I used to think, in my naivete, that good teachers attract good students, and that nice teachers attract nice people to be students. I still believe this is overall true, but with a corollary: nasty teachers will not really attract nice students, but nice/good teachers will attract not only nice students, they will attract nasty people as well (one could say that nasty people are all over the place - I really don't think nice teachers attract any more than their quota).
A good teacher might weed out students who don't fit in to her overall philosophy of teaching budo, but it seems that a nice teacher will not (and I think a bad teacher won't care). Certainly, when I was teaching at my old place, I was careful to guard what I felt the place needed to be, and I had to do it from time to time in the face of my old sempai, who never wanted to deny anyone membership. I would also give people a try, but unlike him, if a new student was disruptive or rude or bad-tempered, I did my best to minimize his (generally his) involvement, both to protect other people and in hopes that he would take the hint and find a place more suitable to train (i.e., not with us). To be honest, there were really only three times that we had people troublesome enough to warrant a real reprimand, and in the way things were being run at the time, either Otani Sensei or a majority of the yudansha made the decision. While I made suggestions, I never did anything by myself.
As I have pointed out many times, good manners are a top requisite in a sword dojo. The practice of iaido itself has been overlaid with rituals and politeness in order to deliberately impose a sense of decorum on practitioners. Swordsmanship is so potentially dangerous as a practice, there is simply little else that can be done. But, as I have found out, outward manners do not eliminate political intrigue. Factionalism can take place all the while the proprieties are being observed.
When a nice teacher retires or dies (I have had an example one of each), if the not-nice students are still present, it is a strong bet that one of them will be the successor, in spite of the wishes of the previous teacher. I have seen this happen two-for-two so far. The nice people are pushed aside, the not-nice people assert themselves the way they normally do in other aspects of their lives, and the character of the group changes. The nice people either hang on out of a sense of desperation or vestigial loyalty, or they will leave. Or they will become more like the new teacher themselves, consciously or not.
One of my naive ideas does still hold true: students will do as their teacher does. If the teacher is ignorant of the cultural context of practice, the students will exhibit next to no curiosity themselves. If the teacher is arrogant and thinks he knows more than he really does, the students will do likewise and think nothing of it. If a teacher is unscrupulous in his personal life (I know, I know - it's not anyone's business), the students will decide that maybe dealing honestly with people is not very important either.
Otani Sensei used to give us little homilies about behavior from time to time. Generally speaking, all of us, including me at the time, used to listen politely but then not worry about what he was actually saying. I had a moral education of a sort, so I used to blow off these exhortations the way I used to blow off church attendance as a teenager. But I now see there was a reason for his mini-lectures. He was trying to forestall what eventually happened - at least in America, aggression wins out, and the others either change to suit or go elsewhere.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Evolution
Many changes have taken place over the past 3-1/2 years that I have been teaching on my own, and I realized something in the process - as an old friend of mine used to say, "You can't go home again." It's a cliche' but it's true - even home is not really home once you have really left it. Sometimes, in fact, it is better than home used to be, but for sure it will not be the same as it was when it was really the only home you knew.
Early on in my independent career, I tried to replicate my past experience (and success, for that matter). I rented space, hung out a shingle, and I attracted some students. And it was paying for itself, more or less. But for various reasons (and not all of them entirely attributable to me alone), the idea did not last. Some people had to move on, we lost the space due to the studio closing, and the new space cost enough more money than the last one to make the losses significant. People come and go through a dojo - only a handful will stay. From a business perspective, one has to keep attracting people so that the "serious" people have a base from which to practice and learn even when attendance becomes thin.
The next phase, as it were, was to teach at a community college. An interesting, if not ideal, situation. Community college in NYC is a unique animal. It does offer practical-oriented education at a reasonable price; but the students who come are literally all over the map. It is a credit to the system that the student mix includes people returning to try to finish their education, exchange students from everywhere, and people who are the first in their families to have any education beyond high school. The drawbacks are also numerous - students can be very young, and sometimes from distressed families - family drama can force a student into an academic quarter off, or even force her to leave college altogether. As an instructor in the recreation program, I get used to the endless cycle of class schedules and other things. On the other hand, they can be a great deal of fun. The women's movement has been very much under fire in the 00's, but one thing these mostly working-class kids have is much more respect for women than the middle-aged men who used to come to our old place. Their mothers are often heads of households, breadwinners, and no one to mess with. I am the recipient of this welcome change in attitude.
