It's a new year and a new slate, and I'm starting it out the traditional way - with a look back at this blog over the past year, and some subsequent thoughts about the future.
The year started out strong for Scenes in the City; the blog really hit its stride around the spring of this year. But, as my own future became unclear, so did my blog.
As I'm sure it's plain to see, managing my poor little Scenes in the City has been rough going over the past few months. Understandable, I suppose, since - as I mentioned before - neither the "Scenes" nor the "City" part necessarily applies anymore. And, with whatever vague structure this blog once had ripped from underneath it, it's been difficult to stay focused. I can't decide why I'm blogging at all, let alone what I'm blogging about.
The purpose of continuing to write here was to track my transition from city girl to hometown soul, as I worked toward discovering new projects and passions and, hopefully, eventually, finding a new project with its own focus and structure.
It sounded good in theory, but in practice I can't really figure out how to not feel like I'm just saying, "I don't know what I'm doooooooing!!!" over and over again. Which is 1) boring and redundant, and 2) whiny and obnoxious.
Conclusion: I need to tighten it up and wrap it up.
So here's the plan for the new year:
1. Happily, I think I actually DO idea for a new project that I think will lend itself perfectly to a blog. It's going to be a big switch from this here clunker because the project is going to be very focused and very finite. And also, I think, very fun. I'm really excited about it. I'll talk more about it as it gets closer.
2. HOWEVER, all that doesn't start until March, and in the meantime, I want to make the most out of this time and this space. I'm still very much exploring my passions and persuasions, and seeing where that takes me. So, until the end of February, you're going to see more of that. A real honest and focused exploration of what it means to approach life with a blank slate and an open heart.
Oh my dear, lovely blog, my little-blog-that-could, I love you so. You've given me so much since we started up, but I'm afraid our time together is quickly drawing to a close. Don't cry, though, dear. It's for the best. We've grown together, learned together, and, when we finally part ways, we'll have a true and hard-fought understanding of where to go from here.
Well, at least I will. You probably won't, because, you know. You're a blog.
About Me
- Leigh Hile
- I'm an NYC-based director, and this is an outlet for my various musings about theater and about the city of New York. Sometimes the subjects run together, sometimes they are entirely separate, but between the two they comprise the most fitful, most intense, most trying love affair of my few years. They fill my head, my heart, my mouth every hour of every day; they could fill a book.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Monday, December 12, 2011
Things That I Love: Biking
Biking?
Of all things, biking is a new and altogether unexpected discovery. When I decided, upon returning to Albuquerque, to ride my bike everywhere in an effort to save 1) money, 2) the environment, and 3) myself from my terrible driving skills, I didn't expect to hate it, but I certainly didn't expect to love it so completely.
Space is expansive on a bike; there is so much more space than you would ever think possible in a car or crowded subway. And it's so quiet. No radio, no voices, no incessant chatter of your own thoughts. On a bike, you only think of two things: where you are, and where you are going. There's a peace, a simplicity, a communion with oneself. On a bike I feel wholly myself and wholly my own.
But it's not just a communion with oneself, it's also a communion with place. I'm grateful for all the moments I've spent on my bike for how intimately it's allowed me to reacquaint myself with my hometown. I don't just get around the city, I see it. I see every dip in the road, every blade of grass poking out from the asphalt. I see every house, every storefront, every park I pass. I see the other bikers, the people on the sidewalks and those in their cars. I feel a part of this city, not just something moving through it. The first time I stepped on stage, I felt at once utterly alone in the universe and completely connected to everything in it. This is sort of like that.
A little over a year ago, a boy I used to work with was hit by a car and killed. I've dealt with death before; maybe it was that he was so young like me, or living so far away from home like me, but ever since I saw that boy lying in his coffin, I've felt the knowledge of death bearing down behind me. I go about my business - nothing has changed, really - but I always feel it, it's always there. On my bike, though, I'm not afraid of death anymore. I would be okay, somehow, if these were my last moments. Strong and active and proud of my commitment to myself and my world.
It also occurs to me how many problems would be solved if we all just biked everywhere. The obesity epidemic, for one, oil dependency, climate change, and, based on my own experiences, maybe even depression.
Is it just me? Or is this really important? It feels important.
So I've contacted BikeABQ the local advocacy and education outreach group. No, there's no paying job in it and it's not where I intuitively feel comfortable spending my time while unemployed. But that's the point.
I offered to volunteer in any capacity needed, but especially event-planning and marketing and communication because of my theater experience. The organization emailed me back immediately and said they could definitely use my expertise as an event planner. It's the first time someone has said they have use for my particular experience and skill-set in a long, long time.
And it felt so good.
Of all things, biking is a new and altogether unexpected discovery. When I decided, upon returning to Albuquerque, to ride my bike everywhere in an effort to save 1) money, 2) the environment, and 3) myself from my terrible driving skills, I didn't expect to hate it, but I certainly didn't expect to love it so completely.
