It’s bad enough to feel so out of control, but when I think about how others must see me, I panic. I probably seem stupid. Or stuck-up. Or unfriendly? Vivid memories of my unbearable middle-school years rush back in—lunches alone in the bathroom, solitary work at the group tables, the constant snickering and bullying… There was nothing about me to mock at that time besides my small, flat body. So I wonder, did I project some type of meanness, when all I was was afraid? Could I have done better if I’d been able to rise above my own terror?

The deeper I get into Playwrightland, the more I worry about how alive my 10-year-old self still is. I thought she had left the building, but every time I step into a networking event or cocktail party, there she is, wiping her palms on my jeans and making me want to run out of the room as soon as possible. I worry because theater is a business of personality and who-you-know and perception, one in which there are many more candidates and hopefuls than there are opportunities. Relationships matter.

So how does someone like me survive? I can’t possibly be the only introverted playwright out there. I’ve read a few blogs and articles, and when copies become available, I’m going to check this book out too. It turns out I’ve already been following the most common advice for introverts: Avoid big group meetings and instead have one-on-one face time with individuals. I enjoy getting together with new people, after work in a bar or something, just to chat. I’ve been asking people out in a slow but steady stream over the past few months, and it’s been lovely to get to talk to people offline and outside of work. Unfortunately, my “dating” has two sustainability problems. First, I will inevitably have to go to large meetings or gatherings at some point in the near future, some of them high-pressure, and I will have to be able to hold my own. Second, by meeting with individuals only, I’m creating a spattering of colleagues as opposed to a cohesive web. Perhaps it’s worth noting that I’ve always been like this: the girl at school who is everywhere and nowhere, who has one or two friends in every clique but no clique of her own. So far, I’ve found this to be the most comfortable and enjoyable way of living, and it’s only been more recently that I’ve started to think it might be a detriment to my career.

The theater world sometimes seems to be one that belongs to the Alphas, but I just can’t believe that there are no successful introverts out there. If you are like me, or just want to offer some advice, please drop me a line.

Her advice is pretty solid too. I need to work hardest on Bullet #4–PATIENCE. I don’t have a lot of patience in general, never have, and often catch myself in emotional spirals of this. Perhaps that’s another post for another time.

Read Melissa’s response below:

What to do when we we feel jaded?
Recently, I had lunch with a family friend of mine.  Unbeknowst to me, she too had fallen in love with theatre and just graduated from college with a B.A. in Theatre.  She contacted me through Facebook to ask if I’d meet up with her for lunch while she was visiting the city to “talk about theatre.”   Throughout our lunch I was struck by how effervescent she was; she was beaming and energized by the city.  All she wanted to know was how to do this thing called theatre.  Should she move here?  If so, when?  Where should she look for casting notices?  Which were the good theatre companies?  Underlying each question was a pure love for performing and the willingness to do whatever it took to get there. As I sat there, I marveled at her energy and enthusiasm and wondered: How can I get some of that?

This past year, I have been jaded.

I haven’t been unproductive. I had two opportunities to help create and/or direct new work for the stage. Both were challenging, exciting and satisfying in their own way. But still, a sense of doubt was gnawing at me. It was something larger than these two plays.  For lack of better articulation: why theater? And if theater, why this story? And if this story, then for who? Especially when thinking about creating new work, the decisions of story, place and character became near-paralyzing, especially with the backdrop of 2011 (protests, economy, politics, etc). What could I possibly say that was important? Meanwhile, I was seeing a lot of truly crappy theater. A lot. My anxiety turned to despair, I think, and feeling jaded. The classic and enigmatic Peggy Lee song played through my mind: “Is that all there is?”

Simultaneously, I was attached to a large project (let’s call it Project X) in a producing/administration capacity that was draining me of all passion and interest and challenging my commitment to the arts (or at least making me loathe that particular brand of art). And it was bloody exhausting.

So, I started finding joy in other things – cooking, bike riding, farmer’s markets, home decorating & reading. I thought fleetingly about giving it all up to become a sommelier.

My husband recently went on a very challenging hike of Mt. Washington with a friend of his. He said it completely drained him, which he was conscious of during the hike. He was actually inviting it. He wanted to de-charge his batteries, empty himself out, so that he could be re-charged.