In addition, most recently, I have started teaching at a Japanese cultural center which was started by one of my students. It's a nice space, though we frequently have to be careful of the overhanging artwork in the gallery-cum-classroom. Important to iaidoka, it has a very nice, smooth, and flexible floor. The students who come in are more of a mix of people - some of the community college kids, some from the outside. The partners running the space handle publicity, and my job is to show up and teach - a relief to a former dojocho.
All the same, there are times when I just feel like a hired hand, though of course, I am more than that. And I miss the cameraderie of the old model, if not some of the individuals. Recently a former student came to visit (she now lives in Australia). Naturally we reminisced a little. After she left, I began to reminisce more - like the time a group of us went to Canada for a seminar together and got caught by bad weather. Perfect dojo organization - three people stayed at the baggage carousel to collect our things while two of us, credit cards in hand, went to two different car rental kiosks to get a one-way vehicle big enough to accommodate everyone. And we succeeded in getting everyone back before dawn. One of my former students behind the wheel, me playing navigator, driving through a night of big thunderstorms of an upstate New York summer while everyone else was asleep in the back. There were Iai demos that I organized and scripted - the extra practices and handholding of nervous budoka, and the feeling of relief when it was all over. And Otani Sensei - pushing, cajoling, and ultimately - approving.
Was that me? Yes. Is that gone? Yes. And since I can't go home again, I am hoping that whatever comes up next will at least be that much fun.
Early on in my independent career, I tried to replicate my past experience (and success, for that matter). I rented space, hung out a shingle, and I attracted some students. And it was paying for itself, more or less. But for various reasons (and not all of them entirely attributable to me alone), the idea did not last. Some people had to move on, we lost the space due to the studio closing, and the new space cost enough more money than the last one to make the losses significant. People come and go through a dojo - only a handful will stay. From a business perspective, one has to keep attracting people so that the "serious" people have a base from which to practice and learn even when attendance becomes thin.
The next phase, as it were, was to teach at a community college. An interesting, if not ideal, situation. Community college in NYC is a unique animal. It does offer practical-oriented education at a reasonable price; but the students who come are literally all over the map. It is a credit to the system that the student mix includes people returning to try to finish their education, exchange students from everywhere, and people who are the first in their families to have any education beyond high school. The drawbacks are also numerous - students can be very young, and sometimes from distressed families - family drama can force a student into an academic quarter off, or even force her to leave college altogether. As an instructor in the recreation program, I get used to the endless cycle of class schedules and other things. On the other hand, they can be a great deal of fun. The women's movement has been very much under fire in the 00's, but one thing these mostly working-class kids have is much more respect for women than the middle-aged men who used to come to our old place. Their mothers are often heads of households, breadwinners, and no one to mess with. I am the recipient of this welcome change in attitude.
In addition, most recently, I have started teaching at a Japanese cultural center which was started by one of my students. It's a nice space, though we frequently have to be careful of the overhanging artwork in the gallery-cum-classroom. Important to iaidoka, it has a very nice, smooth, and flexible floor. The students who come in are more of a mix of people - some of the community college kids, some from the outside. The partners running the space handle publicity, and my job is to show up and teach - a relief to a former dojocho.
All the same, there are times when I just feel like a hired hand, though of course, I am more than that. And I miss the cameraderie of the old model, if not some of the individuals. Recently a former student came to visit (she now lives in Australia). Naturally we reminisced a little. After she left, I began to reminisce more - like the time a group of us went to Canada for a seminar together and got caught by bad weather. Perfect dojo organization - three people stayed at the baggage carousel to collect our things while two of us, credit cards in hand, went to two different car rental kiosks to get a one-way vehicle big enough to accommodate everyone. And we succeeded in getting everyone back before dawn. One of my former students behind the wheel, me playing navigator, driving through a night of big thunderstorms of an upstate New York summer while everyone else was asleep in the back. There were Iai demos that I organized and scripted - the extra practices and handholding of nervous budoka, and the feeling of relief when it was all over. And Otani Sensei - pushing, cajoling, and ultimately - approving.
Was that me? Yes. Is that gone? Yes. And since I can't go home again, I am hoping that whatever comes up next will at least be that much fun.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Christmas
It was sweet. It was greasy. It was sticky. It was purple. It was sleeping late. It was overheated. It was drunk (or at least feeling no pain). It was pate' on pumpernickel bread. It was creative. It was smoky. It was overpriced. It was in color. It was paint-smeared. It was champagne. It was the grocery store closing at 6pm Christmas eve. It was musical. It was quiet.