Space is expansive on a bike; there is so much more space than you would ever think possible in a car or crowded subway. And it's so quiet. No radio, no voices, no incessant chatter of your own thoughts. On a bike, you only think of two things: where you are, and where you are going. There's a peace, a simplicity, a communion with oneself. On a bike I feel wholly myself and wholly my own.
But it's not just a communion with oneself, it's also a communion with place. I'm grateful for all the moments I've spent on my bike for how intimately it's allowed me to reacquaint myself with my hometown. I don't just get around the city, I see it. I see every dip in the road, every blade of grass poking out from the asphalt. I see every house, every storefront, every park I pass. I see the other bikers, the people on the sidewalks and those in their cars. I feel a part of this city, not just something moving through it. The first time I stepped on stage, I felt at once utterly alone in the universe and completely connected to everything in it. This is sort of like that.
A little over a year ago, a boy I used to work with was hit by a car and killed. I've dealt with death before; maybe it was that he was so young like me, or living so far away from home like me, but ever since I saw that boy lying in his coffin, I've felt the knowledge of death bearing down behind me. I go about my business - nothing has changed, really - but I always feel it, it's always there. On my bike, though, I'm not afraid of death anymore. I would be okay, somehow, if these were my last moments. Strong and active and proud of my commitment to myself and my world.
It also occurs to me how many problems would be solved if we all just biked everywhere. The obesity epidemic, for one, oil dependency, climate change, and, based on my own experiences, maybe even depression.
Is it just me? Or is this really important? It feels important.
So I've contacted BikeABQ the local advocacy and education outreach group. No, there's no paying job in it and it's not where I intuitively feel comfortable spending my time while unemployed. But that's the point.
I offered to volunteer in any capacity needed, but especially event-planning and marketing and communication because of my theater experience. The organization emailed me back immediately and said they could definitely use my expertise as an event planner. It's the first time someone has said they have use for my particular experience and skill-set in a long, long time.
And it felt so good.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Why Breaking Dawn Is the Worst Movie Ever
I'm taking an immediate break from my new task to find what I love to do in order to tell you why Breaking Dawn was the worst movie I've ever seen in my entire life.
That is not a hyperbole.
Watching it, I kept thinking, I can say with absolute confidence that this is THE worst movie I have ever seen. And I've seen all the other Twilight movies. No, seriously, there is nothing right about this movie.
And let's just talk about the problems with the movie. Let's not go into my problems with the source material. Let's not re-hash the fact that Bella is basically THE WORST ROLE MODEL EVER for adolescent girls because not only does she seem to have no interests, ideas or identity beyond her sparkly boyfriend, but she actually ceases to be able to function when he's not around and repeatedly puts herself IN MORTAL PERIL just to hear his voice. Or how annoyed I get that she acts so superior to her classmates and all their silly, childish thoughts and interests when, in fact, they are the ones who seem to be living healthy, active, grounded lives. Or how impossibly frustrated I become when I think about the fact that this book is lauded as having a positive message for teenage girls just because it promotes abstinence until marriage, completely overlooking all the other poor decisions it glorifies, like getting married at 18; obsessive, co-dependent relationships; and, oh, I don't know, WILLING TO DIE FOR A BOY. I mean, SERIOUSLY people, she wants to sacrifice her identity, her life and her SOUL to be with Edward. And this is a good thing? We're supposed to LIKE this girl?
Oh, whoops. I guess I did end up talking about it. Sometimes I start ranting about Twilight and I just can't stop.
Anyway, back to the movie, which could have been four short, expository scenes:
SCENE 1
Bella and Edward get married.
SCENE 2
Bella and Edward go on their honeymoon. They have hot, if slightly kinky, sexy-time.
SCENE 3
Bella finds out she is pregnant, possibly with a scary demon baby. Everybody worries.
SCENE 4
Bella gives birth to aforementioned scary demon baby, and subsequently becomes a vampire.
Done and done. If you're wondering how they stretched these scenes out into an excruciatingly long two hours, save your money, cause I'm about to tell you.
Let's start with scene one.
Bella and Edward Get Married.
She walks down the aisle, they look lovingly at each other, they say I do. THE END. This is EXPOSITION, folks. This is SET-UP. THIS IS NOT PLOT. And yet, it takes up maybe the first third of the movie.
Because we have to have a detailed reaction to the wedding invitation from every single person that Bella or Edward has ever met ever. (Relatedly: if you happened to be betting on how long it takes Taylor Lautner to shed his shirt, if you guessed longer than two seconds, you totally lost.) And we get a weird wedding nightmare where Bella finds herself atop a pile of her bloody, mutilated friends and family. Why? Don't know. The idea that Bella's loved ones are in danger never ever factors into the movie again. Not even vaguely. Though it does explain the otherwise completely inexplicable look of panic/indigestion that Kristen Stewart sports throughout her walk down the aisle and basically the entire rest of the movie.
Everyone else, go about your business for a sec. Grab a snack. Check your email. I need a quick word just with K-Stew. Kristen. Listen. You are ALLOWED to have more than one expression. In fact, I would say it's ADVISABLE. It's not good acting if you always looked distressed. Especially if you're supposed to be ecstatically happy. Shhh. Trust me.
