Category: Performing Arts

Q&A with the artists of MASKED

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An Exhibition by William Doan, Michael Green, and Emily Steinberg

Illustrated headshots of the artists side-by-side with the title MASKED at the top
Artwork above by Emily Steinberg

 

Borland Project Space | 125 Borland Building, Penn State University Park
January 12 – March 2, 2022 | 9 a.m. – 4 p.m. Monday through Friday
Masked Exhibition Artists’ Talk: https://bit.ly/3suSHDK
February 25 from 4 – 5 p.m.

How and when did you conceive of the Masked Exhibition and how did it all come together?

Emily Steinberg: During the Pandemic Year of 2021, Bill, Michael and I were zooming on a regular basis. We did this to stay creatively and socially connected during the time of lockdown and isolation. We spoke about a lot of things during this time, and one of them… was collaborating on an exhibition together around the idea of masking. What is masking? What has our experience been like during the lockdown. What are the issues of identity and presentation around masking. What are the historical and art historical precedents of masking. Picasso’s Demoiselles D’Avignon, 1907, comes to mind.

William Doan: I think it was during a catch-up zoom early in 2021 and we were chatting about possible collaborations. We discovered that we were all interested in masks/masking for a variety of reasons. Emily was already making work about masking, Michael’s take as a physician was interesting and personal, and I have always been fascinated by “masking” writ large as a theatre artist. We started sharing work and Michael investigated the possibility of showing the work at Hershey Medical and we were off and running.

Michael Green: As Emily and Bill said, we had been zooming for a while to stay connected, and during one of our brainstorming sessions, we decided to explore the theme of masking as something that was on everyone’s mind, but that probably meant something different to each person. Since each of us comes from different backgrounds, we thought it would be fruitful to respond to this simple prompt in our own way, and the exhibit evolved from there.

Illustrations of people wearing different types of masks with witty descriptions of appropriate activities when wearing each style
Artwork above by Emily Steinberg

 

What surprised you and/or what did you learn when you were creating the work for this exhibition?

Emily Steinberg: I loved the idea of blowing up drawings and printing them on vinyl.

William Doan: What surprised me was how differently we all thought about masking, yet our mutual interest in graphic medicine, comics, graphic narrative seemed to tie it all together. I learned that I’m really inspired by Emily and Michael’s work and want to keep finding ways to collaborate with them.

Michael Green: I was surprised by how scale changed an image. Most of my original work was done in small and inexpensive composition notebooks, 7.5″x9.75″. Seeing these images enlarged to 4 ft x 5 ft in size changed so much about the images, in terms of impact, meaning, and the feelings they elicited. Also, seeing the various pieces juxtaposed with one another was really interesting, because each of us see differently and express our visions in unique ways.

Illustrations of various kinds of masking on the left with a list of what masks do and don't do on the right
Artwork above by Michael Green

 

How has your perception changed since you first conceived of this exhibition; what does this work mean and represent to you now?

Emily Steinberg: This work represents a specific period in time for me. A time of vast uncertainty, of fear, anxiety, of trying to figure out how to maneuver within new constraints.

William Doan: I’d say my interest and thinking around the complex notion of masking has deepened. Teaching wearing a mask, trying to perform wearing a mask, trying to conceive of mask-wearing and Covid-like pandemics being part of life from now on, weigh heavily on my mind. And those thoughts feed the continued work I’m doing in the mental health space, thoughts about masking anxiety and depression, hiding and protecting the self, and the historical power of masking.

Michael Green: Masks have taken on meaning so much greater than originally intended in the medical context. Medical professionals tended to see them in terms of public health and safety. But for so many people, these are statements about politics, identity, and affiliation. It’s strange and interesting, and also troubling in many ways.

If you were creating work for the exhibition today, what would you do differently?

Emily Steinberg: I would create a full-blown graphic narrative about the experience and present it as life size panels.

William Doan: I would love to scale up the size of the pandemic doctor masks I made and explore different ways of applying text to them.

Michael Green: I think I’d include more self-portraits with masks to see where that takes me.

black plague mask with hands and text drawn on
Artwork above by William Doan

 

What comes to mind around this topic of masking when you think about the future?

Emily Steinberg: I don’t want to think about masks anymore, LOL.

William Doan: I keep thinking about how regular masking in public will exponentially lower the number of people who know what I look like. And how this might feed social media as the location where you try to connect the masked face you encounter out in the world with the whole face of that person …

Michael Green: I look forward to a time when a mask is just a mask and no longer a statement about one’s politics or identity. I don’t know if we’ll ever get there, but I can hope ….

View larger images and the full exhibition at Masked online: https://spark.adobe.com/page/cevVdvRawvSZr/

Impolite Birth: Explorations into the Benefits of Theatre Voice Training for Childbirth

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By Kris Danford
Associate Professor of Voice and Speech

Headshot of Kris Danford, gray background

You’re walking along and suddenly you stub your toe. Without thinking, a howl of pain comes out of your mouth. You say “Ow!” or “Arrgh!” Or something more colorful I probably shouldn’t repeat in this blog post.

As humans, we make noise when we encounter discomfort. Why? Well, recent research conducted by Genevieve Swee and Annett Schirmer published in The Journal of Pain suggests that vocalizing may improve pain tolerance. It’s worth observing that vocalizing also seems to be a ubiquitous reaction to discomfort that is not strictly physical; emotional discomfort can also provoke the production of sound. Think of how a startled person might yelp or a person stricken with grief may cry, keen or wail. It’s a deeply ingrained impulse, but whether a person acts on that impulse to make sound is another matter.

In actor training, significant time is spent connecting the body to sound. Voice and speech classes focus on techniques to minimize physical effort, to breathe freely and respond vocally without bracing or inhibition. Voice teachers use phrases like “the release of sound” or “the purging of sound.” Students are sometimes encouraged to “sigh with relief,” to notice the vibration of their own voice and, even more, to notice that that vibration could be a pleasant sensation in their body. Simply put, noise is encouraged. Given that most people try to be unobtrusive and polite in society, that kind of unapologetic self-expression can initially feel vulnerable and unfamiliar. But after being steeped in this kind of training, it becomes familiar, enjoyable, even.

