June 26, 2011: Lawn Bowling with Herb

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Sometimes the best activities are unplanned.

My cousin Lexie bussed over from Washington, DC to visit me for the weekend, and on our way through Central Park to wait in line for free tickets for the evening’s Shakespeare in the Park performance, a guy handed us a flyer advertising “free food and lawn bowling” that afternoon.  He told us to turn right after the amphitheater and look for a lot of people wearing white – we couldn’t miss it.

We reached the line for Shakespeare in the Park at about noon, knowing they started handing out tickets at 1:00 for the evening’s 8pm performance.  I had noticed on the website that Shakespeare in the Park “neither suggests nor condones lining up before the park opens at 6am,” so I wondered vaguely if we were silly to expect to get tickets so late in the day.

As we approached the head of the line, we realized how the serious Shakespeare in the Park fans get it done.  There were several couples lounging on blankets, and one was even asleep on an air mattress.  Multiple groups had tables and folding chairs with picnic meals, drinks, and games of Scrabble or cards.  Further down the line, the less-prepared theatergoers were situated less comfortably, standing or sitting on the pavement, entertaining themselves with iPhones and conversation.  Lexie and I joined this second group at the end of the line (which was perhaps ¼ mile long) halfway between a trash can and some benches, directly on top of a sewer grate and at the edge of some shade.

We pretended we were waiting in line at Disney Land; we listened to a saxophone-playing busker who worked his way slowly down the line, playing a song and then moving 20 feet and playing another.  We giggled at the irony of his choice of location (he did realize, didn’t he, that he was asking for tips from a line full of freeloaders willing to waste the better part of a day standing in line for free theatre tickets?).  We accepted flyers for two alternate free Shakespeare performances by other local groups that we could attend if we were unable to get tickets for Shakespeare in the Park.  And finally, near 1:00 a security guard welcomed us to “Shakespeare in the Park: THE LINE,” informed us that there were 1800 seats in the theatre and pointed 50 yards behind us at the “Rock of Hope,” which marked the point at which they usually run out of tickets.

We did, in fact, get tickets, and headed off in search of the free food and lawn bowling (who could resist that combination of temptations?) advertised on the morning’s flyer.  Our search turned into a bit of a quest, as we discovered that turning right at the amphitheatre as our flyer-man had suggested led us to a row of locked Port-a-Potties, behind which were a pond for tiny sailboat racing, an Alice in Wonderland statue, and a petting zoo.  Retracing our steps and turning left instead of right, we encountered a harpist, 3 more saxophone players, a magic show, a street fair (where there was a couple racing against time to stuff a tent into a bag and put it into the trunk of a car, to a wildly cheering crowd; drummers on a stage; and 18 different kinds of tea to sample), and a group of toddlers pushing tiny soccer balls in slow motion in the general direction of several giant goals, to the vague encouragement of their brightly-clothed soccer camp leaders.  About to give up hope, we finally stumbled upon the lawn bowling about half a mile in the exact opposite direction our flyer friend had pointed us.

We were ushered into the club of men wearing white shirts and white hats, whose average age was approximately 70, and one woman who was handing out the balls.  We each chose a pair of the grapefruit-sized heavy lawn bowling balls and were shepherded to Herb, a white-haired, watery-eyed, slightly humpbacked gentleman who was proud to be in his fourth year of Lawn Bowling Club membership.  He explained the rules (you put one foot on the small mat and the other on the large mat and roll your ball at the target), the strategy (you want to roll your ball like a tire, and aim to the right of the target because your ball will curve slightly left if you’re holding it correctly), and the form (bend your knees! Stay low to the ground! Grip the ball tightly! Keep your eye on the target!).  After the first round, he played us left-handed, and still beat us, 8 to 1 to 1.

Then there was a game called Spider, where there was a white target ball in the middle of the field and we all spaced ourselves around the edges and rolled our balls at the target all at once.  It was 3 seconds of thrilling good fun, where the heavy black balls streaked toward each other like large, round spiders, then collided and ricocheted off each other, to end in a haphazard mess generally near the center of the field.  The person who rolled the ball that landed closest to the center won some free Lawn Bowling merchandise; I was within 3 balls of winning – ah, so close.

Afterwards, Herb gave us his business card and invited us to join the club – they play every Saturday and have free lessons on Monday nights.  I have no particular burning desire to pursue Lawn Bowling, but it was an afternoon of good, honest fun with kindhearted people.

June 19, 2011: Self-Discovery Through Destructuring

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These past two weeks have flown by, and they have also been so full of experience and learning that it seems like I’ve been here much longer.

I am studying Fitzmaurice Voicework with Catherine Fitzmaurice herself, who spent more than 20 years developing the technique.  Catherine is a 70-something woman with a large but not intimidating presence.  She has long white hair and a deep, rich British voice that fills a room and commands attention.  But her energy is that of a much younger person: we did an exercise last week that involved swinging a padded paddle down onto some raised mats repeatedly and vigorously, and she demonstrated the technique herself; she told a ridiculous anecdote about an impromptu visit from her son that involved a late dinner and an even later viewing of Green Lantern in 3-D from the 4th row; she is plugged into the cyber-world on her Blackberry and her MacBook, and she is tickled by Google’s interactive Doodles.