It was not cold. It was not crowded. It was not noisy. It was not stressful. It was not (too) grumpy. It was not religious. It was not disastrous.
It was not cold. It was not crowded. It was not noisy. It was not stressful. It was not (too) grumpy. It was not religious. It was not disastrous.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Distractions
I have lately been transcribing my travel diary from this year's trip to Japan. Yes, I still handwrite them - no worries about batteries or lost files, unless I really, really lose an important piece of luggage (at which point I'd be more worried about my passport than anything else). In the past, I just transcribed things I was using for articles, or technical notes about training sessions, but this time I decided to transcribe the whole thing so I can print it out and put it in the year's travel file. There are several reasons. My handwriting is, and will no doubt remain, abysmal to the point where a few months after writing something sustained like a journal, I can no longer read what I wrote and the only solution is to type it. I also forgot certain important logistcal points about traveling in Japan that would have been good to remember on this trip and several times would have made my life easier. By transcribing the whole journal I can read it through before going on next year's trip and save myself at least a little grief.
I have come into possession of an iPad in the meantime that will probably mean I can just type my journal next time and save this step, but it is sort of cool to relive the experience as I go through my notes. One of the points that jumped at me, and not for the first time, is the difference in the attitude of the people I train with in Japan versus most of the people I train with here. Granted, the people I train with in Japan are not exactly typical. Koryu budo in Japan is a rare pursuit and the people who train are indeed serious. I am not talking about high school or college budo, as intense as that may sometimes be. Many of the people I train with are descendants of samurai families, and even though that and 400 yen will get them a cup of coffee these days, in their non-working lives the study of koryu budo is not a hobby - it is their identity.
With very few exceptions, there are not many Americans who understand this point. I wonder sometimes if Americans are serious about anything, except maybe consumerism (maybe the time of year makes me feel that way). Whenever an American has a deeply satisfying pastime that goes beyond buying stuff and throwing it away, it makes the news. But anyway...
I have known a few people in my American budo life who always make a point of telling me how deep their commitment is to budo. They stay and train for a few weeks or months, and I think to myself, hey, they really are committed to this. And then it starts - Absences and excuses, generally work or family issues. I also have a family, and a job, and both are important. Otani Sensei also pointed out that family and work must take precendence over training when necessary. But it's the "when necessary" that gets me. When is "necessary"? People in Japan also have families and jobs, and certainly they sometimes will miss an okeiko because of one or the other, but somehow they always manage to come back to the dojo. As important as those other things are, the center of their non-family, non-work life is to carry on a tradition that preceded them, and, with luck, will continue after they are gone. Call it nuts, or eccentric, but the people I train with in Japan have a strong sense of themselves and what they think is important.
Recently I had very committed student who claimed many work-life conflicts. It took almost a year, but I finally managed to work out a schedule with him that made it possible for us to train together. It was great - for three weeks. I have not seen him in over two months. I have gotten a few pinched emails promising an appearance the following week, and now, nothing. I wish I could say I am surprised, but I'm not.
In all fairness, I have no doubt the work-life issues this person is experiencing may seem insurmountable to him. But that is the point. All of us have our stuff, but why is it that I can show up every week? Sure, we are always prioritizing, but I wonder.
One of the excuses I have heard from time to time is "Well, I was going to be late, so I decided to go home." My response is always the same - come anyway. Oh. So then there is another excuse. And another. And I quit worrying about it, because by that time it is obvious that something else has piqued the person's interest and they have moved on to it. They don't bother me as much as the person who keeps insisting on their genuine interest and then does not follow through.
I realize complaining about less-than-serious students is a rant that goes back (even in Japan) at least 300 years. In Western culture, I think Plato made the same argument. At least I am in good company. And I'm not stupid - the sempai I train with in Japan are the ones who stayed, not the ones who ended up being unserious about training. There just seems to be a lot more of them than here.
I have come into possession of an iPad in the meantime that will probably mean I can just type my journal next time and save this step, but it is sort of cool to relive the experience as I go through my notes. One of the points that jumped at me, and not for the first time, is the difference in the attitude of the people I train with in Japan versus most of the people I train with here. Granted, the people I train with in Japan are not exactly typical. Koryu budo in Japan is a rare pursuit and the people who train are indeed serious. I am not talking about high school or college budo, as intense as that may sometimes be. Many of the people I train with are descendants of samurai families, and even though that and 400 yen will get them a cup of coffee these days, in their non-working lives the study of koryu budo is not a hobby - it is their identity.