I realized (with a glimmer of hope) that perhaps Project X was my own version of the hike. That I’d been sapped for all I was worth–by long hours, little pay, undesirable tasks, unimaginative art–and could now start to rebuild my energy, focus and joy. Recently, I finally am feeling excited and creative again. Things that have helped:

• Finding little coincidences in my work that resurrect a time in my life when I was at full theater/joy capacity. The impetus for a new play has come from a book I bought in Spain while working with Compania Atalaya.

• Seeing some damn fine theater (WarHorse, Conni’s Avant Garde Restaurant)

• Being with people who are excited about the art I’m making, especially people from other disciplines

• Being patient with myself about making art. Giving myself a longer timeline than I’m used to because I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up crap just for the sake of working. (Remind me of this later, Liz).

So, it’s a start. It’s still easy to feel burnt out, to instantly succumb to envy others when they get the grant/residency/review that you didn’t, to want to choose a glass of wine with the husband over a grant application (oh those grant applications). But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to get back to the place where only the art matters and that’s where all my energy will go. And, if I’m doing it right, it will send it back to me threefold.

Melissa responded by asking three questions, all of which began with “What to do…” I’m very glad she worded her thoughts this way because sometimes it seems that things are just sucky, and it’s so nice to be reminded that there’s always a what to do. DOING keeps the world spinning.

Her first question: What to do when we we feel jaded?

I’m still figuring this out. I suppose the answer is: stop feeling jaded and start feeling excited. If you’re like me, though, and you deal with things in your own slowpoke way, just proclaiming something to be true won’t work.

And so. When I’m jaded, I mostly focus on working harder than I was before. Work, work, work, even when it’s not fun. Since I’m an inward kind of person, I think a lot. I stare at the wall and try to figure out where the bad feelings are coming from. I curl up on friends’ couches and talk over wine or tea, I take long hikes, I journal and journal and make lists and journal. I remind myself of the genuine, flesh-and-blood friendships I have in the theater world, and I visit with them. I remind myself of all the places I’ve been. Every backstage, every shop, every dressing room and every rehearsal room. I try to collect these memories like snapshots: a big empty room full of strangers; tables full of coffee cups, water bottles and paper under florescent lights.  Rehearsal props and different colored rolls of tape, late-night beers, arguments, note-taking and those many moments of joy when everything just works. Opening night parties. Twelve-hour days. Paint fumes. Stage fright. Saying a line and feeling the audience stop breathing. I remember all those times I realized, as I watched the lights go up, that I helped make that. Something that did not exist at all a month prior is now a whole world, and people I don’t know are watching it. This is very special. This is rare.

I make myself remember how it was at the beginning, when theater was the most exciting thing in the world. I cried every time I stepped into an empty house because this was a room that was alive! Those years lasted longer than these more recent years of cynicism and doubt, and deep down, I know the awe is still there. I still say prayers of thanks before every single show. I’m still here despite all the bullshit and dysfunction I’ve seen and felt in the professional world. I think maybe we all have—and you’re still here.

Why do you write plays, Self? Because it’s the most exciting thing there is when you love theater and you love to write and you love what can happen in rehearsal and on a stage. I’ve done almost everything a body can do in theater, I’ve been learning for a long time, and this is where I am, today, right now. If there’s anything they teach you in theater, it’s to always be present. I’m not there yet, but I’m trying.

So dear Melissa, why do you make theater? What made you love it in the first place? What did your rehearsal space in Spain look like, and if you looked out the window, what would you see? What did it feel like when you got your first playwriting award? What was it like, on a rainy day at SITI, to be at the front of the room and see something amazing happen? What’s written down in all those Moleskines of yours? To whom do you compare yourself? To whom might they compare themselves? Who are your true friends? They love you.

More to come…

I wanted to quickly post a few thoughts on the NEA, inspired by Scott Walters’ number-crunching blog post and my plummeting blood sugar.

Poor NEA. It’s batted around by everyone—it doesn’t do enough, it does too much, it’s too progressive, too socialist, too conservative, too good-ol-boy. But it remains, simply, a federal agency that distributes taxpayer money to American nonprofit arts organizations. It is what it is, it can be better, and as is the way of life in Washington, would be difficult to reform. I feel no ill-will toward the Endowment. As an agency, it’s probably one of the most functional with the most bang for its buck, and one of the few that does not do evil. I feel some frustration, however, with the way the NEA functions. Like many arts bureaucracies in business today, it feels outdated and underperforming.