Okay, everyone, you can return. Back to the wedding: we also get (most unbearably of all) an impossibly long, overwrought walk down the aisle, punctuated by long, overwrought stares at each other - which mean that they're in love - underscored by an overwrought, emo/hipster soundtrack. All of which culminates in a kiss where (originally) everyone watching disappears, and is SO long (and tongue-y) it made me feel awkward not only for myself, but for every fictional person in attendance at that fictional wedding.
This is pretty much the entire movie
The long, overwrought, entirely unnecessary pauses between every line of dialogue and deep, meaningful looks that I can only assume are supposed to communicate the deep emotion that Bella and Edward feel continues as...
Bella and Edward Go On Their Honeymoon
First of all, I have NEVER seen anybody look so pissed off to unexpectedly be on vacation in Rio. Seriously, Kristen. It's not bad acting to smile once in a while.
Second of all, I can almost forgive unbelievably drawn out staring and sighing and plaintive music here because at least it's kind of sexy. Except before we get to anything even remotely resembling sexy-time, we get what feels like LIFETIMES of them staring at each other, and then staring at the house, and then staring at each other some more, and then staring at the bed, and then staring at each other some more. And this is AFTER the taxi ride during which they stare at each other, and then stare pensively out the window, and then stare at each other some more, until they get to the boat in which they...
You get the point.
Additionally, after a night of enjoyable, if rough, passion, Edward decides that he will never touch Bella again, even though she's literally begging for sex. "Last night was the most amazing night of my life," Bella says at one point. "Why don't you believe that?" Hmm, I don't know, Bella, maybe it's because you only have ONE EXPRESSION and you currently look like you're about to puke.
But Edward is having none of it; he can't risk hurting her as she is SUCH delicate flower, unable to make decisions or assess risks on her own. I'd be annoyed at the chauvinism here, except, Edward, I can't say I blame you - Bella hasn't exactly asserted herself as a strong or independent woman.
So, anyway, you say a drawn-out, overwrought chess-playing montage can't be done? I say nay! Because it happens here, and we don't even get the sexy to make it palatable.
(Oh, and PS, maybe it's just the Sarah Lawrence feminist coming out of me, but I find the entire idea of sex and sexuality in this movie to be almost offensively patriarchal. "Last night was the most amazing night of my life"? Please. Why is (first-time!) sex by its strictest heterosexual definition so A) important and B) earth-shatteringly, life-changingly ah-maz-ing? I'm pretty sure they could have reached some sort of compromise, if-ya-know-what-I-mean, that in reality Bella would have probably found more satisfying. And also? I find it hypocritical and gross that despite (or perhaps because of) its message of abstinence, sex is treated as this be-all, end-all of relationships, the holy grail of two people being together. It's such a disgusting exemplification of the simultaneously overly-puritanical and over-sexed society we live in.)
... Sorry.
Anyway, eventually...
Bella Finds Out She's Pregnant, Possibly with a Demon Baby. Everybody Worries.
This scene comprises the bulk of the movie, and can basically be boiled down to the following: everyone in the world gathers around Bella because she is So Special, and commence stroking her face and looking concerned about her.
That's it.
Okay, Jacob and his band of werewolves briefly pop up. And, to be fair, Jacob occasionally surfaced in the previous two scenes as well, largely to repeat the some variation of the line: "I'm worried about Bella's safety and wish I could kill Edward." In scene three, he accidentally sics his werewolves on Bella (oops!), but then he goes over to warn everybody, and they invite him into their circle of face-stroking and concerned looks.
Again: that's it.
Bella Gives Birth to Aforementioned Scary Demon Baby, and Subsequently Becomes a Vampire.
You'd think this part would be exciting, because the demon baby (which is not actually a demon baby at all, snooze) breaks her back and then Edward eats it out of her stomach.
You'd think.
But no, this part of the story is shot from Bella's point of view who, in true Twilight fashion, blacks out during the most interesting part.
The werewolves come to kill Bella too, which you'd also think would get interesting, but right as the fight starts to heat up, Jacob comes out and tells them they all have to leave and they just do.
Seriously?? Has anybody involved with this project ever even read a story? Do you not know how this works?
So anyway, that's that. The movies pretty much over at this point, except for the part where it's really not at all. Bella is basically dead and Edward has... injected vampire venom into her heart? Um, sure, okay. The point is, WE ALL KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING. DOES ANYBODY NOT SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING?
And yet, before Bella can turn into a vampire and the movie can end, we need at least ten minutes of Edward looking sad, and Jacob looking angry, and back to Edward trying to save her again, and back to Jacob looking sad. And then a weird CSI-inspired sequence of the vampire venom inside Bella's body, and then more of Edward looking sad, and Jacob looking angry, and Edward trying to save her, and Jacob looking sad and oh my sweet lord we all know that Bella is going to turn into a vampire please for the love of god just make it happen. Look, I'm not a playwright, but I'm pretty sure it's not suspense if everybody knows what's going to happen.
