I know it's been forever. I am sorry! Life has been insanely busy. But very, very good.
I'm totally going to write a real post (and soon)...probably about dream roles and silly business like that...because it has been on the mind as of late..but for now, let me say:
1. I am playing Anytime Annie in Garland Summer Musicals' 42nd Street. Lots of tapping. Lots of fun. Excited.
2. I might be going to Peru for a week in May if I can scrounge up the funds. I have a way to get there for $276, so I just need to find a way to have money once I'm there. Really cool opportunity.
3. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels has been amazing. I am smitten in love with the history of the Kalita Humphreys, th stage, even the scary revolve, the beautiful and insanely talented cast, the dancing, the costumes, the wigs, the production team...etc, etc. I am having a WONDERFUL time and I seriously don't want it to end. (But when it does, I'll be three weeks out from performing in Carpenter Hall again so I seriously have no room to complain.)
4. On that note, I am so, so in love with my job. More than ever. I cannot express the joy performing/theatre/music/dancing bring me. It is just ethereal.
5. I have the most beautiful and wonderful friends in the world. I love them. Life is really good, and I feel like myself again. Mostly.
That is all.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Greedy Love Post
Just checking in with anyone who reads this thing...I've been getting some emails/texts this week from people I had NO idea read this today. Want to post a comment just to say hi or tell me if I am utterly boring you or if the blog is worthwhile? I will super-heart you forever!
Thanks pals.
Thanks pals.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Tiny Ways You Love Someone: Or Soft Feet
The finest inheritance you can give to a child is to allow it to make its own way, completely on its own feet. -Isadora Duncan
After two days of self deprecation, frustration, and general blue-ness, I have successfully de-funked.
I'm getting good at this.
This is a whole discussion that I could expound upon later, but when I sink into these boughts of mini-depression or sadness, I naturally become more introverted. (This obviously isn't singular to me.) I become more pensive and subsequently more artistically minded (generally speaking.) Daily life merits innermonologues and constant semi-poetic narration (or at least I glorify it to be so) and every event qualifies as a subplot in an indie film. I'm much more productive in a creative manner when I'm sad or alone--which helps elucidate why most artists/musicians constantly battled depression--that and the fact that they became dissatisfied with the mundanity of daily life; I digress. Regardless, I've noticed a recurring motif (is that redundant?) in my life the past couple of days--water, cleansing, and catharsis. (Said observation would not have occurred had I been the happy version of Katharine. I would have been too busy being happy.)
This afternoon, I watched one of my favorite films: Big Fish. It wasn't as grand or glorious as I recall it being when I was 14 (13?) but it was still thoroughly enjoyable. I love Elfman's score, the whimsical nature of the cinematography, the vivid colors, the costumes, the slightly over-the-top nature of it all. An overromanticized version of an extraordinary biography. Anyway, for those who don't know the film, Albert Finney plays Edward Bloom--a man who is larger than life, a storyteller by nature--to the point where it's indiscernable what is fact and what is fiction. The whole point, ultimately, is that it doesn't matter. Fact or fiction, his stories are what characterize him.
Transition to my life. Rehearsals continue to be fantastic. However, all this delicious dancing has marked a triumphant return of what I call "dancer feet." (This is not a pretty thing.) This entails blisters, bruises, and callouses. (Callouses are your friend. For realz.) At any rate, they are no longer lovely buffed and pedicured; they are janky and unattractive.
(I promise this will all tie in together eventually...hopefully.)
Perhaps influenced by the water/catharsis/cleansing motif in Big Fish, I felt compelled to just soak my calloused, blistered dancer feet in the bathtub. So I did. And as I washed my feet, poured lotion on them, lathered them, and rinsed them (minding my lovely new decorative additions) I had the strangest memory arise--my grandmama washing my feet, tickling them, and telling me how soft they were as a child. I remember thinking back then that I wanted them to be well-worn--that I didn't really like the softness. I always had a problem with being "young" (which is something I'll undoubtedly regret in a few years.) This doesn't mean that I don't ever act my age or have oodles of immature moments and bad choices; I do. But I always wanted to be a step ahead--be the mature one. I was the kid you resented who immediately befriended teachers and your parents. I hung out in the teachers lounge in kindergarten. I'd rather sit at the "adult table" than with the kids. Fortunately and unfortunately, life granted me my wish; I had to grow up relatively quickly. And bizarrely, I somehow feel as though my feet are indicative of that. You can tone and lotion your legs till kingdom come, but your feet are a bit more honest--they're bound to give you away. I don't know that having "lived-in" feet is quite as romantic as I'd envisioned it when Grandmama played with my little soft five-year-old toes or not, but it definitely marks a change of sorts--and clearly represents an interesting bit of nostalgia.