As a voice teacher and actor, this has been my world for many years. But in 2010, I took a hiatus from it when my husband and I pressed pause on life in New York City to give birth to our first baby in the rural calm of Vermont. My Birkenstock-clad midwives measured my bump with tape measures and taught me hypnosis-based birth techniques as I prepared for an epidural-free birth. I dutifully followed guided meditations and visualized forest paths and ocean tides. I devoured any and all guidance on childbirth I could get. As a rookie mom-to-be I didn’t know the first thing about any of this, so I relied on the experts. Despite my best efforts, the stroll-down-the-forest-path birth I had prepared for didn’t happen as planned. The techniques I’d studied were useless for me; instead, I spent hours contorted in agony and helplessly mute, so heavily dosed with narcotics that I was unable to articulate in words that I needed something different. In the end, we were infinitely lucky to have a healthy baby girl. However, the process left a lot to be desired.

Four years later, baby #2 was on the way. By that time, I had plunged back into the world of voice training and had begun a career as a certified teacher of Fitzmaurice Voicework®. I felt confident in what I knew about how the body and voice could work to facilitate release in the context of actor training. I decided, ‘Well, what the hell? This time, I’ll try using the voice work I know. Can’t be worse than last time, can it?’

As it turned out, it was a whole lot better.

It also turned out that I wasn’t the only person with this background who had gotten through labor using techniques rooted in theatre voice training. I was introduced to close collaborator Jenny Mercein of Tulane University, also a professional actor with extensive voice training. Jenny had also just given birth and had also relied on her voice training in labor, so much so that the nurses dubbed her “the singing mom.”

While researching the article we would eventually co-author, (The Voice and Speech Review, “The Birth Process and Theatre Voice Training: The Glorious Chorus”) we talked to a lot of actor/moms with similar backgrounds who had done the same thing in their births. The techniques they used worked to facilitate physical ease, yes, but vocalizing was a big piece of it. These were noisy births. And the helpful vocal expression wasn’t always the calm, low, serene sounds that many childbirth educators promote. There was moaning, singing, growling like a wild animal, shouting Shakespeare (!)…you name it. And according to these women, vocalization itself was an aid. It seemed to provide a sense of empowerment, ownership of the experience and even lessened the sensation of pain.

Image of pregnant woman sitting cross legged with hands over her heart and belly

I wanted to talk to providers. What did midwives and obstetricians know about the intersection of vocalization and labor? Had this been studied? At the University of Michigan in 2018, I met Certified Nurse Midwives Ruth Zielinski, Lee Roosevelt and Dr. Lisa Harris, MD. This research inquiry was, in fact, new; the effect of vocalization on laboring women hadn’t been explored. I was shocked to learn from them that they had all encountered experiences when a laboring woman was redirected to be lower, calmer…quieter. Or scolded for using “inappropriate language” when throwing in some four-letter words. Or told that making sound would sap their energy. Directly shushed, even. In the labor and delivery wing, nurses sometimes give each other the side-eye if one’s patient is being too loud or disruptive. These examples reveal something about the culture surrounding birth in many institutions. Given this reality, it is unsurprising that women often do not feel free to follow their instincts (vocal or otherwise) in childbirth. The examples are also symptomatic, of course, of a long history of women being silenced in broader societal contexts.

What would happen if expectant mothers had the kinds of tools for vocal expression that we voice teachers hope to instill in our theatre students? To find out, Zielinski, Roosevelt, Harris and I began a research project: “Impolite Birth: Theatre Voice Training and the Experience of Childbirth.” I developed a voice class geared toward expectant moms with the collaboration of the research time and my actor and voice colleagues Jenny Mercein and Laura Quigley. The project is on-going as I prepare to work with pregnant women (on zoom, for now) and introduce them to this work.

The human voice is a powerful tool of expression. That power is not limited to projecting one’s lines to the back of a theatre; it also holds the capacity to deeply affect both the listener and the speaker themself. The exploration of voice taps into vulnerable aspects of ourselves, revealing truths otherwise left hidden. There is catharsis and liberation in the expression of sound, whether it be in a play or in a birthing suite. As I continue with this research, I am excited to explore the ways in which voice work can be an aid for humans in a variety of ways and share its value beyond the confines of the stage.

 

Kris Danford & Jenny Mercein (2018) The Birth Process and Voice Training: The Glorious Chorus, Voice and Speech Review, 12:1, 35-48, DOI: 10.1080/23268263.2018.1417097

Swee, Genevieve, and Annett Schirmer. “On the Importance of Being Vocal: Saying “Ow” Improves Pain Tolerance.” The Journal of Pain, Vol. 16, No. 4, 2015, pp.326-334. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jpain.2015.01.002.

REASON TO HOPE: Making Theatre Antiracist – Contributed by Gwendolyn Walker

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by Gwendolyn Walker
Assistant Professor of Voice for Musical Theatre

headshot of Gwendolyn Walker

The Day Theatre Stopped

On March 12, 2020, the Broadway League made the unprecedented announcement that Broadway shows would shutter their doors for a month. One month turned into three, then six. Currently, Broadway will stay closed until at least May 30, 2021, and most officials believe it will be even longer.

On May 25, George Floyd, a 46-year-old Black man, was killed in Minneapolis, Minnesota by police officers while in their custody after a store clerk alleged that Floyd had passed a counterfeit $20 bill. The murder was videotaped and went viral. Soon, U.S. citizens and people around the world had watched Floyd die while pleading with the arresting officers that he could not breathe. This produced an immediate and enormous social justice movement in the United States and around the world.

These are stressful times. One way that I handle stress is to think proactively. The whole theatre world in this country is currently paused. This pause gives us an opportunity to plan for what sort of theatrical world we hope to return to when theatres once again open their doors. What of the pre-Covid “normal” is worth keeping and what is worth changing, for example?

As much as I love American musical theatre, considerable change must occur for it to be an art form for all people.