And then, when you think you just can't handle it any longer, then and only then do Bella's eyes open all red and vampire-like and the worst movie in the entire world is finally over.
That is not a hyperbole.
Watching it, I kept thinking, I can say with absolute confidence that this is THE worst movie I have ever seen. And I've seen all the other Twilight movies. No, seriously, there is nothing right about this movie.
And let's just talk about the problems with the movie. Let's not go into my problems with the source material. Let's not re-hash the fact that Bella is basically THE WORST ROLE MODEL EVER for adolescent girls because not only does she seem to have no interests, ideas or identity beyond her sparkly boyfriend, but she actually ceases to be able to function when he's not around and repeatedly puts herself IN MORTAL PERIL just to hear his voice. Or how annoyed I get that she acts so superior to her classmates and all their silly, childish thoughts and interests when, in fact, they are the ones who seem to be living healthy, active, grounded lives. Or how impossibly frustrated I become when I think about the fact that this book is lauded as having a positive message for teenage girls just because it promotes abstinence until marriage, completely overlooking all the other poor decisions it glorifies, like getting married at 18; obsessive, co-dependent relationships; and, oh, I don't know, WILLING TO DIE FOR A BOY. I mean, SERIOUSLY people, she wants to sacrifice her identity, her life and her SOUL to be with Edward. And this is a good thing? We're supposed to LIKE this girl?
Oh, whoops. I guess I did end up talking about it. Sometimes I start ranting about Twilight and I just can't stop.
Anyway, back to the movie, which could have been four short, expository scenes:
SCENE 1
Bella and Edward get married.
SCENE 2
Bella and Edward go on their honeymoon. They have hot, if slightly kinky, sexy-time.
SCENE 3
Bella finds out she is pregnant, possibly with a scary demon baby. Everybody worries.
SCENE 4
Bella gives birth to aforementioned scary demon baby, and subsequently becomes a vampire.
Done and done. If you're wondering how they stretched these scenes out into an excruciatingly long two hours, save your money, cause I'm about to tell you.
Let's start with scene one.
Bella and Edward Get Married.
She walks down the aisle, they look lovingly at each other, they say I do. THE END. This is EXPOSITION, folks. This is SET-UP. THIS IS NOT PLOT. And yet, it takes up maybe the first third of the movie.
Because we have to have a detailed reaction to the wedding invitation from every single person that Bella or Edward has ever met ever. (Relatedly: if you happened to be betting on how long it takes Taylor Lautner to shed his shirt, if you guessed longer than two seconds, you totally lost.) And we get a weird wedding nightmare where Bella finds herself atop a pile of her bloody, mutilated friends and family. Why? Don't know. The idea that Bella's loved ones are in danger never ever factors into the movie again. Not even vaguely. Though it does explain the otherwise completely inexplicable look of panic/indigestion that Kristen Stewart sports throughout her walk down the aisle and basically the entire rest of the movie.
Everyone else, go about your business for a sec. Grab a snack. Check your email. I need a quick word just with K-Stew. Kristen. Listen. You are ALLOWED to have more than one expression. In fact, I would say it's ADVISABLE. It's not good acting if you always looked distressed. Especially if you're supposed to be ecstatically happy. Shhh. Trust me.
Okay, everyone, you can return. Back to the wedding: we also get (most unbearably of all) an impossibly long, overwrought walk down the aisle, punctuated by long, overwrought stares at each other - which mean that they're in love - underscored by an overwrought, emo/hipster soundtrack. All of which culminates in a kiss where (originally) everyone watching disappears, and is SO long (and tongue-y) it made me feel awkward not only for myself, but for every fictional person in attendance at that fictional wedding.
The long, overwrought, entirely unnecessary pauses between every line of dialogue and deep, meaningful looks that I can only assume are supposed to communicate the deep emotion that Bella and Edward feel continues as...
Bella and Edward Go On Their Honeymoon
First of all, I have NEVER seen anybody look so pissed off to unexpectedly be on vacation in Rio. Seriously, Kristen. It's not bad acting to smile once in a while.
Second of all, I can almost forgive unbelievably drawn out staring and sighing and plaintive music here because at least it's kind of sexy. Except before we get to anything even remotely resembling sexy-time, we get what feels like LIFETIMES of them staring at each other, and then staring at the house, and then staring at each other some more, and then staring at the bed, and then staring at each other some more. And this is AFTER the taxi ride during which they stare at each other, and then stare pensively out the window, and then stare at each other some more, until they get to the boat in which they...
You get the point.
Additionally, after a night of enjoyable, if rough, passion, Edward decides that he will never touch Bella again, even though she's literally begging for sex. "Last night was the most amazing night of my life," Bella says at one point. "Why don't you believe that?" Hmm, I don't know, Bella, maybe it's because you only have ONE EXPRESSION and you currently look like you're about to puke.
But Edward is having none of it; he can't risk hurting her as she is SUCH delicate flower, unable to make decisions or assess risks on her own. I'd be annoyed at the chauvinism here, except, Edward, I can't say I blame you - Bella hasn't exactly asserted herself as a strong or independent woman.