Scott’s numbers are pretty interesting to look at. They confirm what many people know—the award pyramid is big and fat with the major coastal cities on the bottom, then the mid-sized cities, then a teeny tiny tip of funding for “flyover” and southern states. A few comments came up on Twitter about the need to know how many applications are coming from where, which of course would be nice to know, if we could get that information. My reactions all had to do with the back-story of said numbers and applications because, as it is structured now, the mere application process disqualifies the hundreds of small and low-budget theaters dotted across the country. National agency, national problem.

Here’s why: To apply to the NEA, you must have a staff. A minimum of two would be good, and one has to be full time and salaried, along with your artists (this is a legal requirement). A staffer is also highly necessary, because the process of grants.gov registration, getting a DUNS number, registering with CCR, registering as a credential provider and submitting a Point of Contact is a long and frustrating process that requires office equipment, time, organization and planning. You must be a 501c3 or apply through a partner (this is not the same as a fiscal agent). You must have a three-year history of programming. And you have to have impactful programming with preferably a wide reach. These requirements rule out many companies I know.

Now, I know why they do this. The red tape, the frustration, the long chains of approval and checklists an agency follows are all there to protect the taxpayer from fraud and misuse. And I stand by this very firmly. I would not ask or expect the Agency to change its requirements, no matter how desperately small theaters and artists like me need that seed money. Frankly, without an organizational structure, manpower or financial safety net, I cannot be entrusted with federal funds. HOWEVER, as a servant of the people, the Endowment should find ways to try to ensure a healthy community of American theaters in the future, and this very much has to do with feeding the young, the idealistic and underfunded.

My idea: adjust the allocation pie chart. Give the greatest percent to state agencies, and reserve a smaller amount of the pie for direct granting. State agencies, no matter how dysfunctional they may be, fuel art in this country, along with our partner foundations. I would say more about my idea of an ideal structure, using my employer in examples, but unfortunately am not able to do so because I am currently using that employer’s computer. Again, government-style silliness, but it has an important purpose, and I respect that.

…And  since I am easily burned out from talking theater, there’s this.

I don’t want to unfairly single them out—the disproportion of women’s voices in American theater is everywhere. It’s painfully overt in arts administration and theater punditry, but perhaps more cloaked in the show-making community. There are a lot of women working in theater, but how many of them hold positions of artistic power? Although it’s been lighting up the radar these days, there’s still quite a bit of timid dancing around the problem. (Yes, it is a problem.) Mad props to those like Theresa Rebeck who don’t mind pissing people off and calling bullshit when they see it. The world is tipped toward maleness everywhere you look, but in theater—a supposedly forward-thinking, communicative, freedom-loving industry—the balance breaks the scale. What gives?

As a little experiment, I decided to tally up stats from the 15 shows I’ve seen here in DC over the past few months, focusing on the following areas:

1) Point of view (Who is the play about? From whose perspective was the play told? Whose story was it?)
2) Playwright
3) Director
4) Cast

Here are the numbers:

Point of View: 8 Male; 3 Female; 4 N/A
Ridiculous. As much as I care about white men and their ‘problems,’ here we go, again and again putting on and sitting through stories about men. Women are full, complex human beings too. Why are we so underrepresented on stage?

Playwright: 11 Male; 4 Female
Wow, this fucking sucks—generally speaking and because I’m a playwright. For a time, I even gave serious thought to using a male pen name, but wasn’t happy about the idea of losing ownership of my written work for all time. Is there a reason why women aren’t being taken seriously as writers? If the belief is that women do in fact have equally compelling stories to tell, then are we not seen on stage or getting produced because… I don’t know…? And if we’re “from Venus” or whatever, shouldn’t an artform that relies on emotion and human connection be women’s work? And if it’s all about business, shouldn’t stories by and about women dominate, since more than half of theatergoers are female?

Director: 8 Male; 8 Female (one show had two directors)
Right on. More of this.

Cast: 44 Male; 31 Female
There’s an equality/inequality male-default theory that if a group is 50% female, a common perception is that it’s ‘mostly’ women. The numbers above are not equal, so don’t get excited. Oh, and be even less excited, because ten of these females played small ensemble parts and some didn’t even have lines. No good. The lack of decent female roles is a whole other conversation, and more artistic directors should be talking about this. I’m not a career actor, so when my woman-centric play Owl Moon got produced, I started to realize what was up. A few female actors in the crowd came to me and said, “Thanks for writing good female roles. There aren’t many,” and “I want to talk about these people with you.” One woman in the audience burst into tears after the show, saying the play brought up some issues she didn’t expect to see on stage. Think about that for a second.

