feel comfortable as a group, and most importantly feel comfortable being stupid in front of the group. Being stupid seems to be one of their key elements of creation. D1 often tells us not to be afraid to be stupid, or to produce something shitty. Because even though 90% of what we come up with might be garbage, that other 10% makes a brilliant show. But you’ve got to get through that other 90% as well.

And I absolutely love that they participate in all the exercises and games with us. It makes such a difference. I guess it’s the difference between a team and a coach, and a team and their team captain. We’ll see how things evolve, but for now, I’m very pleased with the structure and method.

But the coolest thing of all is that we were each given (directors included) three coupons that we can use at any time during rehearsal. These coupons entitle us to walk out of rehearsal for half an hour, without having to give any explanation, should ever we be on the verge of a meltdown, panic attack, or blind rage. Billiant.

So far it’s all be fun and games. I’m curious to see how things progress.

What Makes You Itch?