So, anyway, you say a drawn-out, overwrought chess-playing montage can't be done? I say nay! Because it happens here, and we don't even get the sexy to make it palatable.
(Oh, and PS, maybe it's just the Sarah Lawrence feminist coming out of me, but I find the entire idea of sex and sexuality in this movie to be almost offensively patriarchal. "Last night was the most amazing night of my life"? Please. Why is (first-time!) sex by its strictest heterosexual definition so A) important and B) earth-shatteringly, life-changingly ah-maz-ing? I'm pretty sure they could have reached some sort of compromise, if-ya-know-what-I-mean, that in reality Bella would have probably found more satisfying. And also? I find it hypocritical and gross that despite (or perhaps because of) its message of abstinence, sex is treated as this be-all, end-all of relationships, the holy grail of two people being together. It's such a disgusting exemplification of the simultaneously overly-puritanical and over-sexed society we live in.)
... Sorry.
Anyway, eventually...
Bella Finds Out She's Pregnant, Possibly with a Demon Baby. Everybody Worries.
This scene comprises the bulk of the movie, and can basically be boiled down to the following: everyone in the world gathers around Bella because she is So Special, and commence stroking her face and looking concerned about her.
That's it.
Okay, Jacob and his band of werewolves briefly pop up. And, to be fair, Jacob occasionally surfaced in the previous two scenes as well, largely to repeat the some variation of the line: "I'm worried about Bella's safety and wish I could kill Edward." In scene three, he accidentally sics his werewolves on Bella (oops!), but then he goes over to warn everybody, and they invite him into their circle of face-stroking and concerned looks.
Again: that's it.
Bella Gives Birth to Aforementioned Scary Demon Baby, and Subsequently Becomes a Vampire.
You'd think this part would be exciting, because the demon baby (which is not actually a demon baby at all, snooze) breaks her back and then Edward eats it out of her stomach.
You'd think.
But no, this part of the story is shot from Bella's point of view who, in true Twilight fashion, blacks out during the most interesting part.
The werewolves come to kill Bella too, which you'd also think would get interesting, but right as the fight starts to heat up, Jacob comes out and tells them they all have to leave and they just do.
Seriously?? Has anybody involved with this project ever even read a story? Do you not know how this works?
So anyway, that's that. The movies pretty much over at this point, except for the part where it's really not at all. Bella is basically dead and Edward has... injected vampire venom into her heart? Um, sure, okay. The point is, WE ALL KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING. DOES ANYBODY NOT SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING?
And yet, before Bella can turn into a vampire and the movie can end, we need at least ten minutes of Edward looking sad, and Jacob looking angry, and back to Edward trying to save her again, and back to Jacob looking sad. And then a weird CSI-inspired sequence of the vampire venom inside Bella's body, and then more of Edward looking sad, and Jacob looking angry, and Edward trying to save her, and Jacob looking sad and oh my sweet lord we all know that Bella is going to turn into a vampire please for the love of god just make it happen. Look, I'm not a playwright, but I'm pretty sure it's not suspense if everybody knows what's going to happen.
And then, when you think you just can't handle it any longer, then and only then do Bella's eyes open all red and vampire-like and the worst movie in the entire world is finally over.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
What Next?
Something I read while meandering the interwebs struck me recently. I thought it was from this poster, but I guess I'm reading/latching on to way more inspirational garble than I realized. Anyway, the sentiment that struck me was something along the lines of, "Do what you love and the money will follow."
I suppose it makes since that a thought like that would stand out to me, as I've been back in New Mexico for about a month and a half, and did not expect to be jobless and adrift for so long. (Being jobless and adrift is why I left New York, people!) So you could say I am currently deeply ingrained in the process of figuring out how to make the money follow and, if we're being totally honest, what exactly I love in the first place.
Upon reflection, here's what I think: if I had read this in New York, I would have been angry, because doing what I want to do without working about the money was a luxury I simply didn't have. I wished I had it a million times over, every time I saw an internship I couldn't apply for, a volunteer opportunity I couldn't make time for, a class I couldn't take. And now I do have that luxury. Having that luxury is a big part of why, at almost 30, I moved back in with my parents.
So why am I worrying so much about getting a job?
With that in mind, I've been thinking about things that I could do, would do, if I weren't worried about making money. It's time to change my attitude. Full speed ahead.
I suppose it makes since that a thought like that would stand out to me, as I've been back in New Mexico for about a month and a half, and did not expect to be jobless and adrift for so long. (Being jobless and adrift is why I left New York, people!) So you could say I am currently deeply ingrained in the process of figuring out how to make the money follow and, if we're being totally honest, what exactly I love in the first place.
Upon reflection, here's what I think: if I had read this in New York, I would have been angry, because doing what I want to do without working about the money was a luxury I simply didn't have. I wished I had it a million times over, every time I saw an internship I couldn't apply for, a volunteer opportunity I couldn't make time for, a class I couldn't take. And now I do have that luxury. Having that luxury is a big part of why, at almost 30, I moved back in with my parents.