I’m sure some people will whine and argue and tell me how many “opportunities” there are for women, but frankly, they can just save it. Women are half the human population, we give life to the next generation, we’re whole people, and we work and think as hard and as sharply as our men—but we’re still somehow not worthy of equal pay, equal rights, or equal artistic representation. Don’t hire women because of some kind of diversity/bleeding heart/affirmative action bullshit, hire us because we’re really good at what we do.

The Huffington article bothered me. Not only does it display the rampant delusion of a prominent American arts leader, this time it got nasty and personal. Ageism is always allowable, isn’t it? The entire narrative points a finger at Millennials for not being into [self-defined “high”] art. It makes the ridiculous assumption that all young people are stupid, drooling rabble, when in fact young people are more culturally savvy than ever. And I guarantee, Baby Boomers and beyond don’t know Verdi and Caruso either.  Let’s take a journey through some of the article’s more choice phrases:

We in the arts face a major problem…
“We?” WE? Well, he said it right there. People “in the arts” do not include those under fifty, apparently. Not a very good way to start out.

… we now have an entire generation of young people who have had virtually no exposure to the arts. They do not go to theater, concerts, dance performances or operas.
In what universe? I work in theater and have played music since age ten. My dad is a musician, my brothers are all musicians, several generations of my relatives were musicians, my boyfriend is a musician. When I was a kid, my dad took me to Avery Fisher Hall to see Evelyn Glennie, Stanley Drucker and the New York Phil. When I was a teen, I had season tickets to the BSO with my family, I took art, drama and music, and went on class trips to see professional theater. As a young adult, I worked for an orchestra and several theaters, including the KC’s Sondheim Festival. I’m not unique. Why don’t I go to the Kennedy Center? I can’t afford regular tickets, I rarely know what’s playing, the things I do hear about are not appealing, the website is unfriendly, the building is unfriendly, the building is isolated, there isn’t much in the way of food or drink in the vicinity, and it takes a long time to get there on public transit. The Kennedy Center is not the only art source in town. I see live theater and music every week. And for things I cannot afford or get to, I sometimes watch YouTube. Get on the tech train.

I am constantly amazed at the low culture IQ of very bright and talented young people who have achieved a great deal in other realms.
I am constantly amazed at the low culture, technology, common sense, innovation and world-wise IQ of very bright and talented old people who have achieved a great deal in almost every realm.

It is easy to point to culprits…
Culprits? Ah yes, youth culture is a crime.

…the lack of arts education in our public schools…
Again, what universe? Formal arts education is a relatively new-fangled thing. My own parents didn’t get the amount of arts training I did—even in public school—nor were performing arts high schools and fine and liberal arts degrees commonplace then, as they are now. I took visual art, sculpture, drama and music in both private and public school, as did almost all of my schoolmates.

…the astonishing array of personal popular entertainment options that occupy the time of younger people…
I can smell the fear. Computers. Computers! COMPUTERS! This must be the millionth time I’ve heard this from an arts leader—computers, the Web, gaming are somehow all anti-art. I’ll never understand this. It’s as though a bunch of 13-year-olds used to go to the symphony, but now they just stay home and play Starcraft.

… and the ticket prices for concerts, plays and operas that are so high they keep many young (and old) people from attending.
Kaiser works for the Kennedy Center last time I checked. Why not start the “fight” right at home?

The arts have survived and grown in this nation because there is always a new group of middle aged people who replace their parents as our supporters…
Wrong. “The arts” as Kaiser understands them are new—brand new. The system was forged in recent decades by a few wealthy foundations and a government that was seeing rapid cultural change. It was sustained by a bountiful economy, and as quickly as it rose, so quickly is it falling. The  Boomers did most of the institutional building and funding, and as they did with everything else, created an unsustainable climate out of their greed and live-in-the-now sensibility. Now they don’t seem to understand why “young people” can’t pick up their garbage. My grandparents didn’t give an eff about sustaining the opera. They had real problems like surviving the Great Depression and not getting shot by Germans. My great-grandparents also didn’t give an eff, because they were busy uprooting their entire way of life to come to this country. And also not get shot.