Musical theatre is currently dominated by white, heteronormative, neurotypical stories, whereas BIPOC, queer, and neurodiverse stories are the extreme exception. Too often, we tell stories that require artists to conform to a default and distorted vision of “normal.” The consequence is an industry that is fundamentally patriarchal, misogynistic, heteronormative, neurotypical, and racist. By not addressing this distortion, we perpetuate the idea that straight, white, cis-gendered, neurotypical cultural identities are—and should be—the default, and in doing so we continue the suppression of all other people.

Dr. Ibram X. Kendi

Book cover of How to be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

A few weeks ago, as part of my work on Penn State’s College of Arts and Architecture’s Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion Committee, I co-hosted a pre-talk discussion about the work of Dr. Ibram X. Kendi, an antiracist activist, scholar, and author of the book, How to Be an Antiracist.  Kendi was interviewed in a live, virtual event for Penn State, and to prepare for our discussion, I read his books and watched every interview and speech of his that I could find. I was shook. His ideas are daring, and he made me think about racism, my activism, and theatre in a new and hopeful way. Additionally, in his book, he extends his ideas of racism to include gender-racism and queer-racism, which I found empowering.

According to Dr. Kendi, “racist” is such a pejorative word that most people equate it with being a bad person. Because most people consider themselves to be good people, they also consider themselves to be “not racist.” The problem is that “not racist” isn’t something you do, it is something you say—a moniker you hang on yourself or a passive comment. Typically, we say it in response to someone calling us out for being racist in the first place. “I’m not a racist!” we reply.

But to be truly “not racist”, Dr. Kendi suggests we must be active: we must be antiracist. When you label yourself ‘not racist’ there is no action implied there. Nothing to do. Additionally, Kendi says we must recognize that the same person can be racist one moment and antiracist the next because being antiracist is something that we DO, not someone who we ARE. For example, a person might agree with a racist political policy in one moment, and an antiracist environmental policy in the next – so in juxtaposing moments, that person could be described as racist and antiracist.

Further, Dr. Kendi challenges the idea that ignorant and hateful people propagate and are responsible for racism. Kendi shows how people in power, acting in their own self-interest, often create racist policies that make these powerful people more powerful, but the original intent is not to be racist – it’s self-interest. These racist policies, in turn, govern the majority of people and so these racist policies eventually lead to racist ideas to justify them. Those racist ideas eventually lead to ignorance and hate, but the ignorance and hate were not why the racist policy was created in the first place: self-interest is the culprit.

“One either believes problems are rooted in groups of people, as a racist, or locates the roots of problems in power and policies, as an antiracist.” – Ibram X. Kendi

In other words,
The words We think it goes this way with an arrow pointing to the right over four boxes that read, left to right, Ignorance and hate, Racist ideas, Racist policies, Self-Interest above the words It actually goes this way with an arrow pointing right to left

Applying Kendi’s Theory to Theatre

Understanding this chain of causation helps us understand why racist, misogynistic, heteronormative, neurotypical theatre perpetuates itself. Applying Dr. Kendi’s idea to the theatrical industry, powerful people, acting in their own self-interest, believe they will make more money by not challenging theatre-goer’s ideas. If straight, white, male, cis-gendered theatre constitutes “normal” by default, powerful people will continue to create theatre that conforms to that idea because doing so will make them more money. The result is that theatre goers routinely ingest straight, white, male, cis-gendered theatre, further reinforcing and confirming whatever racist cultural ideas they may have. These racist ideas are then put into practice as daily thoughts, actions, and belief systems, and those ideas lead to exclusion, ignorance, and hate.

In other words,
The words We think it goes this way with an arrow pointing to the right over four boxes that read, left to right, Ignorance and hate, Racist ideas, Racist Theatre, Self-Interest above the words It actually goes this way with an arrow pointing right to left

I am explicitly saying that when we create racist, misogynistic, neurotypical, and heteronormative theatre, we are creating theatre that perpetuates exclusion, ignorance, and hate.

The time is long overdue that we, as an industry, actively fight against that. It is not enough to say that we don’t do these things. We must passionately and actively do the opposite.

People instinctively turn to artists following catastrophic events. People are buying books again! They are binge-watching shows on Netflix and buying music streaming services. All of this content is created by artists, and we are more powerful now than ever. We shape consciences with the art we choose to make, and we must be conscious about the message contained in the art that we choose.

The shutdown combined with the biggest antiracist movement in our country in 70 years offers us a unique opportunity to create an enormous, positive change in the way we create theatre; to challenge ourselves to be radically inclusive and equitable. I would go even further and say that this is our responsibility. We must help lead the world out of this humanitarian crisis.

How can we do that? What ACTIONS can we take? Here are a few ideas:

  1. Give money to BIPOC, LGBTQIA+, neurodiverse, and female-identifying writers, lyricists, playwrights, theatre companies, theatre creatives, and activist organizations. Money is power and it takes power to create change. If you can’t give money; give opportunities. If you can’t give opportunities; give your time.
  2. Get on the board for a theatre company and make your voice heard. Run for office in one of the theatre unions with the specific goal to create antiracist policy change. When you are on the board, you help create policy, and policy is power.
  3. Hire non-white and neurodiverse theatre makers, women, and transgender artists for your team and listen to them.
  4. Eliminate tokenism. Diverse people need opportunities to portray fully realized characters rather than harmful, racist stereotypes.
  5. Theatre creators can ask themselves if the roles they are creating and casting need to be played by a specific gender, physical ability, or skin color, and if not, to leave the character description open. For example, instead of a character breakdown that reads, “Strong leading man, baritone to A4,” it could instead read, “Strong, grounded character with a good sense of humor about themselves who’s been kicked around by life but still believes in love.”
  6. Participate in antiracist theatre groups and encourage colleagues to do the same. The Asian-American Performers’ Action Coalition and the African-American Artists’ Alliance are a couple of great ones.
  7. Create an antiracist theatre action committee at your institution or if you can, create a position for a person who is the director of diversity, equity, and inclusion. Invite them to be part of your casting and season selection processes.
  8. Read antiracist literature and follow antiracist activists on social media.

