Hell to the No - Fighting for the Arts Scene

This is an essay I recently wrote for my Expository Writing class. Hope you enjoy and I hope it calls you to action in some capacity whether it's activism, drawing a picture, singing a song, dancing a sparkly dance, writing a play, or performing on the street.

Hell to the No - Fighting for the Art Scene

            The Laramie Project is a play based on a compilation of interviews performed by playwright Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theatre Project. It centers around the city of Laramie, Wyoming and the vicious murder of the openly gay, local college student Matthew Shepard. The play was groundbreaking when it premiered in the early 2000s, is a major part of the American dramatic lexicon, and in the Spring of my senior year of high school would be coming to our humble theatre department.

            Needless to say, I was excited. To my blissfully youthful, theatrically growing mind, performing in The Laramie Project was like winning the Tony for Best Actor. I poured over the entire script, devouring it like it was fresh meat, like it would go bad if I didn't absorb it all in that instant. Once we finally received approval from the administration, a feat all in its own, we set to work adapting the script to fit into one act so we could take it to the Vermont state drama festival.

            After three months of rehearsal, and a sweeping win at the festival, we were ready to perform our creation to our own community, and it became my belief that EVERYONE needed to see this play. It was a necessity. To achieve my lofty goal, I came up with a brilliant plan to bring a camcorder into our final brush-up rehearsals, film segments of the play, and edit them into a kick-ass advertisement I would then play on a loop on this gigantic big-screen T.V. in the cafeteria during lunch.

            The first day of Plan Kick-Ass T.V. Advertisement was fairly smooth right up until the very end. From the designated "theatre kids" table which also included a few "band kids" we could spy a table full of testosterone-filled, redneck, back-of-the-woods, jockstrap-smelling football guys sitting right next to the T.V. Up until that moment, everything had been okay, but right at the end of the period the comments started flying.

            "What the fuck is this?"

            "Why do we have to watch this crap?"

            "Is this about some kind of fag?"

            And it all would have been okay, we would have been completely cool about the whole matter if they hadn't decided to get up and turn the T.V. off.

            Oh hell to the no.

            As I surveyed the cafeteria I noticed just how many members of the school administration and faculty were wandering around: quite a lot. And none of them; absolutely none of them were doing anything to stop the crude and vicious comments flying from the rednecks' food-filled mouths, or preventing them from physically silencing us.

            Right then, one of my best friends, and one of the lead women in our department, stood up. She stands about four foot, ten inches and has the voice of a cartoon Disney princess on helium, but she is scrappy and she was pissed. She marched past the beefy guys and flipped the T.V. back on, turning around to face the entire football team with an index finger pointed right at their noses.

            "Don't you DARE turn that T.V. off again!" she commanded. "I know all your moms, and I am NOT afraid to call them. You know, you could learn a lot from The Laramie Project."

            This confrontation is only one example of how my old high school executed several injustices against our arts programs. In my three years as a member of the prestigious Select Choral Ensemble group headed by our brilliantly talented and caring director, I witnessed several instances where the administration limited our budget so we couldn't purchase sheet music, professional outfits, or publicity for our concerts. They were completely unsupportive when we traveled to compete in various singing contests, and refused to announce our spectacular victories when the sports teams received top billing in assemblies. In some moments it felt like they weren't even treating our director like she was a real teacher. At the end of my senior year, the administration had pressured our director so hard and squeezed her and our Ensemble out so much that she finally gave up and quit. It's prejudice like that that makes me see how underappreciated and unsupported the arts are in our society, and that attitude starts in school.

            In the same year we performed The Laramie Project, a little show called Glee came into my life. Created by Ryan Murphy, Glee tells the story of a small-town high school glee club that perseveres despite the lack of support from the school system and their own personal struggles. Glee is basically a complete representation of my high school and every other establishment that puts the arts down. Every stereotype is depicted: the principal who doesn't want to fork anymore money over to the arts groups because it will detract from the sports programs slightly, the ultra-conservative teachers who refuse to see the benefits of the arts in people's lives and in our culture as a society, the peers who have adopted this negative view of the arts and artists themselves; automatically labeling them as "losers," and the little arts program run by a devoted teacher who persists in spite of everything.

