Seeing Colors at 1:00 AM
Let me take you back in time to the mid 1990s, when I was running a summer stock theatre in Jackson Hole. During the off-season, we donated the space to a local production company that had free reign of the place for next to nothing. They generally abused the privilege, damaged our equipment, and made life miserable on just about every front.
We were struggling financially, so we eventually acquired projection equipment to allow movie screenings in the theatre, and we started showing midnight movies during the summer and throughout the year. That meant that this theatre group was going to be somewhat inconvenienced – they’d have to end rehearsal earlier than they were used to, and there were new limitations on the timing of when they performed.
So how do you think they responded?
Remember, folks, these were artists. Or at least, they thought they were artists. What they lacked in talent they made up for in ego. And despite the fact that the space was still being given to them for free, they were absolutely up in arms. They called me into a meeting where they excoriated me for “betraying” them and for being a soulless, corporate raider with no appreciation for the delicate genius that was necessary to produce a community production of Annie or The Wizard of Oz.
I tried to patiently explain that we were still giving the space to them and we were doing so at a financial loss, and all this meant was that rehearsal would have to end by 9:00 PM, and their performances would have to be scheduled further in advance. We would like to have just kicked them out entirely, but I wasn’t willing to go that far if they were willing to be reasonable.
“How can we end a rehearsal at 9:00 PM?” one of the Granola People asked. “Sometimes it’s 1:00 in the morning before I can see the colors the director sees and can bring them to life.”
Swell.
She and her colors were booted out entirely about a week later, along with the rest of the group.
Folks, I don’t know what it is about artists that makes them think they’re somehow immune from the practical responsibilities that bedevil the rest of us. I don’t understand what it is about talent that makes people think they can treat others cruelly; that they can walk out on family commitments that “stifle” them; that they can indulge every excess in the name of artistic freedom and expect the world to bow to their whims.
I once fancied myself as being something of an artist, but I never fully felt at home among the granola set – I was always a bit of a stuffed shirt in their eyes. Then I went back to business school, and suddenly I was the wild-eyed bohemian in the group. The difference, which I found refreshing, is that the supposedly staid and uptight business folks were much more tolerant of a real weirdo like me than the Official Weirdos were of squares and suits. Orthodoxy and rigidity are far more strictly enforced among the Elite who advertise themselves as being enlightened and tolerant.
And yet, in all of this, I keep being drawn back to a theatrical world that has essentially rejected me time and again. I’m never quite comfortable where I am. I have yet to find a middle ground where I truly belong, where I can finally paint with all the colors of my wind. Where shall I find my bliss? When shall my soul sing? When shall my bowels be unloosed?
Whoooosh. That answers the last question, anyway.
We were struggling financially, so we eventually acquired projection equipment to allow movie screenings in the theatre, and we started showing midnight movies during the summer and throughout the year. That meant that this theatre group was going to be somewhat inconvenienced – they’d have to end rehearsal earlier than they were used to, and there were new limitations on the timing of when they performed.
So how do you think they responded?
Remember, folks, these were artists. Or at least, they thought they were artists. What they lacked in talent they made up for in ego. And despite the fact that the space was still being given to them for free, they were absolutely up in arms. They called me into a meeting where they excoriated me for “betraying” them and for being a soulless, corporate raider with no appreciation for the delicate genius that was necessary to produce a community production of Annie or The Wizard of Oz.
I tried to patiently explain that we were still giving the space to them and we were doing so at a financial loss, and all this meant was that rehearsal would have to end by 9:00 PM, and their performances would have to be scheduled further in advance. We would like to have just kicked them out entirely, but I wasn’t willing to go that far if they were willing to be reasonable.
“How can we end a rehearsal at 9:00 PM?” one of the Granola People asked. “Sometimes it’s 1:00 in the morning before I can see the colors the director sees and can bring them to life.”
Swell.
She and her colors were booted out entirely about a week later, along with the rest of the group.
Folks, I don’t know what it is about artists that makes them think they’re somehow immune from the practical responsibilities that bedevil the rest of us. I don’t understand what it is about talent that makes people think they can treat others cruelly; that they can walk out on family commitments that “stifle” them; that they can indulge every excess in the name of artistic freedom and expect the world to bow to their whims.
I once fancied myself as being something of an artist, but I never fully felt at home among the granola set – I was always a bit of a stuffed shirt in their eyes. Then I went back to business school, and suddenly I was the wild-eyed bohemian in the group. The difference, which I found refreshing, is that the supposedly staid and uptight business folks were much more tolerant of a real weirdo like me than the Official Weirdos were of squares and suits. Orthodoxy and rigidity are far more strictly enforced among the Elite who advertise themselves as being enlightened and tolerant.
And yet, in all of this, I keep being drawn back to a theatrical world that has essentially rejected me time and again. I’m never quite comfortable where I am. I have yet to find a middle ground where I truly belong, where I can finally paint with all the colors of my wind. Where shall I find my bliss? When shall my soul sing? When shall my bowels be unloosed?
Whoooosh. That answers the last question, anyway.
posted by Elder Samuel Bennett | 1:51 PM
6 Comments:
A crackling good post. A ripping good post. More of the same, please!
Stallion, I think your wind colors are all shades of brown...
It’s too bad you couldn’t write a play (or a short film) based on the exchanges you've have had on the message boards.
I thought you were going to build a ray gun and rull the world. That outta make you comfy.
The souless minions of orthodoxy are relentless.
Ask Ron.
SM
Hey man, to see colors, you need to pull energy from nature.
Just don't use the energy from grass because its insane from all the mowing.
Tket it from me, don't pull energy from grass.
I've found that stuff shirts not only tolerate, but actually appreciate and embrace (and pay well) we crazy artistic crossovers. It's a pretty good gig from this side of the fence.
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