What actions can you think of that we can take as a community? What changes can you make to become more antiracist? How can we overcome the obvious obstacles? For example, to produce more antiracist theatre that is successful, we will need people willing to see theatre that is different. That will not be easy. I recognize that this idea is fraught with seemingly insurmountable problems.

But I believe we can do it. I believe that we are capable of bringing about an equitable, diverse, and inclusive new normal where the theatre that we make represents our entire community. Will it be perfect? No. Will it be easy? No. Will we correct all the harm that has been perpetrated against our beautiful and diverse community? No. But we must try. This unique moment in time makes this a perfect time to begin to be the change we want to see in the world. I believe, like Dr. Kendi, that change is possible. I believe in the power of theatre-makers to change hearts and minds. I believe in my community. I believe that there are so many reasons to hope.

*Original Graphic idea from Toby Sinclari’s “Book Summary: How To Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi – The 3 Big Ideas.” 21 June 2020.

Gwendolyn Walker is an Assistant Professor of Voice and Alexander Technique at Penn State’s BFA Musical Theatre program. She is certified by the Contemporary Alexander School and she maintains a busy New York City studio. Her students can be seen in most shows on Broadway today.

Teaching Tap Through Two Pandemics: How Empathy Illuminated My Path Forward – Contributed by Michele Dunleavy

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By Michele Dunleavy
Professor of Dance, Penn State School of Theatre

Michele Dunleavy dancing on stag, red sleaveless dress, black background
Michele Dunleavy: Performance of 5/4 Ever,
A Tribute to the Life and Music of Dave Brubeck
at the Southern Theatre in MInneapolis, MN.
Photo by Aleutian Calabay

How do we prepare our students to enter into a system that is inherently racist while simultaneously decolonizing our curriculum?

How do we lead with empathy and still maintain rigor in an educational setting disrupted by Covid-19?

These are questions I have considered for months now, in part because of the pandemic and the reigniting of the Black Lives Matter movement, but also because they are valid questions under any circumstances, only now they seem more urgent.

SPRING 2020

Pavilion Theatre's stage at Penn State University Park Campus: Black stage set up with white square tap boards physically distanced in accordance with Covid-19 guidelines
Class preparation in Pavilion Theatre at Penn State,
University Park Campus: Stage set up with tap boards
physically distanced in accordance with Covid-19 guidelines.
Photo by Michele Dunleavy

Like so many of the educators I know, switching to remote learning was neither easy nor satisfactory from a pedagogical standpoint. We ended up doubling or tripling our work load with little to no idea if anything we were doing was even making an impact. I planned, changed plans, created assignments, canceled assignments, then added new assignments, as I tried again and again to polish the turd known as Zoom tap dance.

Most of us are aware that Zoom is not ideal because of latency in both sound and video, and that the technology is only as good as your internet service. As a delivery method for percussive dance, which utilizes both sound and movement, it couldn’t be worse, or so I thought. I’m not going to give you some sugar-coated story about how everything turned out well in the end and we all tap danced happily ever after into zoomtopia, but I will share with you some of what I learned about leading with empathy.

I changed my settings to help with the latency, then changed them back. I bought a webcam and proceeded to leave it in the box for weeks. I made instructional videos in advance of class meetings so that students could follow along if their internet was spotty or if they had to miss class. I watched body parts suspended in an on-screen grid execute tap steps while muted, dancing a full one to two beats behind the music playing in my basement ‘studio’. This is where I would insert the wide-eyed emoji that looks like it hasn’t blinked in a century to emphasize the absurdity of the situation.

While I haven’t asked any students directly what they took away from that experience, I know what they wrote in their assignments, emails, and SRTE’s. They were grateful for the days that I gave them space to talk; to speak their concerns, fears, and frustrations into the confines of that ever-shifting grid. They responded to assignments that demanded they walk away from the computer and listen to the rhythm of their surroundings and then to write and dance what they heard. For their final project we created a video where they got to vent their frustrations at Zoom University through tap dance.

I let go, begrudgingly at first and then later with more grace, to long held ideas about what I believed it meant to be a good teacher, a good student. Words like discipline and rigor that had been more guide than mantra, but ever present in my pedagogy ceased to hold sway over my ‘classroom’. It was liberating in ways I could never have imagined.

SUMMER 2020

Shot from behind: a crowd of people kneeling on the street in a Black Lives Matter protest in State College, Pennsylvania
Black Lives Matter march, downtown State College, PA.
Photo by Michele Dunleavy

Even before the death of George Floyd there were conversations in the dance community about equity, and representation. Conversations that proposed a new paradigm based on models of abundance not scarcity, security not precarity, collaboration not competition. After the death of George Floyd these conversations accelerated, and in the tap community the topic of history and attribution rose to the forefront. Black dancers began a movement to “reclaim the narrative of tap history”, defining tap dance as a Black art form and challenging the prevailing notion of tap dance as a product of “Afro-Irish fusion”. Current tap history texts were defended and contested daily on social media threads that tore at the fabric of my dance community. As I read and listened to the dialogue I began to interrogate my own beliefs, course content, delivery, and sources of knowledge. I began asking Black dancers what current history book they would recommend and their answers were revealing. One suggested I read the Negro Act of 1740; a collection of Colonial laws governing slave behavior, one of which made owning or playing a drum illegal. Another suggested Sammy Davis Jr’s autobiography, while others had no response. That shook me. I had prided myself on teaching the history of tap dance with an emphasis on its African American roots but I was quickly realizing the limitations of current literature and my own experience as a white woman.

Fortunately there have been many opportunities to listen and to learn. Webinars, discussions, and forums led by BIPOC dancers, educators, and theatre makers have populated my inbox and newsfeed. Two Black women who are making an impact in dance and theatre respectively are Karida Griffith, tap dancer and educator based in Portland and Nicole Brewer, freelance director, actor, educator and facilitator, currently on faculty at Yale.

