If I wanted to, I could stand and breathe in the sunny air, letting it fill my lungs with the cool ripple of the sheer water's surface. I could open my body to the space and sing so loud it would fill the whole bay with notes and words and soul so it would fill the whole bay all the way to the mountains in the distance and reverberate to the heavens. But for now I'm a tiny voice sitting on the rocks, waiting for an opportunity.
Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to a character I created when I was in Lyric's Hairspray this past fall. Her name is Mama Shirley. She is the sassy mama of the nicest kid Tammy, and she is very proud of her baby. This just goes to show that I'm willing to do anything for theatre. Anything.
So without further or do, some exclusive backstage footage from Hairspray:
I was in a flash mob this weekend to promote Lyric Theatre's Hairspray which opens next weekend on November 10th. I am in the show, and the cast and crew is super talented. This is going to be an awesome production especially since we've been rehearsing since August.
Here's a promotional video done by local Vermont newspaper Seven Days:
The forest smelt of spice and moisture settled on fallen leaves. The air filled with the murky dusk which settled like an ominous force upon the earth. All around were the noises of nature created a perfect harmony with the song which drifted on the evening wind. Drop, drop...a gentle rain cried upon the layer of mud and leaves, and over in the tallest tree sat a lone mourning dove whose throat gurgled in sadness. The birch trees showed their thick, white skins, radiating the reflected light from the cloudy atmosphere. In an act of surrender, the trees reached their branches to the sky. Along their bases drifted the misty lights of several fireflies in a vain attempt to illuminate the dusk.
From the darkness, the witches emerged to play. Their tiny feet pranced and trampled atop the matted forest floor, dancing between and around the trees, smacking the trunks with their calloused and withered hands. The slaps extended in the cold air to reverberate above the dark arms of the sky. It was a gathering, a nightly meeting consisting of numerous witches whose cries of joy and celebration filled the air. Their skin was several shades of green and brown, and they were covered in warts. Their grey hair flew up in fading locks around the brims of their pointed, crumpled black hats.
All at once, their singing grew into a chorus which shrieked over all the trees and the hillocks and the noises of the forest. Each yellowed smile of the witches joined into the jubilee, making the ruckus into a party. They danced closer to a dilapidated cabin which was overgrown in underbrush and forestation. It was very small, maybe no bigger than a closet or a doghouse, but it had a tiny window and a shingled roof which made it almost homey. The witches moved closer, sniffing the air and embracing the dusk. Each holding the hands of her nearest sister, the witches formed a circle around the cabin.
One of the hags stepped forward and grasped into the inner blackness of the cabin. With a grunt and wrench of her poor old arms, the witch pulled an enormous black cauldron from the depths of the cabin. Together, the witches brought the cauldron into a nearby clearing as the sky grew darker. One of the sisters bent down beneath the cauldron and exhaled upon the molding leaves upon the ground. Slowly the leaves dried and sparked so that the fire burned heavily to heat the cauldron.
As the firestarter stepped back in to the circle, another came forward placed her hands above the cauldron. A pool of green liquid began to form at the base of the cauldron, bubbling and boiling upwards until in was level with the brim. The witches cheered as the fireflies circled overhead, dancing and mingling the sparks from the fire so that they seemed one and the same. Bluish-green smoke rose of the hot liquid and curled to meet the tree branches. The witches were pleased with their work, and raised their arms in appreciation of the night, of life, and of creation. With a sweep of their arms, all of it disappeared. They vanished, and all that was left were the trees and the noises of the night.
"Out There" from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Alan Menken
A freewrite I wrote yesterday for my Creative Writing class:
The concept of “art” means something different to everyone. It’s the emotion of something that brings art to life. When you create something that has an emotional impact on somebody or something, that’s art. It can be anything: dance, music, theatre, painting, sculpting, it could even be something as simple as a good dinner. Or for some art can be a sports game or a nice day. It is a moment, a simple, clear, and beautiful moment that sparks a heavy emotion. To me, life itself can be a high form of art. It’s God’s art in a way, because it (of course) sparks heavy emotion in all of us. But then again, what if art didn’t mean that to someone else? would that change the very concept and illusion of what art was. What if that painting wasn’t art? What if that chicken dish isn’t as beautiful as a Rembrandt or as thrilling as a hockey game? Then that would make art perceptive. Art would have to based on the individual’s perception on the world. That concept in itself is a thing of beauty, and therefore art. Here we find a cycle, just as precise and complex as the water cycle, but entirely based on the spectrum of human emotion and spirit. Yes, I mentioned spirit. For where does art exist if not the very soul of human beings? Where can art come from? Sure, there has to be some sort of logical, scientific explanation for where art comes from, some random synapse in the brain that triggers an emotional impact or the urge to create, to make, to do, to perform, to sing, to dance, etc. But what if…what if we just took a moment to ponder the wonderfully amazing idea that art can exist elsewhere. It can reside in a glorious tomb, womb, some word of like that…of the soul. Inside of the individual, there is a well of emotion that comes pouring forth from us, and that is where art takes hold. That is where art can capture the imagination. We see it in small children…how their imaginations can create friends and whole worlds. I remember as I child I could imagine that my whole backyard was an enchanted forest, and here I was an explorer of that forest, transcending the mundane of reality and delving into the fantastical. What is wrong with that? why can’t art explore itself in the reaches of humanity that scientists fear to tread? That is how art becomes us. It is the very meat of humanity. It is the very breath of humanity. One of my favorite theatre troupes is the Bread and Puppet theatre residing in Glover, Vermont. Their motto is “Art is Cheap” and that it is the very food for the soul. And why not? If it is made from the soul and produced in the very orifices of the human race, then why should we not take as much in as we can, like food to a starving homeless person. It is vital. It is life force. It is beautiful, wonderful energy. That feeling you get when you hear an amazing soprano belt the high note, when you stare at a painting and see the vibrant and ever so slight brush strokes, when you taste a delectable meal and sigh with contentment.
Hey ya'll! I'm starting a new series called Ryan Performs in Places. I'm basically going to go to places and perform. It could be singing, or dancing, or acting, or whatever I feel like and it could be anywhere...I'm like that kid who dances in Apple stores except not really. I will post my favorites on Youtube. Anyway, for my first performance, I sang The Beatles' "Blackbird" under the tree outside University Heights. Give me a little bit of credit, okay this is my first time posting a video like this. I was a tid bit nervous...Enjoy!