            In an episode from season one, guest star Neil Patrick Harris plays a member of the school district looking to cut arts programs until he finds statistics which show the benefits of an artistic education and how the arts improve the lives and even the learning abilities of students. But it's not just Hollywood that's preaching the values of an artistic education. In an article from the December 1991 issue of Dramatics magazine, theatre professor, director, and author Louis Catron talks about how CEOs are attracted to theatre majors in their hiring process because they possess incredibly desirable qualities that trump even more qualified applicants. Some of these include communication skills, time-management and punctuality, confidence, independence, ability to work collaboratively, adaptability, and overall motivation. And yet it would seem these benefits aren't highly valued in our society despite the rigorous work and discipline that goes into an artistic education.

            At the University of Vermont I have to put in a total of 48 credit hours just for my theatre major. That's more hours than a pre-med student puts in at the undergrad level, and my classes are the furthest thing from easy. Along with my acting classes which are full of performances and serious training, I also have had to take several technical classes which have taught me how to use tools for construction, how present my work professionally, and how to operate complicated computer technology. I have also taken classes in dramatic analysis and theatre history which have taught me literature critique, how to do in-depth research, and more useful history than I'd ever learned in previous history classes. Last year I had to do a twenty page research paper on Spanish Renaissance playwright Lope de Vega along with theatrical conventions of the Spanish Renaissance. I became so interested and involved in that topic that I did the best research and wrote the best paper I think I'd ever turned out in my life.

            Despite all the proven benefits, testimonials, and shocking statistics, there is still so much discouragement in this country regarding the arts, especially the performing arts, from the harsh hierarchies in the halls of high school to the upper reaches of government. This is the government that established the National Endowment for the Arts but then in the early nineties denied funding to many influential and ground-breaking performances artists such as Karen Finley. Her shows brought about social consciousness of gender inequality and rape culture in the performance art atmosphere of the nineties. The Laramie Project shows audiences that problems such as discrimination, hate, and ignorance are issues that are still embedded in our society as our fantastic football friends showed us. Without artists such as Karen Finley and the Tectonic Theatre Project we would lose invaluable social tools that inspire thought and change for good, and we would lose our ability to point these issues out to audiences.

            We hear it all: we'll never get a real job, our lives are always going to be difficult, we'll be waiting tables for the rest of our lives, and so on and so on. The arts are completely undervalued because we are taught that they don't matter. Arts classes are "extra" and generally a waste of time, and anyone who enjoys and appreciates the performing arts are considered stuffy or "gay," and that's usually meant in the most derogatory way as possible. This is the time to stand up just like my friend did in the cafeteria, like the Glee kids do when they support each other in times of crisis, and like I do whenever I step out onto that stage and perform. We need to pat our weaves, take our earrings out, and pull our tap shoes off so we're ready to fight. Theatre kids are incredibly resilient even in the face of all the crap we have to hear about how pointless our dreams are because we know we're not going anywhere. There is this amazing drive artists have towards their work, a passion that thrives deep under our skin, and most of the time that art is the food that keeps us alive. As a basic survival instinct we have a fiery need to fight for our art.

            More than that, though, the arts make our lives better. They enrich our culture, entertain us, make us think, and stir up issues in society to create social change such as The Laramie Project which is so controversial it has sparked protests and rallies. If we don't fight for the arts, we would have no culture, and we would have no vehicle to continue the progress of humanity. Plus, theatre's what I love. It's what I'm good at. It's what makes me feel special, and I would be so sad without my showtunes to put me to bed at night.

Peace out!

WORKS CITED

The Laramie Project. By Moises Kaufman and The Tectonic Theatre Project. Perf. Denver Center Theatre    Company. The Ricketson Theatre, Denver. Feb. 2000.