FALL 2020

Michele Dunleavy dancing, crouched, on a tap board on state at the State Theatre in State College, PA
Michele Dunleavy performing in
Steel Valley Rhythms at the State
Theatre in State College, PA.
Photo by TM Grey Photo

By the time I landed in Karida’s online course Roots, Rhythm, Race and Dance I had already determined to step up my tap history game and had begun doing some alternative research based on queries made to BIPOC colleagues and friends. Karida has an extraordinary gift for metaphor. She expertly weaves anecdotal stories with hard facts drawing on current research in the social sciences, history, and her own personal experience. Her weekly ‘lessons’ provided multiple models for including the history of race in any dance class, at any age, skill level, or setting. Weekly Q+A sessions allowed participants from all over the globe to come together for discussion and develop and share lesson plans. While much of the course content wasn’t new it certainly filled in some gaps. More importantly, it helped me to organize my own work in a way that felt manageable. Previously, I had been so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information, coupled with a false notion that I had to cover everything, that I often felt paralyzed. Completing this course was empowering, and I have enjoyed success applying what I learned in my current classes.

If Karida’s course was all about the nuts and bolts of doing, Nicole’s was the philosophical counterpoint. In her Anti-racist Theatre training, participants were tasked with completing worksheets that demanded more introspection and personal accountability. I was asked to state my own anti-racist theater ethos, describe my practice, identify ways to reduce, prevent, and when it invariably occurs, repair harm. Reflecting back on that workshop I remember Nicole stating that ‘the theater industrial complex is inherently racist’, and I thought yeah, but now what?

Early in the two-day workshop Nicole introduced the concept of ‘access needs’. I had no idea what that term meant, but others in the room were familiar. My working definition goes like this: access needs are what a person needs to participate fully and for learning to occur.

THIS. This speaks directly to my longtime conflict between rigor/empathy but it is also at the heart of an anti-racist practice. To consider access needs forces equity, not equality. Instead of everyone being given the same tools to succeed, each individual is given the specific tools that they need to succeed. To do this requires that we as teachers see all our students as exactly who they are and that we consider their lived experiences. This is where empathy and rigor can combine to provide a rich educational experience for all students. By ensuring that all have what is needed to succeed, standards can be set and met by everyone with expectations matched to the individual.

I still don’t have the answers to my opening questions but the common denominator seems to be to empathy. If I see and celebrate my students as they are, and continue to meet them where they’re at while simultaneously arming them with information about the history of race in dance, perhaps they will emerge from their time with me strong enough to say no to projects and roles that dehumanize and trivialize BIPOC stories. Perhaps they will shift the industry paradigm by telling their own stories. I cannot predict what path the world will take or how my students will shape our future. In the meantime, I hold these words by Maya Angelou close to my heart as I continue to evolve as a human, artist and educator:

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reflection: A Legacy of Dreamers – Contributed by Kikora Franklin

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By Kikora Franklin
Associate Director of Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion; Associate Professor, Penn State School of Theatre

~
“Dream Variations”
By Langston Hughes1

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening…
A tall slim tree…
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.
~

Langston Hughes’s Dream Variations speaks of a freedom and purpose that I long and strive for each day I am blessed with life. I am privileged and honored to have the opportunity to do what I do for a living, share my experiences, and give voice and inspiration to others. Here, I tell a story of my past, in order to appreciate the present, and envision and create a lasting future.

Legacy – Variations of a Dream

1935, Daytona Beach, Florida, USA — A little brown girl, about 5 years old, makes her way to the Boardwalk overlooking the blue water. With the Atlantic Ocean as her backdrop, she straightens her ruffled dress, takes a deep breath, and prepares for a grand performance. She smiles as wide as the Atlantic… taps as loud as the roar of its waves, and sings “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” by Shirley Temple…the crowd applauds. The little brown girl, in this precious moment, is full of hope. Her dreams of moving to New York City one day and becoming a performer are as real and present as the waves that beat the coast behind her.

1959, Atlanta, GA, USA — An eight-year-old girl intently watches another girl, much like herself; in a black leotard, black tights, and ballet shoes, the young girl dances across a stage. She contracts her torso, spreads her arms, and stretches to the sky. The girl watching is entranced, captivated, and inspired by the dancer’s emotion and power. She daydreams and sees herself… dancing, whirling, the same way as the little girl in front of her on the stage. She is full of hope and dreams of becoming a dancer and performer.

Terrie Axam at age 8 wearing a tutu, sitting on a hard wood floor and facing the camera
Terrie Axam (my mother) age 8, Atlanta, Georgia
Photo courtesy of Total Dance Archives

1998, Gorée Island, Senegal, West Africa — The sounds of drums fill the hot yet comforting summer air. A young woman, newly graduated from college, dances barefoot on the dirt, atop a mountain overlooking the Atlantic. She finishes her dance and is now prepared to enter the old structures, dirt floors, and empty cells that were the last image of home for her ancestors centuries before. She weaves in and out of now empty spaces, imagining what it was like when the same rooms were filled with human beings…people who would be forever separated from all they had known and loved. They would now be led through the “Door of No Return.” This young, free, future-ancestor looks out of the door, across the Atlantic. She is inspired and determined to share the story of this place, La Maison des Esclaves, and the dances and culture she’s lived and learned, with her yet unborn children. As she stares across the vast waters, perhaps her eyes are focused in the direction of Atlanta, Georgia or even Daytona Beach; her heart certainly is.

View images of “The Door of No Return,” Gorée Island, Senegal, West Africa

That girl on the Daytona Beach Boardwalk in 1935, dreaming of her future, was my mother’s mother, Dorimell Axam. As fate would have it, her dreams do not come true in the way she thought. For reasons out of her control, she never made it to New York City to become a performer. She eventually moved to Atlanta, GA, fell in love, married, and started a family. In addition to being a wife and mother, she was a visual artist, seamstress, beautician, homemaker, and philanthropist; she was beauty and strength personified. All those who knew my grandmother or even met her briefly, were moved by her presence, energy, and warmth. She poured everything she had into her children and eventually her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My grandmother’s dreams of performing never died; they transformed, into a vision and reality for her children and her children’s children.