I guess this is sort of a mini-20-something version of Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck" manifesto. You can fix anything (surgery or not) to defy your age, but your neck is something you can do nothing about. I suppose feet are the same way. Alas, I suppose there's not much that I can do about it. Besides write unnecessary blogs about them, and keep walking.
After two days of self deprecation, frustration, and general blue-ness, I have successfully de-funked.
I'm getting good at this.
This is a whole discussion that I could expound upon later, but when I sink into these boughts of mini-depression or sadness, I naturally become more introverted. (This obviously isn't singular to me.) I become more pensive and subsequently more artistically minded (generally speaking.) Daily life merits innermonologues and constant semi-poetic narration (or at least I glorify it to be so) and every event qualifies as a subplot in an indie film. I'm much more productive in a creative manner when I'm sad or alone--which helps elucidate why most artists/musicians constantly battled depression--that and the fact that they became dissatisfied with the mundanity of daily life; I digress. Regardless, I've noticed a recurring motif (is that redundant?) in my life the past couple of days--water, cleansing, and catharsis. (Said observation would not have occurred had I been the happy version of Katharine. I would have been too busy being happy.)
This afternoon, I watched one of my favorite films: Big Fish. It wasn't as grand or glorious as I recall it being when I was 14 (13?) but it was still thoroughly enjoyable. I love Elfman's score, the whimsical nature of the cinematography, the vivid colors, the costumes, the slightly over-the-top nature of it all. An overromanticized version of an extraordinary biography. Anyway, for those who don't know the film, Albert Finney plays Edward Bloom--a man who is larger than life, a storyteller by nature--to the point where it's indiscernable what is fact and what is fiction. The whole point, ultimately, is that it doesn't matter. Fact or fiction, his stories are what characterize him.
Transition to my life. Rehearsals continue to be fantastic. However, all this delicious dancing has marked a triumphant return of what I call "dancer feet." (This is not a pretty thing.) This entails blisters, bruises, and callouses. (Callouses are your friend. For realz.) At any rate, they are no longer lovely buffed and pedicured; they are janky and unattractive.
(I promise this will all tie in together eventually...hopefully.)
Perhaps influenced by the water/catharsis/cleansing motif in Big Fish, I felt compelled to just soak my calloused, blistered dancer feet in the bathtub. So I did. And as I washed my feet, poured lotion on them, lathered them, and rinsed them (minding my lovely new decorative additions) I had the strangest memory arise--my grandmama washing my feet, tickling them, and telling me how soft they were as a child. I remember thinking back then that I wanted them to be well-worn--that I didn't really like the softness. I always had a problem with being "young" (which is something I'll undoubtedly regret in a few years.) This doesn't mean that I don't ever act my age or have oodles of immature moments and bad choices; I do. But I always wanted to be a step ahead--be the mature one. I was the kid you resented who immediately befriended teachers and your parents. I hung out in the teachers lounge in kindergarten. I'd rather sit at the "adult table" than with the kids. Fortunately and unfortunately, life granted me my wish; I had to grow up relatively quickly. And bizarrely, I somehow feel as though my feet are indicative of that. You can tone and lotion your legs till kingdom come, but your feet are a bit more honest--they're bound to give you away. I don't know that having "lived-in" feet is quite as romantic as I'd envisioned it when Grandmama played with my little soft five-year-old toes or not, but it definitely marks a change of sorts--and clearly represents an interesting bit of nostalgia.
I guess this is sort of a mini-20-something version of Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck" manifesto. You can fix anything (surgery or not) to defy your age, but your neck is something you can do nothing about. I suppose feet are the same way. Alas, I suppose there's not much that I can do about it. Besides write unnecessary blogs about them, and keep walking.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Heartbroken (Stupid, I Know)
For those following my vaguebooking (vague facebooking), here's what's been happening.
The theatre I've performed most in beginning at age 3 when I had my first dance recital is doing my favorite show with my number 1 ultimate dream role in it. This is the theatre grandmama and pop took me to every year growing up. This is the theatre I did my first show in outside of high school. I found out they were doing dream show about eight months ago. Since then, I've been doing my very best not to think about it or psych myself out. Said theatre has a tendency to do the same shows the same way with the same cast over...and over...and over again. Figured it was all precast with people 10 years too old (at least) for their roles. Slowly, over the last couple of months, I've been hearing rumors that this isn't the case. The three roles that I figured would be reprised by the actors/actresses who were too old to play them seven years ago (the last time the show was done) were all supposedly open. Cue beginning of Katharine freak out. I wanted it so badly. Didn't think the odds of it happening were particularly great. But a lot has changed in the last year. I've worked in a number of professional theatres in Dallas, I've learned a ton, and gained some confidence. This is a role I know I could do--well. I could surprise people. I could challenge myself.