With very few exceptions, there are not many Americans who understand this point. I wonder sometimes if Americans are serious about anything, except maybe consumerism (maybe the time of year makes me feel that way). Whenever an American has a deeply satisfying pastime that goes beyond buying stuff and throwing it away, it makes the news. But anyway...
I have known a few people in my American budo life who always make a point of telling me how deep their commitment is to budo. They stay and train for a few weeks or months, and I think to myself, hey, they really are committed to this. And then it starts - Absences and excuses, generally work or family issues. I also have a family, and a job, and both are important. Otani Sensei also pointed out that family and work must take precendence over training when necessary. But it's the "when necessary" that gets me. When is "necessary"? People in Japan also have families and jobs, and certainly they sometimes will miss an okeiko because of one or the other, but somehow they always manage to come back to the dojo. As important as those other things are, the center of their non-family, non-work life is to carry on a tradition that preceded them, and, with luck, will continue after they are gone. Call it nuts, or eccentric, but the people I train with in Japan have a strong sense of themselves and what they think is important.
Recently I had very committed student who claimed many work-life conflicts. It took almost a year, but I finally managed to work out a schedule with him that made it possible for us to train together. It was great - for three weeks. I have not seen him in over two months. I have gotten a few pinched emails promising an appearance the following week, and now, nothing. I wish I could say I am surprised, but I'm not.
In all fairness, I have no doubt the work-life issues this person is experiencing may seem insurmountable to him. But that is the point. All of us have our stuff, but why is it that I can show up every week? Sure, we are always prioritizing, but I wonder.
One of the excuses I have heard from time to time is "Well, I was going to be late, so I decided to go home." My response is always the same - come anyway. Oh. So then there is another excuse. And another. And I quit worrying about it, because by that time it is obvious that something else has piqued the person's interest and they have moved on to it. They don't bother me as much as the person who keeps insisting on their genuine interest and then does not follow through.
I realize complaining about less-than-serious students is a rant that goes back (even in Japan) at least 300 years. In Western culture, I think Plato made the same argument. At least I am in good company. And I'm not stupid - the sempai I train with in Japan are the ones who stayed, not the ones who ended up being unserious about training. There just seems to be a lot more of them than here.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The ma of great expectations
"You have such great ma with a sword," my dance teacher informed me, "I can't understand why you don't have it when you dance!"
"I didn't know it was genre-specifc," I responded, morosely.
This discussion has gone on, on some level, over the past 1-1/2 years. Up until that time, my Nihon buyo (classical Japanese dance) teacher had never seen much of my iai. That all changed last year when we organized a performance and included 5 minutes of an iai demonstration. Ever since she saw me do iai, my teacher has marveled aloud at how someone with talent in one area can be so untalented in another, albeit related, area. (To be honest, she says I am not totally untalented; but she wonders why I am not better.)
It's a good question, because truly, I am better with a sword. And I also wonder.
To begin with, it helps to discuss ma a little bit. Ma is one of the most difficult of Japanese concepts to explain in words. In Japanese kanji, it is depicted as the sun seen through a gate. In English it is sometimes called "interval," which does not help much unless someone has studied music. It is literally the timing between the notes. Music students struggle with ma all the time, though some definitely have a better innate sense of it than others. My teacher, a classically-trained musician, knows exactly whereof she speaks. Sometimes even Japanese people refer to ma with the English word, timing. I also think of it in terms of the word talent. No matter how beautiful, a dancer with no ma is no fun to watch.
In dance or budo, ma is how one moves; in Nihon buyo, it could be said how one moves to interpret the lyrics of the song, as well as successfully moving in the timing between sung lyrics and rhythmic passages that make up the dance. It is much more difficult to dance to a slow piece than a fast one.
Sound tough? Tell me about it. Like budo and many western movement genres, learning the choreography is not even the start of performing a dance (though I know a number of buyoka who are content with simply memorizing choreography). Like the painter who copies an old master in order to try to get into the head of the famous artist (as well as learning some useful techniques), the student dancer endeavors to learn the timing of her teacher as an example, though of course, eventually, she has to develop the ma she has in herself in order to make the piece effective.
So, what's my problem? There may be several explanations. One is time served, I think. Though I have taken Nihon buyo classes for years, up until recently, I only attended a class twice a month with my first teacher (who retired a number of years ago). Though the classes were long, the teacher was only able to spend a few minutes with each person. In the past few years, we have shorter classes that take place every week. I consider this an improvement; and up until the abovementioned conversation, thought I might be improving too. In contrast, budo classes have taken up 2-3 hours, anywhere from one to 3 times per week! Not to mention practicing on my own (which I have only occasionally done for Nihon buyo). And I have done this for 25 years. Budo also has some consequences for bad ma - the budoka who cannot block a strike in time will end up getting sore someplace. In Nihon buyo, the only thing that gets hurt, occasionally, is pride.