A black woman and two young children, a boy and a girl, portrait shot with people facing camera
Dorimell Axam (my grandmother) 1951, with her children Tony Axam and Terrie Axam
Photo courtesy of Terrie Axam

The eight-year-old girl watching the young dancer in 1959 was my mother, Terrie Ajile Axam, the second oldest of my grandparents’ six children. She grew up in the south during the 50s and 60s, when water fountains, public swimming pools, and restaurants were still segregated. Surprisingly, my mother’s memories of this time of her life don’t include feelings of intimidation or fear – rather, she wondered if the water in the “Colored” fountain would come out in actual colors. Ever defiant and courageous, my Grandma Dorimell allowed my mother and her siblings to drink from whichever fountain they preferred. She raised them to respect themselves and others, despite laws to the contrary.

My mother, like her mother, had dreams of dancing and performing. She danced as a young girl and made her way to Princeton University as an undergraduate student. While at Princeton, she started an African dance company, the “Ajile Dancers,” which provided much needed support to black students at that time. My mother’s dreams of dancing were realized in a myriad of ways. She studied all forms of dance and created her own movement technique, Mojah. She has taught and influenced hundreds (if not thousands) of students over her career. She traveled the world teaching and performing and planted the seed of dance in me.

Four female dancers in 1974, wearing full body leotards, facing up and to the right with arms raised diagonally
The Ajile Dancers circa 1974, front to back, Terrie Axam, Melba Lee, Marossa Dixon, Yvonne Williams
Photograph from Total Dance Archives
Black and white image of woman dancing, legs apart, knees bent, toes pointed, arms raised and facing upward
Terrie Ajile Axam, 1992
Photograph from Total Dance Archives

Who I Am – A Dream Realized

I am the young lady who looked across the ocean in Senegal, the same water that my ancestors were forced to cross, and that my grandmother danced in front of in 1935. It is in Senegal, where I found my authentic voice as an artist and performer and deepened my understanding of dance and movement as vital in the lifeline of African people and people of African descent.

The music, rhythms, and dance of African people are the foundation of much of America’s contemporary popular culture (a fact that is not always acknowledged). This culture helped Africans in America maintain community and connection to one another- historically and presently. I, like my mother, have been privileged to travel the world, teaching, performing, and learning.

From my classes in African Dance, Hip Hop Theatre, and Mojah Dance, to working in the community, I draw upon my artistic inheritance for my work as an artist/educator.

Teaching and performing my mother’s original technique, Mojah, is a core part of my creative work. Mojah combines elements from other dance styles including modern, jazz, and West African. It is a dance technique, and much more. Mojah is a reclaiming of identity, culture, and spirit expressed in and through the body. It connects me to my heritage and a familial artistic legacy. In Hip Hop Theatre, students explore Hip Hop culture, their personal stories, and their own lived experiences. They learn to embrace their own voice to create and perform original pieces.

Through my work with Roots of Life Performing Arts Ensemble, a community-based arts-education program I co-founded, young students learn through engaging in lessons in West African dance, drumming, history, and literature. Through arts, young people have the opportunity to relate to each other and the world with a sense of curiosity, an appreciation for a plurality of perspectives, and respect for our common humanity.

Woman standing, speaking in gymnasium with students sitting in a circle around her
Kikora Franklin and Debra Daggs with students from Roots of Life Performing Arts Ensemble
Photo from Laurel Martin

Inspiring Other Dreamers

In an increasingly uncertain world, I find myself reflecting more and more upon my history, my purpose, and my place in it. I am a wife and a mother of three black humans. For me, black lives matter everyday, they always have. I am a teacher who works to inspire and advocate for my students’ lives and their right to self-expression and self-determination. I believe that we should not underestimate our children’s (and our own) capacity to learn the broader truth of our nation and world, our ability to critique it, whilst continuing to work toward its ideals.

My dreams have been and continue to be my own, yet I believe my familial and cultural legacy makes me responsible to my children, my students, and community. For my part, I will continue to share my story. In so doing, I hope to inspire others to fling their arms wide in some place of the sun, to whirl and to dance, till the quick is done, then rest at cool evening, beneath a tall tree, so that they too, may find and follow their dreams.

Two women in brightly colored dresses and head scarves dancing on the corner outside of a white brick building
“Charity Begins at Home” – Kikora Franklin and Terrie Ajile Axam sharing the gift of Mojah dance in the Southwest Atlanta community where Kikora grew up and where Ajile still lives
Photo from Shocphoto Photography

1 “Dream Variations” was published in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes (Alfred A. Knopf, 1994). – https://poets.org/poem/dream-variations

Additional links:

Mojah Dance Legacy, short doc, produced by Penn State alum, Rasha Gurriere

Roots of Life Performing Arts Ensemble

 

 

The Sounds of Silence – Contributed by Darrin Thornton

Tara Caimi5 Comments

by Darrin Thornton
Assistant Director, Penn State School of Music
Professor of Music Education

I am a Black man born and raised here in America. Growing up on the edge of the civil rights movement I witnessed the turmoil of growth from a very front row seat if not from within the mix as a guinea pig of psycho-social theory to practice in public policy.

I think of intersections when I consider the two pandemics of Covid-19 and Systemic Racism, particularly in America. The confluence of these two pandemics provides a pointed illustration of what long-standing systemically racist policy can lead to ultimately – disproportionate loss of life and socio-political unrest.

I am moved deeply by sound and spend a great deal of time exploring how musical sound affects our human condition. The craft of ultimately expressing something outside of myself provides deep meaning and fulfillment. Part of that craft requires the ability to listen deeply and critically, and to discern my particular role in the sound creation in any given moment. Listening plays such a large role in that process.

Balance is a concept common to most art forms. There are moments of musical sound that involve the absence of sound. This void without sound is a powerful space between moments of sound. We consider how we entered the silence as musicians. During the “rest” we consider the character and purpose of the sounds we will make when we re-enter the sound tapestry.

