2010, I Don't Hate You Anymore [An Amendment]

How much can change in three months?

A lot.

I'm spending my day camped out at White Rock working on my last paper and Final of my junior year of college.  (And really, how crazy is that?)  If you've been following for more than a month, you know how obscenely trying this semester has been.  If you've been following for all four years of the blog, you know that 2010 was pretty much the worst year I've had.  Ever.  But, if you've been following for more than a month, you may have noticed that I've started to get my groove back.  I have never been as unhappy as I was December-mid March, but I'm finally really starting to heal.  I finally feel like myself again.

In fact, remember that time in February I wrote a blog post that was an open letter to the year 2010 and its suckage?  You can go to the right-side toolbar and click on February's posts, or you can just read it copied here:

Dear 2010,

Why do you loathe me?  I came to you with an open attitude and a really fantastic 2009.  2010 was supposed to be a magical year--it contains the second run of Sanders Family Christmas, great job offers, and my 21st birthday.  Why do you insist on hatin' on me and bringing me down?  You took away my favorite person who made everything better.  You dumped a colossal pile of grief on me and expected me to know how to deal with it.  I do not.  I cry at unexpected times, I don't know who to talk to, and I constantly feel physically exhuasted.  My best friends do not live in Dallas.  I'm spending large quantities of time on projects that are not helping me grow but I still have minimal faith in my talents.  I need things to change.  I have been patient and allowed you two months of absolute crap. That is one sixth of the time I have with you.  Man up, yo.  Improve.  Seriously, my sanity needs it.

Most sincerely,

Katharine

2010, we are not completely back on good terms, but boy you have certainly made a valiant effort to regain (or gain for the first time, I suppose) my hope and affection.  And thus, some amendments.  Or a new letter.


Dear 2010,
I appreciate your commendable effort to make up for your first quarter of supreme downright suckiness.  I still have not and will not forgive you for taking away my favorite person in the world (at a particularly inconvenient time) and for expecting me to know how to deal with it.  I don't think anyone can be "good" at dealing with grief, but if nothing else, that experience taught me how to deal with grief better.  I have matured, grown, and learned at a crazy-accelerated pace this year and that is not necessarily a bad thing.  It means I'm becoming an adult.  That seems to happen to people.  I still have best friends in New York, Memphis, and Philly, but I now also have the most beautiful, compassionate, and wonderful pool of best friends in Dallas.  I love them more than I can express and I am so lucky to have found them (and have them tolerate all of my passions and quirks!)  You have also recently given me a project that completely restores my faith in my career and even a bit in my abilities within said career.  My desire to learn and challenge myself and succeed is back.  Getting out of bed is no longer analogous to climbing Mount Everest.  I look forward to the next day and many things within it.  I love my family and I love my friends.  I miss Grandmama; that won't change.  But as I grow up and lose bits of my family, I am finding more and more of my chosen family that help heal the little punctures in my heart.  Thus, 2010, we might be okay.  Keep up the good work.


A bit more affectionately,
Katharine

For the Love of the Kalita

Those who know me understand that I am the biggest dork in a whole myriad of ways.  My love of old buildings, vacant buildings, and churches is borderline obsession.  I'm not sure why I have such a fascination with old buildings/buildings with history/buildings with character, but it's a very real thing.  When I went to Nice, France the summer after my senior year, my half-French best-friend and I were wandering around the old town square in our little sundresses, just enjoying gelato and the sun.  We stumbled upon this gorgeous vacant church in Vieux-Nice that had been built in the 1300s (I think...I'm certain it was centuries old/pre 1500) and I suddenly found myself crying.  I was so overwhelmed by thoughts of the people who had joined together there so long ago under the unity of a belief, by its age, and by the eerie sadness that came with the sense that the building was now forgotten.  With this realization came a greater understanding of just how new America was as a nation and how insignificant my tiny unimportant life is in the grand scheme of things.  I have the most insane fantasy that when I am old, rich, and famous (which has been a subconscious desire since childhood...as I think it is for just about everyone) I will take a crazy-beautiful vacant church (preferably cathedral style) and turn it into an arts complex.  I want art galleries, a coffee shop, a black box, and a big performance space.  If you've ever been in Marty Van Kleeck/Ronnie Claire's homes, they pretty much reside in my ideal.  A Catholic school/church built around 1900 on Swiss Avenue that they turned into their respective homes.  They are gorgeous.

