It Was You and It Wasn't You

This is a continuation of "Another Adventure" — part of an ongoing series about finding my way as an artist.

The process of creating the show was exciting to me — all of it. I loved the many moving parts, all held together with Ron as guide. We already had the masks to work from, so of course I improvised with them. I went to the libraries — this was the early 2000s — researching the animals I'd chosen, their symbolism, their elements. I'd write pieces, often jolted loose by conversations with Ron, questions he'd ask. Then we'd improvise again, searching for more material.

One fed the other — the writing feeding the improvisation, the improvisation feeding the writing.

I loved searching for the music I wanted to use, since there were dance sequences without words, especially the ones where I was inhabiting the masks. Numerous characters emerged — a main character, and then many others springing out of her subconscious, each with their own life, their own tribulations, each tied to one of the emotions.

I wrote the entire show in English, since Ron — being Canadian — needed to be able to read and guide it. I later translated it into German myself, though that version never quite felt as alive to me, funnily enough. I'd been thinking the English way the whole time I was creating it, and something of that got lost when I brought it back into my own language.

We also had a costume designer working with us, which was exciting too — until the costumes arrived very late, maybe a week or two before the premiere at Ron's theatre studio.

I'll never forget the evening I finally rehearsed with them for the first time. It was a complete disaster.

I had a clothes rack with every costume hanging on it, and the changes needed to happen fast, since I was on stage the entire time, playing so many characters. A catsuit was the base, with everything else going on top. We started the run-through, and the catsuit burst in several places — it had been sewn by the costume designer; I later went and bought one instead — and I spent the whole run fighting the costumes. Nothing was smooth. Nothing worked. By the end I was in tears, devastated.

And then Ron said we'd do another run-through. I could have killed him in that moment, honestly.

One run-through was an hour and a half, physical and energetic the whole way through. But I trusted him, so I did it. He told me something else that stayed with me: Take your time when changing the costumes. The more calm you are, the easier and faster it will be on the outside. And it was true. To me, it felt like slow motion; from the outside, it looked smooth. With nothing left in me to fight against, the second run-through was great, and I left the studio elated.

Everyone in my house came to the premiere, which really warmed my heart — even Ruby, who made me the rum chicken.

The new pupils of the next training course were there too, along with a few others. All the official names on the list Ron had given me never showed. But some very close friends of mine did, which meant everything.

The one thing I'll never forget was an actor from the training coming up to me afterward and telling me he had completely forgotten he was sitting in a show — that's how engrossed he'd been — and that I was different from my classmates, who'd also put on shows that season (one other solo piece, and one with three people, as far as I remember).

He said: "It was as if it was you and it wasn't you at the same time, and that was exactly what allowed me to be pulled so deeply into it."

That comment meant more to me than almost anything else, because it was exactly what I'd wanted to be and do ever since discovering Grotowski's work — inhabiting that magical space where you enchant people with something real. He got it. He really did. And he also got that I was different — which became, quite often, a blessing and a curse at the same time. Maybe that's part of why I never quite felt like I fit in with the others in my class. Who knows.