So why am I worrying so much about getting a job?
With that in mind, I've been thinking about things that I could do, would do, if I weren't worried about making money. It's time to change my attitude. Full speed ahead.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Rose in Harlem
Look up and just a little to the left. Unless you’re reading this from an RSS feed (in which case, hey, thanks for adding me) you’re going to see a little picture of a yellow rose winding out of a city window. This icon is my avatar for both my blog and my Twitter feed. I love this icon. Until a few weeks ago, I didn’t think I would ever want to change it.
The picture itself was snapped by me back in 2006. My roommate (one of four of us, squeezed into a little apartment up on 145th) had brought the plant back from work one day, a heavy, green, sickly thing. She told us it was a rose “bush,” although from the wilted sight of it, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. She was determined to nurse the tiny plant back to health; I predicted it would finish dying by the end of the week. But my roommate was gentle and attentive: she pruned back its dying leaves, repotted it, gave it food and water and what little light our alley-facing kitchen could afford. Within a few months it became a sturdy stalk, waxy, thorny and altogether definitely resembling the plant from which roses grow. Still, despite its metamorphosis, I could not have been more surprised the day I saw a little yellow bud appear on the stalk, a bud which proceeded to bloom, expand, and wind itself across our window.
The image of a little yellow rose bud blooming against all odds has been a powerful symbol for the life I persevered toward in New York. It is to me, a sign of hope – the possibility of life, of beauty, even through the smog and sulfur of that impossible city. The visible proof of what enough care and dedication can do.
When I started thinking about my move back to Albuquerque, I thought briefly about retiring the icon, wondering if the “rose in Harlem,” image really made sense anymore. But its depiction of hope and my wish to find and nurture beauty even in unlikely places still held true. So, so far, it’s stayed.
There’s another reason, though, that I chose to let a picture of a rose represent me online. I’ve always liked the idea that my face is more or less invisible to the general virtual public. When I first started working as a director in New York City, I found that my biggest handicap when it came to finding work was my youth. Not my inexperience, my youth. People didn’t even want to talk to me. They didn’t want to get to know me long enough to find out how inexperienced I was. My face told them all they needed to know. I went through a phase where I made a deliberate effort to “dress like a 30-year-old,” (whatever that meant) under the wisdom that one should dress for the job she wants, not the job she has. People ten years older than me were getting the jobs I wanted, I thought logically, so I should dress ten years older than I am.
That was a long time ago; I was barely past 20 then, now I’m nearing 30 for real. But I still have a very young face, and a very soft, girlish look. When I started talking to other artists online, I sort of relished the idea that I would be judged solely for my ideas and not for the way I look. Nobody would be able to say to me, “You’re too young, too cutesy, too blonde to contribute to this conversation.”
But I’m not in New York anymore, nor desperately seeking theater work. I’m looking for new kinds of work now. I want to find the community; I want to find and nurture the beautiful local arts, business, and culture we have here. And I’d like to write, really. I’d like to turn this blogging, which I’ve enjoyed so much, into something more.
And I’m new here. Maybe it’s a good idea to put a face to a name. That way, I might see somebody on the street or at a party and they’ll say, “Hey, I know you. You’ve got that amazing blog I’ve been reading. Here, have a job.”
…
It will happen exactly like that.
In any case, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a help or a hindrance to have my face a tiny bit obscured. And I’m wondering if it’s worth it to part with my beloved rose.
What do you think? Are you ever judged, correctly or incorrectly, on the way that you look? Have you ever hidden your face (or put it everywhere) as a strategic move?
The picture itself was snapped by me back in 2006. My roommate (one of four of us, squeezed into a little apartment up on 145th) had brought the plant back from work one day, a heavy, green, sickly thing. She told us it was a rose “bush,” although from the wilted sight of it, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. She was determined to nurse the tiny plant back to health; I predicted it would finish dying by the end of the week. But my roommate was gentle and attentive: she pruned back its dying leaves, repotted it, gave it food and water and what little light our alley-facing kitchen could afford. Within a few months it became a sturdy stalk, waxy, thorny and altogether definitely resembling the plant from which roses grow. Still, despite its metamorphosis, I could not have been more surprised the day I saw a little yellow bud appear on the stalk, a bud which proceeded to bloom, expand, and wind itself across our window.
The image of a little yellow rose bud blooming against all odds has been a powerful symbol for the life I persevered toward in New York. It is to me, a sign of hope – the possibility of life, of beauty, even through the smog and sulfur of that impossible city. The visible proof of what enough care and dedication can do.
When I started thinking about my move back to Albuquerque, I thought briefly about retiring the icon, wondering if the “rose in Harlem,” image really made sense anymore. But its depiction of hope and my wish to find and nurture beauty even in unlikely places still held true. So, so far, it’s stayed.