I really believe there is something as spiritual and holy in a theater as there is in a church.  I don't mean this in a sacrilegious way--simply that singing or playing music, reveling in the human connections found in theater, and dancing are the most spiritual and supernatural experiences I've had.  There's an Agnes DeMille quote that I've always been a bit in love with:

“When you perform you are out of yourself- larger and more potent, more beautiful. You are for minutes heroic. This is power. This is glory on earth. And it is yours nightly."

I fully believe this to be true.  When I think about all of the magic (because, really, what else could it be?) that has occurred in a theater--the heroism--I fall utterly in love with my craft and its venues all over again.

The history of theater buildings particularly fascinates me; this includes personal history--not just history in a larger context.  Carpenter Hall is the most glorious space in the world.  It's new, it's enormous, and it is beautiful.  And while I love the insane rush of performing there, there is something so warm and comfortable about the nostalgia of the Granville Arts Center in Garland.  I had my first dance recital there when I was three years old.  I did my first musical outside of school there.  There, I had my first audience.  There, my entire family occupied an entire row for every performance over the last 17 years.  For some mind-bogglingly beautiful reason, I have the opportunity to perform in both of these spaces this summer.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been performing in the Kalita Humphreys Theater.  I think it is perhaps my favorite space I've had the opportunity to perform in  I love the crazy-weird Frank Lloyd Wright architecture (despite it being responsible for the tumbles and subsequent bruises from bizarre winding staircases backstage), its location in Turtle Creek, but mostly the old-school prestige and history it has in the world of theater.

Frank Lloyd Wright designed everything in the theater on a 30/60 degree angle as it was in nature.  The only 90 degree angles in the space are the walls meeting the ceiling and floor.  The theater was built over 50 years ago in 1959--and is one of 3 spaces designed by FLW.  Upon researching the theater, I found that the basement is supposedly sometimes used as a blackbox.  (And thanks to this research, I'm now determined to make a performance happen down there. Any takers?)  At any rate, the theater was the home to the Dallas Theater Center from 1959-2009.  Since the DTC officially moved to the Wyly in the Arts District, Uptown Players (where I'm performing Dirty Rotten Scoundrels now) is using the space for their shows.  In the curtain announcement right before the show, the recorded message says "We're pleased to announce the rest of the 2010 Uptown Season will be taking place at the Kalita Humphreys Theater."  I don't know exactly why, but I get chills every single time I hear this.  It is so incredible that I get to walk through the stage door at the theater, initial on the sign in sheet, and walk upstairs to a glorious dressing room.  I can't believe I'm here.  I can't believe I'm lucky enough to perform in this space.  I can't believe I get to dance on a stage that has had hundreds of brilliant performers on it.  I really just can't believe I'm lucky enough to do this as (for now) a part time job.  I'm still just fourth chorus girl from the left, but the fact that I'm in this space is a mental catalyst that propels my theater fetish from hobby to career opportunity, and that makes me giddier than I can adequately express.  Bobby gets tickled watching me talk about theater/doing a show here.  I literally start squealing and smiling and giggling giddily just thinking about it.  Thank goodness he can tolerate my abounding silliness over it because I don't know who else could!

Besides the fact that this show represents so much for me, I've just never been able to just feel so much history in a space before.  At the risk of sounding like a very grateful broken record, I just can't believe I'm here after "trying out this theater thing" a year and a half ago.  I must be the luckiest person alive.

Well, it's just about noon on a Sunday.  Time to go soak up the haunting and glorious air in the Kalita, the genius of Bob Hess and company in the show, and make Mama Cheryl proud at the matinée.  I'm not normally much of a matinee person, but if I haven't made my association between theater and church already (as in theater is my church), what better way to get my Sunday going than to do a show?

Scoundrels: if you're reading this, I am so grateful to be sharing this with you.  Thank you all so much.  It really has been magical.