…But this phenomenon has only been maintained because each new generation cares about the arts when they are in a financial position to help us… Will they be there for us when we need them?
We might be too busy struggling to keep our jobs, pay the rent and make art for no pay.

We cannot do this alone. Our hope is that every major arts organization will join in this fight. The future of the arts in America is at stake.
Noooo! Major arts organizations need to go away. They are their own worst enemy.

I’d like to talk about Rorschach Theatre’s Voices Underwater because two things about this production were interesting firsts for me. I like when that happens.

I’m not going to talk about the play itself. If we saw it together, we could talk about all kinds of things, but for the purposes of this post I’ll merely say that Voices Underwater is a play about Southern ghosts, race, drowning and being trapped, among other things. Here’s what was cool and different for me: I was completely drawn into the world of the play before it even started and was pleasantly creeped out for most of the show. This never happens! Two overarching things contributed to this experience:

Thing 1: Creepiness
Voices Underwater is the first stage show that has ever given me scary-movie-grade goosebumps. I’ve been told that “theater can’t be scary,” so it made me pretty happy. Theater, being representational, requires a good deal of suspension of disbelief, which of course makes illusions like physical violence, supernatural horror and sci-fi difficult to pull off. In the case of Voices Underwater, all it took was an opening moment of good light cue timing and an actress’ very, very quiet entrance. The “lightening reveal” is a common horror film gag, and I was really thrilled to see how well it worked on stage. Add this to a very specific, well-used sound and light design and the fact that the audience is basically part of the attic set itself—I felt like a fellow ghost looking in on the action. Rain beat down on the roof and eerie shadows appeared behind the rafters. Generations of ghosts haunted the space inhabited by the living without confusion or clutter. Characters moved around the nooks and crannies of the small set in both darkness and light, sometimes unnoticed, sometimes deliberately. I’m always amazed at how much you can do with audio and smart lighting. Imaginative tech sets us apart as an artform—if only every director understood this. Please, take advantage of it.

Thing 2: Immersion
The performance experience began as soon as I walked into the theater lobby. Rorschach’s co-artistic director, Randy Baker, gathered groups of ten people at a time to let into the theater space, so from the get-go, I knew something was being done differently. My fellow band of patrons and I were led to the theater in a roundabout way, winding through a room and a long hallway—everything decorated haunted house-style with gauzy sheets, old furniture, dusty books, flickering candles, the works—to an “attic” door that creaked open into the playing space. “Look at anything you want, walk around, pick things up,” Randy had told us. And since we were invited to be curious, we were. We all roamed the set, sitting on the big bed and examining its white quilt, picking up books, a letter, a postcard, looking at pictures and flyers, antiques of various sizes and functions. In the background, crickets chirped loudly.

These 20 minutes before the show were more valuable than I ever would’ve thought. They made me ready for the show—they brought me into the world of the play, got my imagination going, and gave me a ton of information about the story I was about to see. Before the lights went down, I knew:
- We’re in the South, in the attic of an old house.
- Someone lived in the room, probably a woman.
- It’s nighttime.
- The house is haunted.
- Property has been transferred from someone named Jennifer to someone named Emma.
- A woman is dead.
- “Jennie” lived in the 1920′s.
- Someone in the story was in or had ties to the KKK.
- Something about the story has to do with the Civil War.

Needless to say, when I did eventually sit down, I was chomping at the bit to find out the answers to my myriad questions.

I know this is simplistic stuff, but I couldn’t help thinking of “The Haunted Mansion” ride at the Disney parks. I’m not talking about subject matter or special effects here, I’m talking about suspension of disbelief. This is what Disney parks are going for, and they’re really, really good at it. Their task is to get you, who has just bought a Goofy cap and eaten a hot dog, to believe you’re in a haunted New Orleans mansion. It might not work as well if you just walked in off the street. So you wait in line in a graveyard, actors in period costumes say weird things to you in character, and you are herded into a creepy parlor. Then, in groups, you get onto an elevator and are shut up with an opening monologue that sets the story and tone. When the elevator doors open (unless you’re a total ass who hates fun) you’ve been properly prepped for pretend.