This concept of silence is a lens through which I have made sense of this moment in time where these two pandemics have collided – in quarantine, physically-distanced. It is difficult and honestly painful to describe how it feels to witness and be an active participant in these moments.

The Traumatizing Sounds of Silence. With Covid-19, there is a historical understanding that people have been pushing against racist policies that hinder access and equity. This is especially true for health care and the ancillary spaces that enhance the conditions of “bad health”. When risk factors for Covid-19 are viewed demographically, those bodies that resemble my own are most “at-risk”. As if the Covid-19 virus is targeting me and those like me most. The numbers are telling the story in ways that are undeniable.

These racist policies are so embedded within our nation’s fabric that it requires excavation to uncover and unpack them. It may be hard to see for people who are not as directly affected by the oppressive ramifications of these policies and practices. Nonetheless, they are still there. They have been there for a long time. People have used their voices, and their votes, and their actions to express these concerns for years – yet the policies persist.

If you are the targeted demographic, over time the persistence of these policies that oppress you disproportionately erodes your sense of belonging. You begin to feel your voice doesn’t matter. That often leads to silence as you stop using your voice feeling it won’t be heard so what is the point. It feels like you are pushing against a tidal wave of counter story that floods the scene in high gloss white lights. You and your concerns are erased. A colorblind filter is then applied that drowns you out despite the historical and ongoing evidence of your oppression.

Choked out voices via the oppressive strictures “on our neck” do make it hard to breathe let alone speak. Then to have the common trope tossed in your face – why didn’t you say something? Or, be in situations within white spaces where you the oppressed are to “report wrongdoing” in order to start the process of exploring said wrongdoing. That is a lot to ask of someone within the cycle of oppression who finds it hard to breathe. They aren’t even being seen, and certainly aren’t being heard.

These pandemics collide in ways that illustrate this phenomenon nicely. Racist policies affecting black bodies disproportionately at the intersections is an all too familiar theme. This theme runs through most aspects of our society when we are willing to look, listen, and hear.

I am further disheartened when those like me are not-seen, not-heard, silenced, erased and dismissed because the underlying issues are so hard to see and prove; or even harder for some to deal with once they are seen. Why does it take a medical pandemic to show the racial disparity? Especially with many witnessed accounts reported by those experiencing the oppression for hundreds of years in American history.

Those who have the option to not see, not hear, not act are the very ones with the power to enact the changes we all need. However, not until things reach pandemic levels, or until the accounts can be witnessed in living color, do the issues causing the racial pandemics become visible.

Silence during this collision of pandemics actively upholds the racist strictures that pin many bodies down making it hard to breathe. Being erased from a space you call home is dehumanizing. The fact that it continues to happen, and some opt to be mute creates traumatizing sounds of silence.

The Healing Sounds of Silence. The silence resulting from the lack of anti-racist action in both pandemics is felt very strongly. Yet, this moment in time provides a chance to heal as we take it all in.

Anti-racist battle fatigue, the anger and frustrations of discovering Whiteness, the attempts to reach out, the questions regarding what can be done, the outrage for the growing list of names and captured videos, the #hashtag expressions, the media coverage and spin, the newfound spaces allowing expression and asking for perspective – a lot to take in, process and hear.

Meanwhile, black bodies are dying in the same fashion every day. Those bodies not caught on camera, and the body count of those MOST “at-risk” by Covid-19. It is a lot to take in, process and hear.

We have entered into moments of silence as we have been forced into quarantine and social distance. That distance has its effect on us as we consider how interconnected we are as humans – this unnatural distance accentuates that reality.

Like in music, this pause in the ongoing sound provides an opportunity for us to consider how we have entered this silence and how we will emerge from this silence when we begin to engage together more fully again. The degree we are active during this silence gives me hope in ways I have not felt hope in some time. These sounds of silence are a healing balm.

Though I don’t have answers, I do have hope that humankind will find ways to ACT from each of our individual positionalities to make real changes that lead to healthy outcomes for all of us.

How am I coping? When asked that question I point to the goodness and kindness I do feel surrounding this moment in time. I point to those who are becoming more aware, and to those who are struggling yet reaching out to do all they can to be well.

I count my many blessings for the privileges I am afforded and endeavor to do my part to erase racism and to assist those most affected by Covid-19. I pray and am mindful of my surroundings and my particular place within these spaces. I listen, music is a comfort for me always but especially during these times.

The meanings within musical expression have always moved me deepest. I have leaned into musical expressions and shared those when possible. I’ve been reading and revisiting great expressions of Black people both from the past and the present.

I’ve been engaging with those who have questions and concerns and wish to know how they can help. Not engaging with answers as much as holding space to walk with people through these phases of awakening as they walk with me through phases of pain, healing, and further awakening.

Sharing and learning all at once in this process of making sense and meaning from this particular moment in history is healing. I consider how we will emerge from this “grand pause”. I remember the swirling sounds that existed before the pause and imagine the sounds that will return as we re-enter what is to come.

I grew up hearing Lift Every Voice and Sing. It was first written as a poem and later set to music. I encourage you to read the lyrics of the poem/song and consider the relevance and meaning of those words today: NAACP | NAACP History: Lift Every Voice and Sing and offer one of my favorite arrangements for orchestra and choir arranged by Roland Carter.

During this time of Covid-19 and heightened awareness of Systemic Racism, I have reflected on the many position statements and our Nation’s history. I have landed on these three take-away C’s as a hopeful way toward healing:

  • Call – call out racism and break down the policies that bind us to its ugliness,
  • Claim – claim our individual role in the racist structure (own it),
  • Commit – commit to ACTION, doing our part to break the silence with purpose.

It is my hope that enacting these three C’s will provide pathways for ALL of us to erase and silence systemic racism.

The strength of our nation is the degree to which we can Lift Every Voice – and Sing – Together!

Resources that have caused me great comfort and deep reflection during this time:

Music:

Breathe
Inspired by the death of Eric Garner and in solidarity with the Movement for Black Lives, India.Arie presents BREATHE. India sings this song to grieve those we have lost while powerfully affirming life. The song was co-written and co-produced by India.Arie and Aaron Lindsey.