But Catherine is not the only teacher in the program.  She brings a wide variety of skilled teachers from different backgrounds, each with a passion for the work as great as her own.  Studying with these various teachers gives me multiple ways into the work, and my curiosity and interest in continuing my journey with Fitzmaurice Voicework is truly piqued.

The technique is about more than vocal cords or resonance or articulation.  It is a whole-body, whole-self approach to voice.  “Destructuring,” which I’ve been studying for the last two weeks, involves opening up the body, breath, and voice through a combination of methods, mainly “tremoring,” which is just what it sounds like.  Inspired by yoga, Catherine found a number of different body positions that could be used to induce “tremor,” a gentle or vigorous shaking in the body.  We actually tremor naturally – when we’re cold, afraid, anxious, or exhausted – it’s part of our body’s natural healing system.  When we induce tremor, we encourage the breath to open up in different ways, and we shake loose long-held tensions, which often releases emotions that we unknowingly hold with those tensions.  This is helpful for an actor because it helps to realize a wider range of expressivity, and it is helpful for the voice because it allows a wider, fuller, more resonant and open sound.  And, as an added bonus, I have found that it is helpful for me as a human being, not only because of the cathartic nature of the process of release, but because through this process I am discovering a depth and a strength within myself.

June 5, 2011: Impressions of New York

It’s Sunday night before I start Fitzmaurice Voice Teacher Certification classes for a month in New York.  I’ve been here since Wednesday, and I’m afraid there may be too many impressions rattling around in my head to flow cohesively into any sort of congruous story.

My room is in a 3-bedroom apartment in Astoria that I share with 4 roommates: 2 human and 2 feline.  The cats run the place.  They’re very friendly and very bold, and if they get into a bedroom they shed everywhere, destroy things, or crawl under the bed never to be retrieved.  So we all keep our doors shut all the time, and our schedules are so different that we rarely see each other.

Since I’ve been in town, I’ve reconnected with a friend from college, five friends from my Russia program, and two friends from South Florida.  I’ve been to the Metropolitan Art Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, Central Park, and I’ve seen a play called Cradle and All.  I’ve admired the Empire State Building, walked through Times Square, and used the bathroom in Trump Tower.  I’ve gotten the songs of various street names stuck in my head as I navigated between these places: “42^nd Street,” “Broadway,” “6^th Avenue Heartache.”  I’ve bought an “I <3 New York” T-shirt.  I’m living the romantic, adventurous city-girl life.

And yet, I don’t love New York.  Perhaps my brief stint living in L.A. soured me on all big cities forever, or maybe I’m just a suburban girl by blood.  I’m glad I’ve figured out that even though I’m an actor and most of us resolve to move to a big city at some point to make our breaks, the city just isn’t for me.  It’s fun to visit, but I don’t want to stay.

Homeless people abound here.  I suppose that’s true of any city.  But there seems to be something different about the homeless people here.  Last night as I got off the subway, there was a homeless man sitting by the subway exit who had fallen asleep in a half-eaten bowl of soup (at least, I think he was sleeping.  I didn’t check to see if he was alive.).  In the same spot tonight as I left the subway, two policemen were leading a very drunk homeless man down the stairs toward a waiting ambulance and more cops.  I saw a woman who looked comparatively clean and “normal” holding a sign saying she was recently widowed and had lost everything.  If she hadn’t been sitting on the street holding the sign, she would not have looked homeless at all.  But the girl who made the biggest impression on me could not have been older than 21 or 22 and like the widowed woman, looked comparatively clean.  She was sitting on some steps with a cup and a sign that said “scared, desperate, HUNGRY, please help,” and her deeply circled eyes had, not the expression of mental instability or vacancy common to the homeless, but such a deep sadness that I couldn’t help but think she had moved to New York to make her dreams come true and was mourning the inexplicable loss of those dreams.  A lady walking in front of me handed the girl a Ziploc sack of quarters, and this action startled the girl out of her depressed gaze.  She looked blankly at the change for a second, and then smiled at the lady with a combination of relief and awe that, although genuinely thankful, barely covered the sadness with which she was so clearly consumed.

New York can swallow a person.  The sheer number of people here is incomprehensible to me.  My apartment in Astoria is not in “the city,” but still out my window all I see are tall buildings – people on top of people on top of people.  They fill the sidewalks, the subways, the cafes and bookstores.  They move in throngs to the designated “park” areas, the only grass that exists anywhere.  Sucking the exhaust and wafting aromas of garbage, urine, and the sewer, they don headphones to drown out the noise of traffic and go jogging, darting between the dog-walkers and slow-moving tourists.  They chase The American Dream that everyone believes exists here, but I am hard-pressed to find it.  What I see is dirt, impatience, and the thick shell that necessarily develops on everyone who decides to put up with it all to live in a place where everything happens.  I suppose it’s laudable.  I couldn’t do it; I would crumble within a year.

Despite my cynical tone, I truly am enjoying myself here.  I am grateful to experience some of what New York has to offer without having to harden myself permanently against everything that bothers me about the city.  And I hope I haven’t offended anyone who loves New York.  I think my opinion of the city is a minority one:  18.9 million people choose to live here, and another 48.7 million (and rising) tourists visit yearly.  I’m just one Western girl with one opinion, looking forward to a month in The Big Apple, and to going home at the end of that month.