This is the thirty-third post from my NaNoWriMo Life Story Crafting project (find first post here). In the “12 Questions to Help Us Realize Our Potential”, it continues question six: “Tests, Allies, Enemies”. Name some tests you faced. Who were your (internal or external) allies? Who were your (internal or external) enemies? The “transformation” I chose to write about was how I came up with the Well-Being Toolbox.
“Theatre backers or ‘angels’ are people who put up money to finance a theatrical production. If the show is successful their money is first repaid, and then they receive a share in any profit. If the show is a failure they may lose not only the possibility of a profit but also part or all of their original investment.”–HMRC internal manual: Business Income Manual
I didn’t invite Lisa to the silent auction because the performance aspect was minimal and I wanted to get to know Julie better. So after the script inspection and silent auction tables were set up, I followed her around her gallery with a glass of wine in my hand. She was happy to show me the work of the artists she thought most promising, but I don’t get fine art the way I don’t get ballet. One piece reminded me of the famous artwork for the play and film Amadeus, so I mentioned that. She hadn’t heard of the play or the movie. Jesus, the movie racked up 8 Oscars.
She pleaded ignorance about theater aside from seeing A Christmas Carol at The Goodman as a child. But she was eager to get to know the theater community better. Now I got it. She meant theater patrons. There was a high crossover between people who attended opening nights at plays and gallery openings: the people Claire had wanted to expose me to. As the first guests arrived, Julie excused herself to welcome them.
I drank more wine and sought the comfort of my people. I sought out Sharon who’d written our season’s closer: They Say Mrs. Brown is Going Crazy.
“Are you nervous?” I asked Sharon.
“Nah! Just another performance.”
Unlike me, Sharon was a teacher and a performer. She had appeared in a number of school, community, and non-Equity performances over the years.
“Let me show you my script.”
She’d created a needlepoint cover with a yarn binding.
“Too bad about the handprint,” I said.
The needlepoint bore a brown stain (chocolate or worse) in the configuration of a tiny child’s hand.
“That’s the whole point! A woman whose every ambition, creative or otherwise, is drowned out by a child calling ‘Mommy’ or a husband calling ‘Honey.'”
“That’s pretty great,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said. “Are you nervous?”
“Nah,” I said, though I’d done nothing to make my script more appealing.
From where we stood, I could observe the workings of a silent auction. I identified two strategies. Bargain hunters for a good cause sought out items they would actually buy anyway and strategically underbid their retail value. Table players spread low bids on every item. Even if they didn’t want what they won they could regift it and make themselves appear more generous than they were.
When it came time for show and tell, Wendell held up his rehearsal copy of Bed along with a photocopy of the call sheet for an off-Broadway production that had gone into rehearsal with a number of well-known actors. It had ultimately collapsed when a lead backer faced an unanticipated stock market decline and withdrew. Wendell’s sense of humor came through as much in his hard luck story as in the play itself.
All the scripts had an opening bid of $50, and his quickly climbed in $5 and $10 increments to $100.
David spoke about his family’s visit to Beethoven’s birthplace at Bongasse 20 in Bonn, Germany. He wanted nothing to do with the place but immediately identified with the tour guide’s story about artifacts relating to Ludwig’s disgruntled nephew Karl.
“Ludwig’s brother’s son was the only male child of the three Beethoven brothers. If the Beethoven name was to continue into the next generation, Karl was it,” David explained.
“Through Karl’s eyes, we get to witness the great man’s attempt to build a musical dynasty and the toll it takes both on Ludwig and his heir apparent.”
David showed a copy of the little pamphlet that had planted the seed for Beethoven/Karl, which was now bound into the manuscript.
This one went for $125.
Compared to my two predecessors, the story of the real-life attachment between the Tony and Maria in a community theater production of West Side Story seemed pretty pedestrian. Still, I was pretty confident about the monologue I’d memorized.
But when I started performing it, I just froze. It wasn’t stage fright. I never had trouble preparing a presentation or standing in front of a class. I pitched headline ideas all the time at work. I was much more rattled that I didn’t know why I froze than the fact that I did.
“I’m sorry. Just a moment.”
I started thumbing through the script, but with all of those eyes on me, I couldn’t find the passage for what seemed like five minutes. Why? I knew the play backward and forward. When I finally read it, I stumbled.
Sheila started the bid at $50. Now the audience froze. After Sheila talked up how much she loved the show, how I’d been responsible for curating this entire season, her husband mercifully bid $50 to allow my graceful exit.
Sharon’s script also went for $100.
The overall financial take for the evening was neither as little as I had feared nor as much as we had hoped. We had enough to pay the actors and Sheila under our Equity contract for the showcase performance that would introduce potential donors to both our space and scenes from the season’s shows.
The last Monday night script run before the showcase included an angry letter from a playwright saying he could find no evidence that there was an Original Theater Company and intimated that our listing in the Dramatists Guild quarterly was fraudulent and somehow nefarious. He demanded that we return his script immediately.
I was fuming as I looked through the scripts one by one to find it, but somehow I managed to return it, with his letter, underlining his request for his script’s return as my only response. I got soaked walking it to the nearest mailbox because I returned it so immediately that I didn’t even bother to grab a raincoat or umbrella.
I had complete confidence in Sheila’s ability to rally the troops at our Sunday matinee showcase. She’d had many years of practice generating enthusiasm among convention attendees with her corporate shows. My uncertainty lay with the troops themselves. For all the letters and follow-up phone calls, we’d accumulated a handful of maybes.
On the day of the showcase, Lisa and I ushered. We handed out programs containing information about the company and the showcase. But we were on alert to lead any VIPs to the reserved section up front. All of the playwrights had invited friends and/or family so we had a decent-sized audience.
Each time an unfamiliar face walked through the door, there was a moment of anticipation, but invariably friends and family would locate the person who invited them and make their way over to them.
By our 2:30 p.m. start time, none of our VIPs had showed, but we went on with the performance as scheduled. Sheila suggested that producers often liked to slip in unnoticed.
The scenes the playwrights and Sheila chose to showcase seemed to play well. Laughter was unforced, applause genuine. Sheila gave each scene just enough of an introduction for the action to make complete sense. Stage props were minimal, as in a reading, but Sheila had a skilled lighting technician, which added a lot. The performance was still script in hand (per Equity rules) but none of the actors referred to their lines even once. The Equity actor Sheila had cast for the Stage Kiss reading (that Greg had canceled) did such a great job with my monologue that I saw facial tissues come out of at least two purses.
The showcase ended with what I felt was a well-earned round of applause followed by a buzz of excitement. People couldn’t wait for the season. Knowing that no producers had snuck in during the performance and that it had all been for naught, neither could I.
I went home and typed a one-line letter to Valerie with a copy to Sheila. “This is to inform you that I am resigning as Literary Manager of The Original Theater Company effective immediately.”
When Valerie received the letter she called me immediately.