There’s another reason, though, that I chose to let a picture of a rose represent me online. I’ve always liked the idea that my face is more or less invisible to the general virtual public. When I first started working as a director in New York City, I found that my biggest handicap when it came to finding work was my youth. Not my inexperience, my youth. People didn’t even want to talk to me. They didn’t want to get to know me long enough to find out how inexperienced I was. My face told them all they needed to know. I went through a phase where I made a deliberate effort to “dress like a 30-year-old,” (whatever that meant) under the wisdom that one should dress for the job she wants, not the job she has. People ten years older than me were getting the jobs I wanted, I thought logically, so I should dress ten years older than I am.
That was a long time ago; I was barely past 20 then, now I’m nearing 30 for real. But I still have a very young face, and a very soft, girlish look. When I started talking to other artists online, I sort of relished the idea that I would be judged solely for my ideas and not for the way I look. Nobody would be able to say to me, “You’re too young, too cutesy, too blonde to contribute to this conversation.”
But I’m not in New York anymore, nor desperately seeking theater work. I’m looking for new kinds of work now. I want to find the community; I want to find and nurture the beautiful local arts, business, and culture we have here. And I’d like to write, really. I’d like to turn this blogging, which I’ve enjoyed so much, into something more.
And I’m new here. Maybe it’s a good idea to put a face to a name. That way, I might see somebody on the street or at a party and they’ll say, “Hey, I know you. You’ve got that amazing blog I’ve been reading. Here, have a job.”
…
It will happen exactly like that.
In any case, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a help or a hindrance to have my face a tiny bit obscured. And I’m wondering if it’s worth it to part with my beloved rose.
What do you think? Are you ever judged, correctly or incorrectly, on the way that you look? Have you ever hidden your face (or put it everywhere) as a strategic move?
Monday, October 31, 2011
It Is What It Is.
In the end, though, it doesn't matter whether New York was a toxic prison or spiritual haven or both. It's New York. It simply is.
One of my favorite books is the Time Traveler's Wife (trust me, it's nothing like the Nicholas Sparks knock-off the movie makes it out to be). In it, the two lovers, Clare and Henry are madly and passionately devoted to one another. But I remember thinking that despite their purity of their love, the two seemed incapable of doing anything but making the other inadvertently miserable. You can't help but wonder, as you read the book, if perhaps they both wouldn't have been better off if they had just never gotten involved with one another. But then you have to ask yourself, when would they have made that choice? Because of the circularity of his time travel, when Henry meets Clare for the first time, she's already in love with him. And when she meets him as a child, he's already married to her. There really was no beginning to their love. They love each other because they've always loved each other.
Likewise, there's no qualifying my love of New York City. It simply is. I asked myself for a long time, "Why do I love this place so much? Why do I stay here?" It's dirty and it's loud, it's expensive and it's hard. And though there are a lot of answers you can give to that question - the theater, the museums, the food, the people - none of them were strong enough reasons to explain why I was there. And then I realized: I love New York because I've always loved New York.
For a long time, I thought fell in love with the after a vacation with my family when I was 12. It was only a 2-day trip, but it seemed like every day I lived in the interim, from age 12 to age 18, was spent with a yearning and determination to get back to New York City.
So when I finally came to New York for college, I was already in love. I loved the city because I could remember being knocked breathless by it as an adolescent, so many years ago. But I think, when I fell so hard the first time I visited, it was because I could already see myself there. I could imagine my life in New York City, working and struggling and making and seeing amazing art because I was compelled - because there was nothing greater.
I love New York now because I can remember myself then, at 12, loving it so much. But I loved it at 12 because I could see myself now, at 27 still loving the city, still bound to it. There is no beginning and no end to my love of New York. It's always existed. It simply is.
One of my favorite books is the Time Traveler's Wife (trust me, it's nothing like the Nicholas Sparks knock-off the movie makes it out to be). In it, the two lovers, Clare and Henry are madly and passionately devoted to one another. But I remember thinking that despite their purity of their love, the two seemed incapable of doing anything but making the other inadvertently miserable. You can't help but wonder, as you read the book, if perhaps they both wouldn't have been better off if they had just never gotten involved with one another. But then you have to ask yourself, when would they have made that choice? Because of the circularity of his time travel, when Henry meets Clare for the first time, she's already in love with him. And when she meets him as a child, he's already married to her. There really was no beginning to their love. They love each other because they've always loved each other.
Likewise, there's no qualifying my love of New York City. It simply is. I asked myself for a long time, "Why do I love this place so much? Why do I stay here?" It's dirty and it's loud, it's expensive and it's hard. And though there are a lot of answers you can give to that question - the theater, the museums, the food, the people - none of them were strong enough reasons to explain why I was there. And then I realized: I love New York because I've always loved New York.
For a long time, I thought fell in love with the after a vacation with my family when I was 12. It was only a 2-day trip, but it seemed like every day I lived in the interim, from age 12 to age 18, was spent with a yearning and determination to get back to New York City.
So when I finally came to New York for college, I was already in love. I loved the city because I could remember being knocked breathless by it as an adolescent, so many years ago. But I think, when I fell so hard the first time I visited, it was because I could already see myself there. I could imagine my life in New York City, working and struggling and making and seeing amazing art because I was compelled - because there was nothing greater.