"Dream On." Written by Brad Falchuk. Directed by Joss Whedon. Glee. Fox Broadcasting           Company. 18 May 2010.

What Theatre Majors Learn. 10 Oct. 2011. Milkin Quarterly: Milkin University. 22 Feb. 2012            

Ryan Performs in Places: Witches and Leaves

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.

Peace out!

Rain

The sidewalk glistens in a malaise of oil and rainwater,
But at this point it doesn't matter.
The beat of the music in my head crawls to my shoes which skip through the puddles, scraping water from the
Ground while I swing the umbrella from side to side.
The heavenly ointment unleashes in torrents from the clouds,
Baptizing me in absolute happiness.
Each droplet on my face is a splash of joy.
Each step I take is a thought of you.
As the rain embraces me, I smile a curious and wide grin,
And drink up the tears of the sky.

Sense Memory

I love, love, LOVE the fall weather hitting Vermont right now. It's like a cold and clear breath of life that takes your heart in its grip and transports you to worlds of memories long forgotten yet still reminisced about. Upon each stinging breeze rides an image of crinkling leaves, the smell of apple cores and pumpkin spice, or the scratchy feel of a wool scarf on the skin. The chill which takes root in the feet and travels up each individual vertebrae to each follicle of hair holds a physical bond to day trips through an enchanted forest and afternoons spent on train tracks. The taste of dust and the feel of grit between teeth is a flash back to dirt roads and the hidden groves to which they lead.

Each memory dances with the senses in a waltz that began at birth. Each physical presence individually linked to an emotion draws me back yet pulls me forward at the same time. While I muse over the events and the feelings of the past, I am still pushed forward by a thirst for more. I long for more emotion, more feeling, more of the "breath life," for the essence that makes me utterly human. We long for the memories in life because that is what draws us forward, the longing and desire for future memories. We beg for new smells, feelings, and images that will give us retrospect to the events of our past and bring our lives in a circle.

Stepping from the front door, the fall's evening zephyr energizes my lungs and my body, propelling me forward into the sunset's lighted shadow. The leaves hanging stiffly from the trees' branches sway and crumple as they draw near to each other in anticipation of what is to come. Drawing my scarf closer to my throat, I walk along the broad sidewalk with heavy footfalls. The clouds above seem to sway lightly, taking in the moment below. I clutch my books to my chest and keep walking, observed and observing...

Just A Couple of Poems

I wrote these for my Creative Writing class. I think I'm going to start writing more because these were a lot of fun as was this class. Enjoy!

They told me she was gone.

They told me you were gone,

But I didn’t believe them.

I knew that tomorrow I had to wake up next to you.

They showed me your coffin,

Asked me to say something in your honor,

But I couldn’t do it, not for them.

I tried to remember why they were burying an empty coffin,

And I looked for you, honestly I did.

They told me you were gone.

I told them they were lying.

We would meet for dinner that night

At your favorite restaurant.

I would walk you through the park,

And the streetlights would illuminate the trees

So that they seemed to embrace us

Just as I stopped to caress your cheek.

I knew I would have to lean in close

And you would breathe softly

While your heart picked up speed.

Our lips had to touch,

And I had to hang onto you

Because I knew that I could never lose you.

They stand like mountainous pillars rising into the sky,

Taller than anything I’ve seen before.

My mind wanders along their sides,

Mixing with the smog and clouds above.

The lights are mesmerizing,

Illuminating the night as though the Sun’s light had been born on Earth.

Here I find no need to be scared,

Here I feel the pull of home.

Strolling the streets is like taking a tour of the world.

Different people of all different lives share this air, and share this city.

Everything is available, every culture represented, everyone has a place,

And every dream is achievable.

My dreams are born here,

In the whiskey-scented nightclubs and the haze filled dance floors,

From the wombs of Sondheim’s characters and the heart of Hammerstein’s music.

My soul was manifested from the backdoor alleyways and the rooftops at night,

My heart forged on the stage floor and exiting out the backstage door.

Peace out!

Ryan Performs in Places: Music Hall

"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.

Peace out!