So I went to the dance call. It was very reassuring. I was feeling pretty good. Prepared for audition/callback. Got called back for dream role. Belted for dream role. Danced for dream role. Read for dream role--well. Very well. No one else read for dream role all evening.
I get to rehearsal last night, and a girl who auditioned for the season mentions how another actress is indeed precast.
It is silly, I know, but I am absolutely heartbroken. Crushed, really. I actually had a shot. I could've done this show. I could have done this role. And not only did I know that, but the director/producer/choreographer/music director knew that too.
I feel totally and utterly defeated.
And the thing is it's bigger than just this role. It's the comfort of the theater, the fact that I could've stepped out of the chorus for once and shown people what I can really do, and the fact that I can't imagine me doing anything that would have made my grandmother prouder. It makes my heart ache thinking about it and all of the attachments I had to this possibility. And the fact that I had it for a little while but I don't anymore.
I'm supposed to go to a couple of auditions this weekend. This experience has rocked the boat a bit too far, and I have no desire whatsoever to go to these other auditions--at better theatres, mind you. But it's just not the same. If cast, I'll be fifth girl from the left (and I know I'm always waxing eloquent about my love for the chorus in a good show and it's true--I really do love it) but we're talking The Full Monty and Joseph and the Amazing Technical Dreamcoat. This is not Rodgers and Hammerstein or Sondheim. So we'll see if they happen.
In the meantime, I'm trying to get back the mojo I had going for the last few weeks. They've been really good weeks, y'all. Much better than I've had in a while. I love my friends and I love my job. SMU hasn't been as much of a beating lately (except for theatre history class today in which I was told "the fact that you love musical theatre is your least endearing quality" but more on that later)...but I've been happy.
I have since deeply delved back into the funk and am trying to put the pieces back together to climb out once again. This will be a doozy: wish me luck.
The theatre I've performed most in beginning at age 3 when I had my first dance recital is doing my favorite show with my number 1 ultimate dream role in it. This is the theatre grandmama and pop took me to every year growing up. This is the theatre I did my first show in outside of high school. I found out they were doing dream show about eight months ago. Since then, I've been doing my very best not to think about it or psych myself out. Said theatre has a tendency to do the same shows the same way with the same cast over...and over...and over again. Figured it was all precast with people 10 years too old (at least) for their roles. Slowly, over the last couple of months, I've been hearing rumors that this isn't the case. The three roles that I figured would be reprised by the actors/actresses who were too old to play them seven years ago (the last time the show was done) were all supposedly open. Cue beginning of Katharine freak out. I wanted it so badly. Didn't think the odds of it happening were particularly great. But a lot has changed in the last year. I've worked in a number of professional theatres in Dallas, I've learned a ton, and gained some confidence. This is a role I know I could do--well. I could surprise people. I could challenge myself.
So I went to the dance call. It was very reassuring. I was feeling pretty good. Prepared for audition/callback. Got called back for dream role. Belted for dream role. Danced for dream role. Read for dream role--well. Very well. No one else read for dream role all evening.
I get to rehearsal last night, and a girl who auditioned for the season mentions how another actress is indeed precast.
It is silly, I know, but I am absolutely heartbroken. Crushed, really. I actually had a shot. I could've done this show. I could have done this role. And not only did I know that, but the director/producer/choreographer/music director knew that too.
I feel totally and utterly defeated.
And the thing is it's bigger than just this role. It's the comfort of the theater, the fact that I could've stepped out of the chorus for once and shown people what I can really do, and the fact that I can't imagine me doing anything that would have made my grandmother prouder. It makes my heart ache thinking about it and all of the attachments I had to this possibility. And the fact that I had it for a little while but I don't anymore.
I'm supposed to go to a couple of auditions this weekend. This experience has rocked the boat a bit too far, and I have no desire whatsoever to go to these other auditions--at better theatres, mind you. But it's just not the same. If cast, I'll be fifth girl from the left (and I know I'm always waxing eloquent about my love for the chorus in a good show and it's true--I really do love it) but we're talking The Full Monty and Joseph and the Amazing Technical Dreamcoat. This is not Rodgers and Hammerstein or Sondheim. So we'll see if they happen.
In the meantime, I'm trying to get back the mojo I had going for the last few weeks. They've been really good weeks, y'all. Much better than I've had in a while. I love my friends and I love my job. SMU hasn't been as much of a beating lately (except for theatre history class today in which I was told "the fact that you love musical theatre is your least endearing quality" but more on that later)...but I've been happy.
I have since deeply delved back into the funk and am trying to put the pieces back together to climb out once again. This will be a doozy: wish me luck.
The *Perfect* Quote of My Day
There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life. - Alexandre Dumas
Monday, April 5, 2010
George Bailey
Now, you listen to me! I don't want any plastics, and I don't want any ground floors, and I don't want to get married - ever - to anyone! You understand that? I want to do what I want to do. And Mary, you're....you're...
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