Theater isn’t Disney, but it still requires imaginative work from the audience. Film doesn’t—it requires that you “sit back, relax and enjoy the show.” I wish people wouldn’t use this line in their curtain calls. It releases the audience of any responsibility when they should be actively participating in the experience: going to the land of make-believe and giving of their creative energy. Too many theaters build sets instead of environments. Too many directors expect the audience to sit down and immediately absorb the play without any context, clue or welcome. And how sad that many theater buildings make you feel like you’re in a museum or a convention center. Why is theater so often uncreative? Why so unapologetically un-fun? What should be an imagination-stirring, stimulating experience is more often  like a long, itchy afternoon at Sunday School.

I’m well aware that creating an intricate world in the way that Rorschach did won’t work for every theater company, space or show. But it’s something to think about in either broad terms, or in practical terms such as how you design and light your lobby, what people see and hear during preshow, what the theater itself looks like, how and when the show starts, and what the audience is and is not allowed to access, see, know, touch and connect with. Humans are curious—give them a chance to explore and inquire, and they probably will.

A beloved, most-influential former professor of mine emailed (in all caps, as usual) today. He said:

BELOW IS THE PROLOGUE TO A MODERN PLAY BY THE GREAT HOWARD BARKER CALLED “THE BITE OF THE NIGHT” (1986).

YOU SHOULD KEEP THIS PASSAGE SOMEWHERE IN MIND AS YOU ENCOUNTER ALL ART, NOW AND IN THE FUTURE, NOT JUST PLAYS.

HERE’S THE TEXT:

They brought a woman from the street
And made her sit in the stalls

By threats
By bribes
By flattery
Obliging her to share a little of her life with actors

But I don’t understand art
Sit still, they said
But I don’t want to see sad things
Sit still, they said

And she listened to everything
Understanding some things
But not others
Laughing rarely, and always without knowing why
Sometimes suffering disgust
Sometimes thoroughly amazed

And in the light again, said
If that’s art I think it is hard work
It was beyond me
So much beyond my actual life

But something troubled her
Something gnawed her peace
And she came a second time, armoured with friends

Sit still, she said

And again, she listened to everything
This time understanding different things
This time untroubled that some things
Could not be understood
Laughing rarely but now without shame
Sometimes suffering disgust
Sometimes thoroughly amazed

And in the light again said
This is art, it is hard work
And one friend said, too hard for me
And the other said, if you will
I will come again
Because I found it hard I felt honoured

Sometimes I mind that people who make theater often make theater for people who make theater—reminds me that most of the world could give a shit about what we do—but I felt lucky to have experienced this show as an ex/occasional-actor, and I’m always happy when my own audiences are full of theater people. It must be hard to fathom the kind of bravery and focus and sharpness and imagination it takes to perform a piece like Let Me Down Easy if you’ve never had to walk onto a stage. It’s funny—when I see concerts or movies (and sometimes even theater), it looks easy to me. I forget how freaking awkward and terrifying it can be to perform, to talk in front of a camera or roomful of people … even to teach a class! Sharing an idea and being “on the spot” in order to communicate to a group is hard. It takes a lot of energy. I can’t help but wonder if the constant influx of information, talking heads, commentary, images, commercials, reality TV, tabloids and such is making what we do seem easy. Or commonplace. Or boring. Stories, for better or worse, are told to us all day every day. What drives us to take a moment, sit down in a chair, and allow a story to be told to us? Personally, the stories or abstract ideas communicated to me by theater, films and dance speak to a higher place in my brain. So far, I’ve experienced enough of everything to know when that part of my brain is being tapped into, and also to know that there’s some kind of mystical, restorative function I can’t explain going on in there. But that’s just me.

The thing is, storytelling requires a relationship. Maybe that’s what’s causing the common disconnect between audiences and performers these days, and why we do shows for our friends, and why our friends come to our shows. There has to be some sort of connection—there has to be a reason why you’re having the exchange in the first place, because live storytelling is a two-way street. If somebody shows up to a theater looking for base entertainment, he may be disappointed. Even “entertainment” shows like musicals require singing, another extremely raw way to communicate a story or feeling. Storytelling is a human compulsion, a survival tactic and emotional need. I hope that more people—especially those who don’t experience or appreciate real human exchange—realize they need to feed their brains with more than Jersey Shore. Perhaps that’s a snotty thing to say, but when I look at the masses around me, I feel empty, and when I think about, say, the inexplicably horrifying event that took place in Arizona yesterday, I feel afraid for our species. We need each other, we need to listen to each other, and we need to remember where we came from. Maybe theaters should have fire pits in them, in which to light a ceremonial opening flame …  if we could get around the fire codes, that is.