When I was a little kid, someone read a story to us from the Readers' Digest about the great ballerina Anna Pavlova. The story was extracted from a memoir of some sort (remember I was small enough that the story was being read to us). After spending some time extolling the brilliance of Pavlova on stage, the writer related seeing her once as a total klutz on a diving board. The swan on stage was not as good in actual water, and of course it confounded everyone's expectations that the graceful ballerina was a terrible diver.
I am hardly comparing myself to Pavlova, but maybe the lesson is that no one is good at everything. Or maybe that we can only spend our time doing a handful of things well (really, really well in the case of Pavlova, who surely should never have needed to apologize for anything). In any case, it seems that being a goofball around the pool did not prevent Pavlova from enjoying the water, which is maybe the best and biggest point.
For my part, I feel I should either quit Nihon buyo, from which I have learned a very great deal, or else ask for private lessons in order to work harder. Being stuck in mediocre-land is one interval I am getting pretty tired of.
"I didn't know it was genre-specifc," I responded, morosely.
This discussion has gone on, on some level, over the past 1-1/2 years. Up until that time, my Nihon buyo (classical Japanese dance) teacher had never seen much of my iai. That all changed last year when we organized a performance and included 5 minutes of an iai demonstration. Ever since she saw me do iai, my teacher has marveled aloud at how someone with talent in one area can be so untalented in another, albeit related, area. (To be honest, she says I am not totally untalented; but she wonders why I am not better.)
It's a good question, because truly, I am better with a sword. And I also wonder.
To begin with, it helps to discuss ma a little bit. Ma is one of the most difficult of Japanese concepts to explain in words. In Japanese kanji, it is depicted as the sun seen through a gate. In English it is sometimes called "interval," which does not help much unless someone has studied music. It is literally the timing between the notes. Music students struggle with ma all the time, though some definitely have a better innate sense of it than others. My teacher, a classically-trained musician, knows exactly whereof she speaks. Sometimes even Japanese people refer to ma with the English word, timing. I also think of it in terms of the word talent. No matter how beautiful, a dancer with no ma is no fun to watch.
In dance or budo, ma is how one moves; in Nihon buyo, it could be said how one moves to interpret the lyrics of the song, as well as successfully moving in the timing between sung lyrics and rhythmic passages that make up the dance. It is much more difficult to dance to a slow piece than a fast one.
Sound tough? Tell me about it. Like budo and many western movement genres, learning the choreography is not even the start of performing a dance (though I know a number of buyoka who are content with simply memorizing choreography). Like the painter who copies an old master in order to try to get into the head of the famous artist (as well as learning some useful techniques), the student dancer endeavors to learn the timing of her teacher as an example, though of course, eventually, she has to develop the ma she has in herself in order to make the piece effective.
So, what's my problem? There may be several explanations. One is time served, I think. Though I have taken Nihon buyo classes for years, up until recently, I only attended a class twice a month with my first teacher (who retired a number of years ago). Though the classes were long, the teacher was only able to spend a few minutes with each person. In the past few years, we have shorter classes that take place every week. I consider this an improvement; and up until the abovementioned conversation, thought I might be improving too. In contrast, budo classes have taken up 2-3 hours, anywhere from one to 3 times per week! Not to mention practicing on my own (which I have only occasionally done for Nihon buyo). And I have done this for 25 years. Budo also has some consequences for bad ma - the budoka who cannot block a strike in time will end up getting sore someplace. In Nihon buyo, the only thing that gets hurt, occasionally, is pride.
When I was a little kid, someone read a story to us from the Readers' Digest about the great ballerina Anna Pavlova. The story was extracted from a memoir of some sort (remember I was small enough that the story was being read to us). After spending some time extolling the brilliance of Pavlova on stage, the writer related seeing her once as a total klutz on a diving board. The swan on stage was not as good in actual water, and of course it confounded everyone's expectations that the graceful ballerina was a terrible diver.
I am hardly comparing myself to Pavlova, but maybe the lesson is that no one is good at everything. Or maybe that we can only spend our time doing a handful of things well (really, really well in the case of Pavlova, who surely should never have needed to apologize for anything). In any case, it seems that being a goofball around the pool did not prevent Pavlova from enjoying the water, which is maybe the best and biggest point.