I love New York now because I can remember myself then, at 12, loving it so much. But I loved it at 12 because I could see myself now, at 27 still loving the city, still bound to it. There is no beginning and no end to my love of New York. It's always existed. It simply is.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Closing Doors
On Saturday, September 25th, I shut the door and switched off the lights for the very last time in the place I've called my home for the past four and a half years.
After we left, Andrew and I stood on my roof quietly for a moment, watching the lights of Harlem twinkle in through the dark patches created from the neighborhood's newly-constructed high-rise condos.
My roof. I had my 25th birthday party up here. I brought up milk crates, and we sat on them in the glow of a string of twinkle lights and some cheap tap-lights from the 99-cent store. I brought my sisters up here to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July that they visited. I drank beers here on a blanket with my best friends. I did yoga up here. We kissed up here once, on a grey day after we saw St. John's Cathedral. In the dark I could still see its massive silhouette on the hill, stacked on top of us.
"I've never left something so permanently before," I told him. "Really?" Andrew said. I kissed him again, like I did on that grey day, and we went back downstairs.
Since leaving, I've experienced a curious mixture of grief and elation. Sometimes I'm struck so intensely by the strangeness and the sadness of the fact that I'll never again enter that room, with its bare window, cheap Ikea daybed and the TV tray doubling as a nightstand. Other times, I think about the fact that I'm utterly unattached, unbeholden to that space, to its particular dust and clutter, its mice and its rent - and the thought makes me giddy.
I always meant to buy curtains, replace the TV tray with a real nightstand, but somehow never got around to it. It wasn't a priority. During my tenure in NY, I encouraged in myself a sort of monk-like asceticism; I had neither the money nor the space for a lot of stuff. But as I shut the door on on my room for the last time, a thought came to me, spontaneously and unbidden: never again.
Never again do I want to live so impermanently, in the empty expanse of a space I always meant to make my own. Never again do I want to live the the shadow of promises I've made to myself.
It's funny. Through my self-imposed asceticism, I thought I was cultivating an appropriately monastic spirituality. New York, I thought to myself, was teaching me how to detach from materialism. I thought about the spiritual lessons New York was teaching me a lot. Patience. The value of hard work.
In hindsight, though, I wonder if these things that I thought were teaching were actually tearing down: all those moments waiting for a subway or walking behind someone slow were wearing down my patience to a tiny, raw, nub. All the times I had to work so much harder for what I wanted than I would have anywhere else... maybe it just made me tired. And I wonder if my bare personal space actually set me adrift in some way. I wonder if we need things in the same way we need stories - to tie us down, to tell us who we are.
I go back and forth like this, wondering if New York strengthened me or unmoored me - or maybe both. I guess I'm about to find out.
After we left, Andrew and I stood on my roof quietly for a moment, watching the lights of Harlem twinkle in through the dark patches created from the neighborhood's newly-constructed high-rise condos.
My roof. I had my 25th birthday party up here. I brought up milk crates, and we sat on them in the glow of a string of twinkle lights and some cheap tap-lights from the 99-cent store. I brought my sisters up here to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July that they visited. I drank beers here on a blanket with my best friends. I did yoga up here. We kissed up here once, on a grey day after we saw St. John's Cathedral. In the dark I could still see its massive silhouette on the hill, stacked on top of us.
"I've never left something so permanently before," I told him. "Really?" Andrew said. I kissed him again, like I did on that grey day, and we went back downstairs.
Since leaving, I've experienced a curious mixture of grief and elation. Sometimes I'm struck so intensely by the strangeness and the sadness of the fact that I'll never again enter that room, with its bare window, cheap Ikea daybed and the TV tray doubling as a nightstand. Other times, I think about the fact that I'm utterly unattached, unbeholden to that space, to its particular dust and clutter, its mice and its rent - and the thought makes me giddy.
I always meant to buy curtains, replace the TV tray with a real nightstand, but somehow never got around to it. It wasn't a priority. During my tenure in NY, I encouraged in myself a sort of monk-like asceticism; I had neither the money nor the space for a lot of stuff. But as I shut the door on on my room for the last time, a thought came to me, spontaneously and unbidden: never again.
Never again do I want to live so impermanently, in the empty expanse of a space I always meant to make my own. Never again do I want to live the the shadow of promises I've made to myself.
It's funny. Through my self-imposed asceticism, I thought I was cultivating an appropriately monastic spirituality. New York, I thought to myself, was teaching me how to detach from materialism. I thought about the spiritual lessons New York was teaching me a lot. Patience. The value of hard work.
In hindsight, though, I wonder if these things that I thought were teaching were actually tearing down: all those moments waiting for a subway or walking behind someone slow were wearing down my patience to a tiny, raw, nub. All the times I had to work so much harder for what I wanted than I would have anywhere else... maybe it just made me tired. And I wonder if my bare personal space actually set me adrift in some way. I wonder if we need things in the same way we need stories - to tie us down, to tell us who we are.
I go back and forth like this, wondering if New York strengthened me or unmoored me - or maybe both. I guess I'm about to find out.
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