Theater. For your health!

Liz M: Thanks for being with us, Ms. Melissa! Tell the people about yourself.

Melissa Fendell: My name is Melissa Fendell Moschitto.

LM: But of course. (P.S. ladies: her wedding gown was tuh-dzie-fawah!)

MF: It’s a mouthful, I know—I’m having a hard time transitioning out of my maiden name into my married name. Someday it will happen (when my license expires). I’m originally from the burbs, west of Boston, but I’ve lived in NYC for 6 years now. I’ve also done stints in Providence, RI and Sevilla, Spain. I originally thought I’d be an actor. At age 3 I was giving performances at the local Ground Round, where I’d sing along to the player piano. I grew up as a competitive figure skater and also had a penchant for directing my two younger siblings in plays that were performed for family members. I like to think that’s where I first started to hone my minimalist sensibilities—Peter Pan with a cast of 3!

LM: Confession: I’ve tried to find photos of you during your skating years on the internet. I have a weird obsession with figure skaters. Please continue.

MF: I first started writing and directing seriously in college and realized that I preferred to be a part of the big picture, envisioning a whole project and then realizing it. I really valued communicating with actors and storytelling, more so than being onstage. (Sidenote: I was also acting in a traditional setting where the actor is not a self-generating artist, which is not the case with my own company). This all meant that I started self-producing. I’m a glutton for punishment … I take that back—I actually really like producing! I just don’t like accounting. I am now a playwright, director and producing artistic director of The Anthropologists.

LM: Yay! Great training! I miss that and I really like the idea of the phrase, “self-generating artist.” But yes, starting and running a company is hard work—I really don’t know how people have the will and strength to go on. I figure there’s always an impetus there. What drove you to found the Anthropologists?

MF: I got really tired of the “one night stands.” I didn’t want to do one-night-only staged readings or workshop productions with no hope of a full production. Or perhaps worse: ten minute plays in “Evenings of” where I invited my friends and family to sit through 60 minutes of crap in order to see my ten minutes. (Sorry guys, thanks for hanging in there).

LM: I see what you mean. That’s a good analogy, and I hadn’t really thought of it that way before (or at all, since one-nighters are the norm nowadays). It’s pretty valid now that I think about it. Maybe there are some people who don’t mind, who get their kicks that way, and maybe there are others who are the “marrying kind.”

MF: When I first moved to NYC I made a vow that I would take any gig I could get in the theatre. My goal was to make contacts, meet a lot of artists, build my resume and just DO THEATER! In year two, I then decided to only take gigs related to directing or writing. This was a really important decision. Ultimately, I felt I needed to take full control of my career and make theatre in a way that felt genuine to me.

LM: Cool—this is actually one of the best things about NYC, I think. You can do absolutely everything, or you can filter down to something specific. So, where were you before NY?

MF: I lived in Sevilla for several months as an apprentice to Ricardo Iniesta, director and founder of Compania Atalaya. They are a company of actors who train together on a regular basis and have a repertoire of plays that they tour around Spain, Europe and beyond. Granted, the structure of doing theatre in Europe is different (i.e. government supported), but it was pretty phenomenal to work with an ensemble who had been working together for years. Regular training (outside the scope of degree programs) and long-term actor/director relationships were things that I didn’t see happening in NYC. Ultimately, I realized that the only way I could make the kind of work I believed in (connected to social issues, based in movement, found text & research) and using the process I wanted (long developmental periods, devised work, collaboration within the full artistic team) was to start my own company, my own model.

LM: That’s awesome. I never realized where the inspiration came from. Now if only our country funded the arts, too! How do you manage?

MF: I’m still figuring out the complexities of how to make it all work, but I do know that my voice as an artist became stronger with The Anthropologists. My vision has now grown to include a much larger picture of the arts community and my own civic and social responsibilities as an artist.

LM: You do a lot of work in the community—tell us about that. Do you think theater has responsibilities beyond putting on shows?