For my part, I feel I should either quit Nihon buyo, from which I have learned a very great deal, or else ask for private lessons in order to work harder. Being stuck in mediocre-land is one interval I am getting pretty tired of.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Amateur Hour
This is a totally different topic than usual. But I have to express some exasperation somewhere, and this is the place!
I have been affiliated with a dance group over some time. With 22 years in, that makes me a junior member. The hierarchy consists of people who have rank - I do not even have a vote, actually.
Over the years they have taken advantage of my theatre experience. It has not been very unusual for me to have to give a light cue, pull off the headset, go out onstage, perform my dance, leave the stage, and give the next cue. Or my personal favorite of all time: put in the music CD for my piece, go out and dance, leave the stage, and cue up the sound for the next dancer! Meanwhile, the divas among them powder their noses in the dressing room, oblivious to the chaos their lack of planning and amateur theatrics is causing backstage. Happily, for the most part, because of the efforts of two of us, there have been no real disasters, but the toll taken on the few of us who manage to run things seems not worth it. Sometimes I have gotten $150 for several weeks' work, sometimes not much of anything at all. Maybe someone thanks us. Maybe not.
The latest stupidity comes two days before what is supposed to be a gala performance. We were to kick things off with a champagne reception. One of the dancers said she knew someone who would supply finger food for free, only she forgot to tell him in time. Since it's Christmas season, the person cannot devote time to a free order, so guess what? No food.
Except there's sushi. Maybe. But no one knows. For 200 people? With champagne? Is there champagne? That was supposed to be donated too.
I have worked in the theatre since I was 14 years old. The first thing we all learned, whether we were performers, tech people, designers or managers, was that the theatre requires a great deal of work, and depends heavily on everyone doing his or her job. One person screws up, the whole performance will suffer.
That said, it is difficult for full-time workers to put on a professional production by ourselves. But one of the good things about New York is that we are surrounded - nay, drowning - in theatre workers willing to pitch in, often for a few bucks. Also, this being a major metropolitan area, we have people who, for a fee, will supply food and drink on demand. Crazy, but it works.
And my orei this time? I have no idea, but whatever it is, I am splitting it with my fellow sufferer. We both deserve it.
I have been affiliated with a dance group over some time. With 22 years in, that makes me a junior member. The hierarchy consists of people who have rank - I do not even have a vote, actually.
Over the years they have taken advantage of my theatre experience. It has not been very unusual for me to have to give a light cue, pull off the headset, go out onstage, perform my dance, leave the stage, and give the next cue. Or my personal favorite of all time: put in the music CD for my piece, go out and dance, leave the stage, and cue up the sound for the next dancer! Meanwhile, the divas among them powder their noses in the dressing room, oblivious to the chaos their lack of planning and amateur theatrics is causing backstage. Happily, for the most part, because of the efforts of two of us, there have been no real disasters, but the toll taken on the few of us who manage to run things seems not worth it. Sometimes I have gotten $150 for several weeks' work, sometimes not much of anything at all. Maybe someone thanks us. Maybe not.
The latest stupidity comes two days before what is supposed to be a gala performance. We were to kick things off with a champagne reception. One of the dancers said she knew someone who would supply finger food for free, only she forgot to tell him in time. Since it's Christmas season, the person cannot devote time to a free order, so guess what? No food.
Except there's sushi. Maybe. But no one knows. For 200 people? With champagne? Is there champagne? That was supposed to be donated too.
I have worked in the theatre since I was 14 years old. The first thing we all learned, whether we were performers, tech people, designers or managers, was that the theatre requires a great deal of work, and depends heavily on everyone doing his or her job. One person screws up, the whole performance will suffer.
That said, it is difficult for full-time workers to put on a professional production by ourselves. But one of the good things about New York is that we are surrounded - nay, drowning - in theatre workers willing to pitch in, often for a few bucks. Also, this being a major metropolitan area, we have people who, for a fee, will supply food and drink on demand. Crazy, but it works.
And my orei this time? I have no idea, but whatever it is, I am splitting it with my fellow sufferer. We both deserve it.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Harry and Paulie
Happily there are no off-topic posts in this blog; that's because they are all off-topic, in their way.
Today's post has to do with two things I watched on tv over the couple of days, which seem to have little in common: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and the 3-way American Chopper Biker Buildoff. One is a film, based on a kids' book, and the other is a "reality" show, ostensibly about building collector motorcycles.