MF: Hell yes. HELL to the YES. Nobody needs me to do theatre. You know? Like, I was perfectly content to sit at home tonight and watch Glee on Hulu. For me, theatre has to serve both an artistic function and a civic function. And in order to do both well, I need to be interacting with the community, offering them tools and building relationships with them. Theatre has to go above and beyond now. In NYC, the challenge of finding your audience and knowing who your community is—that’s all exacerbated, especially for an itinerant company like ours, though we’ve started to develop a few regular haunts. Ultimately, if theatre doesn’t help me and the audience understand our place in the world a little bit better, then I’m not doing it right.

LM: That’s big stuff, and a lot of people in various roles seem to be talking about this in a pretty serious way; I know I need to think about it a lot more than I do. Since I need time to process the larger conceptual things, let’s talk nuts and bolts: What’s the most challenging thing about being an Artistic Director?

MF: Oh gosh, Liz. Do you have enough blog space for this?

LM: The internet is infinite.

MF: The most challenging thing? I think it’s that you don’t have a day off. This isn’t necessarily the same as difficult, but it’s definitely a challenge to maintain a consistent level of focus, momentum and genuine enthusiasm. There are some serious liabilities to starting a company—starting a business really—and so it can’t be neglected. You also have to know when to take a break to recharge.

LM: What advice would you give other young ADs out there?

MF: Advice for other young ADs, eh? It’s interesting to be asked this question because currently I am on my own advice-seeking mission and have been speaking with ensemble company members and leaders from around the country who have been generous with their time and insights. But I suppose that three years into this, I do have some words of wisdom. So here goes. [And I'd like to make a disclaimer: none of this makes me love what I do any less.]

LM: Oh man. No worries—no one both deeply loves and viciously hates their industry quite as much as theater people do.

MF: 1. Don’t do it if you don’t have to. Seriously, not if you want to do it professionally. Being an artistic director, aside from the demands of running a business, will take time away from the creation of your art. Plain and simple. Now, if starting your own company is the best way to do your work or if you have artistic goals beyond the scope of just you yourself, as an artist, it can be extraordinarily rewarding.
2. You better be ready to eat/sleep/breathe your company. (See my #1 challenge from above)
3. A company has a different identity than one production. That is to say, the company starts to take on a life of its own that is bigger than the sum of its parts. I definitely experienced this in two ways. The first was receiving opportunities to do community-based events or performances and really having to evaluate which was feasible for the company, which would be beneficial and which would be detrimental, even if it seemed like a great opportunity. The second was feeling the pressure to continue making new work, even though we don’t have a “season.”
4. You are the boss. You might want to be friends with your company members—and camaraderie is very important—but if you are making executive level decisions, you become the boss. And everyone (at some point) hates the boss. You have to be ok with that. And at the same time, you need to be the cheerleader, the mom, the therapist, etc. (Uhm, I’m still working on this one.) Wow, I’ve really made it seem all doom and gloom, eh?

LM: Not at all. I truly believe that every artistic director, including the big cats we listened to at TCG conferences, could benefit from this advice. The four items you mentioned seem to get forgotten by a lot of beginners and seasoned people. As a whole, we have a lot of work to do and a higher level of disciplined thinking to put into practice. So. In my James Lipton voice I’ll ask: What would you change about the theater-universe if you could?

MF: Stage managers would be as plentiful as actors.

LM: Nice. What compels you to stick with it?

MF: Two things.
1. The amazing artists I meet and work with and who have become part of my artistic family in the company.
2. My first memory of going to the theatre: seeing Snow White & The Seven Dwarves in the round. They used a strobe light. It was so exciting and scary and visceral and magical. At the end of the day I want to make magic onstage that will stay with someone for the rest of their lives. Thanks for reminding me about that!

LM: No prob. Thank you for sharing your brain with me. I owe you another round of drinks. Perhaps we can stumble around New York or Washington sometime soon—or not, because now we are old.

I’m a lucky gal to know the people I do, aren’t I? Now how about some photos?

Karim Muasher with J. J. von Mehren, Justin Neal & Patrick Berger in Corpus from For the Love Of...

* Denotes The Anthropologists Company Member

L to R: Jennifer Griffee, Petra Denison & Sonja Sweeney in Falling from For the Love Of... (February 2010)

Clockwise from top: Jennifer Moses, Shayna Padovano, Sonja Sweeney*, Jennifer Griffee, Jean Goto* and Katy Rubin* in Give Us Bread (June 2009)