JK Rowlings' stuff both entertains and frustrates me. In a way reminiscent of 70's John Wayne movies, people die in the films to momentary grief, which disappears by the next scene. In Goblet of Fire, the Dark Lord's minions interrupt the Quiddich World Cup by causing a bloody riot - a shocking scene new to the series; but no reference is made to it for the rest of the film. Similarly, in HBP, we have Snape (spoiler alert for the .000001% who have neither seen the film nor read the book) declaring himself the half-blood prince, but we have no idea what, in fact, that means. And no one tells us.
I read three of the Harry Potter books while I was keeping company with an 11-year-old one wintry month of January in Minnesota, a number of years ago, and I have enjoyed the films. I enjoyed HBP, for getting slightly better the mix of violence, magic, plot holes one could drive a truck through, and teenage angst. The death of Dumbledore though, like Cedric's death in Goblet of Fire, seemed not to distract too much from the running of the plot. That was really too bad, because one of the adult lessons I have learned is that the death of someone you know should make you stop and think - not only to honor the memory of the deceased, but to consider your place in the universe and what you are doing here. Not even a shot of the funeral. Meh.
Nevertheless, the death scene itself is moving, and the film overall is complicated and requires close attention. And, outside of the relentless plot-drive, the film is about family - the meaning of it and/or lack thereof; about being a student, being a teacher, being a friend - about loyalty, love, and the amorality of skill. The books and film keep asking if skill and the power attained by it is respectable in itself, or whether the character of the skilled person is more important. It would seem, for Rowling, that power is not value-neutral, and a skilful villain is still a villain; but the number of followers of the Dark Lord suggests that a debate exists as to whether power for its own sake is worthwhile. Harry is in the middle of this debate, and his loyal friends are in there with him. If there is a deeper meaning to the series, it is that the author, while heavily stacking the deck in favor of her opinion, allows this debate to play out so her readers can assess it for themselves.
I am not a regular fan of American Chopper, but anyone with even a nodding acquaintance is well aware of the split between the Teutels - Paul Sr. and Paul Jr. Father and son were originally in business together building custom motorcycles but split over ego and differing ideas of how the business should be organized and run. The breakup was fairly violent (objects were thrown, but at least not at each other) and at loud volume. Lawsuits were launched and settled. Paul Jr. has set up his own shop and has managed to gain a reputation separate from his dad. He also wins the major sympathy vote from fans, who have expressed the opinion that it is the father who is in the wrong, and from whom a reconciliation must be initiated. The series, which started out chronicling the family business and now tracks the soap-operatic developments as the two sides learn to coexist, has become - you guessed it - about the meaning of family (or lack thereof), about loyalty, friendship, mentoring and skill.
Last night's episodes involved a three-way buildoff between father and son with badboy Jesse James. The two-hour run-up and one-hour live conclusion involved letting the audience see the development of the entries, as well as egos on display throughout the process. Jesse trash-talks everyone, Paulie chafes under what he sees as disloyal slights from his father, and his father, whilst dispensing said slights, decides to go totally out of the box in designing and building a reverse trike that shoots fire and otherwise defies description. The audience, not surprisingly, picks Paul Jr.'s entry, a cool but not particularly out-of-the-box creation. They second-placed Jesse, who has forged - forged - mind you, every piece of an awkward, old-school design. Paul Sr. is ignored almost entirely, perhaps in part because his design is not exactly a bike, and perhaps because the audience still perceives him as the real bad guy in the family drama.
The best (and most intense part) was not the all-but-foregone conclusion to the buildoff, but that Paul Jr. brought his entire crew to the final event. At the end of the broadcast, he stands surrounded by friends, co-workers and family (his brother, also estranged from their father over what has happened, stands with him). Both Paul Sr. and Jesse stand alone.
The Harry Potter parallels? Like the Dark Lord, Jesse is skilful but is trying to hurt people, rather than simply outcompeting them. His interest is in winning, in showing up the tabloids, ex-wives and ex-girlfriends that no matter what a rotten person he is, he can turn out a good product and people will love him for it anyway. Paul Jr., as Harry, has learned that the only way to achieve success, whether fighting evil or competing in a bike build-off, is to have others' love and support. Paul Sr., rather like Dumbledore, for all of his skill, ends up in defeat, having not yet learned the lesson that his son could teach.
Or is he Snape? I'm not sure, but he's in there somewhere.
Today's post has to do with two things I watched on tv over the couple of days, which seem to have little in common: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and the 3-way American Chopper Biker Buildoff. One is a film, based on a kids' book, and the other is a "reality" show, ostensibly about building collector motorcycles.
JK Rowlings' stuff both entertains and frustrates me. In a way reminiscent of 70's John Wayne movies, people die in the films to momentary grief, which disappears by the next scene. In Goblet of Fire, the Dark Lord's minions interrupt the Quiddich World Cup by causing a bloody riot - a shocking scene new to the series; but no reference is made to it for the rest of the film. Similarly, in HBP, we have Snape (spoiler alert for the .000001% who have neither seen the film nor read the book) declaring himself the half-blood prince, but we have no idea what, in fact, that means. And no one tells us.
I read three of the Harry Potter books while I was keeping company with an 11-year-old one wintry month of January in Minnesota, a number of years ago, and I have enjoyed the films. I enjoyed HBP, for getting slightly better the mix of violence, magic, plot holes one could drive a truck through, and teenage angst. The death of Dumbledore though, like Cedric's death in Goblet of Fire, seemed not to distract too much from the running of the plot. That was really too bad, because one of the adult lessons I have learned is that the death of someone you know should make you stop and think - not only to honor the memory of the deceased, but to consider your place in the universe and what you are doing here. Not even a shot of the funeral. Meh.
Nevertheless, the death scene itself is moving, and the film overall is complicated and requires close attention. And, outside of the relentless plot-drive, the film is about family - the meaning of it and/or lack thereof; about being a student, being a teacher, being a friend - about loyalty, love, and the amorality of skill. The books and film keep asking if skill and the power attained by it is respectable in itself, or whether the character of the skilled person is more important. It would seem, for Rowling, that power is not value-neutral, and a skilful villain is still a villain; but the number of followers of the Dark Lord suggests that a debate exists as to whether power for its own sake is worthwhile. Harry is in the middle of this debate, and his loyal friends are in there with him. If there is a deeper meaning to the series, it is that the author, while heavily stacking the deck in favor of her opinion, allows this debate to play out so her readers can assess it for themselves.
I am not a regular fan of American Chopper, but anyone with even a nodding acquaintance is well aware of the split between the Teutels - Paul Sr. and Paul Jr. Father and son were originally in business together building custom motorcycles but split over ego and differing ideas of how the business should be organized and run. The breakup was fairly violent (objects were thrown, but at least not at each other) and at loud volume. Lawsuits were launched and settled. Paul Jr. has set up his own shop and has managed to gain a reputation separate from his dad. He also wins the major sympathy vote from fans, who have expressed the opinion that it is the father who is in the wrong, and from whom a reconciliation must be initiated. The series, which started out chronicling the family business and now tracks the soap-operatic developments as the two sides learn to coexist, has become - you guessed it - about the meaning of family (or lack thereof), about loyalty, friendship, mentoring and skill.
Last night's episodes involved a three-way buildoff between father and son with badboy Jesse James. The two-hour run-up and one-hour live conclusion involved letting the audience see the development of the entries, as well as egos on display throughout the process. Jesse trash-talks everyone, Paulie chafes under what he sees as disloyal slights from his father, and his father, whilst dispensing said slights, decides to go totally out of the box in designing and building a reverse trike that shoots fire and otherwise defies description. The audience, not surprisingly, picks Paul Jr.'s entry, a cool but not particularly out-of-the-box creation. They second-placed Jesse, who has forged - forged - mind you, every piece of an awkward, old-school design. Paul Sr. is ignored almost entirely, perhaps in part because his design is not exactly a bike, and perhaps because the audience still perceives him as the real bad guy in the family drama.
The best (and most intense part) was not the all-but-foregone conclusion to the buildoff, but that Paul Jr. brought his entire crew to the final event. At the end of the broadcast, he stands surrounded by friends, co-workers and family (his brother, also estranged from their father over what has happened, stands with him). Both Paul Sr. and Jesse stand alone.
The Harry Potter parallels? Like the Dark Lord, Jesse is skilful but is trying to hurt people, rather than simply outcompeting them. His interest is in winning, in showing up the tabloids, ex-wives and ex-girlfriends that no matter what a rotten person he is, he can turn out a good product and people will love him for it anyway. Paul Jr., as Harry, has learned that the only way to achieve success, whether fighting evil or competing in a bike build-off, is to have others' love and support. Paul Sr., rather like Dumbledore, for all of his skill, ends up in defeat, having not yet learned the lesson that his son could teach.
Or is he Snape? I'm not sure, but he's in there somewhere.
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