Lift Every Voice and Sing – James Weldon Johnson arr. Orchestral Winds

History and original lyrics: NAACP | NAACP History: Lift Every Voice and Sing

A month ago, we decided to record Lift Every Voice and Sing to inspire young black musicians who don’t often see representation of themselves in orchestral music. Instead, here we are again mourning senseless loss of lives and fighting for justice. This recording is for every protester, every freedom fighter, everyone who needs to be lifted up and to honor George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and the numerous others whose lives have been stolen by police violence.

Seven Last Words of the Unarmed – Joel Thompson
On March 31, 2019, the Tallahassee Symphony Orchestra (TSO) partnered with the Morehouse College Glee Club and Florida A&M University Concert Choir for this powerful performance of Joel Thompson’s “Seven Last Words of the Unarmed.” Dr. David Morrow of Morehouse College conducts this piece that laments the untimely deaths of 7 unarmed black men. Following the performance is a panel discussion about the work, led by Leon County (FL) Sheriff Walt McNeil, which includes composer Joel Thompson and two TSO board members—Byron Greene and Patrick Slevin.

Word: Spoken and Written

Always Clean the Light – Dr. Bertice Berry

Analysis: George Floyd, Coronavirus and Inequality Stealing Black Lives
This analysis was originally published by the Center for Public Integrity:

Brene Brown with Austin Channing Brown: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness

Brené with Ibram X. Kendi on How to Be an Antiracist

Sterling K. Brown – Speaks on the Pandemic
“Did this live, and wasn’t gonna post. A friend convinced me otherwise. So here it is. #irunwithmaud …”

What I Want To Tell White Professors When They Ask, “How I’m Doing Today?”

Your Black Colleagues May Look Like They’re Okay — Chances Are They’re Not

This piece has been reprinted with accompanying images on the National Association for Music Education website: https://nafme.org/sounds-silence/

How COVID-19 opened time and space for interdisciplinary collaboration – Contributed by Charlene Gross

Tara Caimi1 Comment

by Charlene Gross
Assistant Professor of Costume Design, Penn State School of Theatre

If this year were like any of my past 20 years, this weekend would mark my third opening night of the summer season. Damn Yankees, which would open this week at the 2020 Ohio Light Opera, is a production that will never be. Theatrical designers, performers, directors, stage managers, technicians work all the time. We work as a team. For most of us, the summer is a busy season when our audiences attend festivals across the country.

Black and white sketch of two men wearing Yankees baseball uniforms
Damn Yankees Costume Sketch for Ohio Light Opera’s cancelled 2020 Season

Perhaps some of you will agree with me regardless your discipline. It is not the social isolation which is so strange; it is the abrupt appearance of weeks without any production demands. And with those lost demands, a gnawing need to work. Stay sharp. Participate in producing something.

What am I to do with all this time? With all my skills? How do I help my community? What do I have to offer?

I’m a costume designer. I design and make real clothing for imaginary people. Before arriving at Penn State, I was known as a go-to person to collaborate on complicated costumes. I have enjoyed building costumes with special effects, and costumes which could survive punishing production demands and dance movements at the extremes of human flexibility, all in the service of a larger team.

Theatre is all about collaboration, but suddenly being forced to pause from constant production, I realized my collaborators reached far beyond the stage. I’ve worked on and designed over 200 shows, but I’ve also collaborated with visual artists on installation pieces. I designed outfits for use in the Joshua Tree National Forest designed to survive rattlesnake bites to shins and arms. I designed light weight clothing with ice packs built in for endurance athletes. I worked with PhD chemists setting up fake crime scenes for CSI students’ final exams (a good workout for special effect makeup skills)! I consulted with a public defender office on clothing choices for clients facing trial, developed comprehensive SfX scars that reproduce the effects on the body of surviving an F3 tornado, and worked with industrial companies on best choices in uniforms for ergonomics and chemical handling safety at EPA Superfund sites. I contemplated how many odd ways I have shared my skills, built over my career in costume design, with the world outside of costume design.

So as Covid-19 hit, and every one of my upcoming theatre, dance and opera shows were cancelled, I looked around to see how my skills could help.

Of course I can sew. That’s easy for me. And cloth masks? Well, there was debate of their usefulness for the first 2+ weeks but I knew something was better than nothing, so I began to sew. Requests first came from friends and family. Then members of my own department at Penn State. Then multiple departments. Eventually from across the entire University.

I like to organize people. We had a lot of scrap material in the PSU costume stock. I organized our graduate costume students and costume staff into mask making teams. We have now produced over 3000 masks and organized distribution to dozens of business units at Penn State, and dozens of community organizations across the state and region.

I did what any good theatre person does—I figured out how to solve a series of problems. I budgeted time and money. I used my limited resources. I phoned friends. I got great advice.

A young boy in a red sweatshirt and a woman with glasses and brown hair in workshop counting cloth protective face masks. Boy is looking ito camera.
My son and I count masks into piles of 10s, and then count by 10s to make bags of 100 masks for distribution. Remote learning at its best!
A young boy in a red sweatshirt and a woman with glasses and brown hair in workshop counting cloth protective face masks.
(They were sterilized before they went out to the campuses by EHS. I swear!)

As I reached out, expanding the network of who we helped, and who helped us, I met the amazing group at the Manufacturing and Sterilization for COVID-19 (or MASC). They were taking on problems as they arose across the state and region. I offered my expertise.

I was asked if it was possible to use construction Tyvek to make respirator hoods. They had one example of a commercial hood. They potentially needed hundreds of them. I told them I had a friend and former student who had built the costumes out of Tyvek at Santa Fe Opera. So, I did what I do with a tricky costume problem; I called a friend (Ashley Bellet) to get her insight on best practices for sewing Tyvek.

Four images: On left is man wearing Tyvek hood with face shield, demonstrating fit by facing camera and in left and right profile view; Right side shows parts of Tyvek hood and face shield on a white table with a ruler
My husband (Stephen Spoonamore) modeling the Tyvek hood for fit. The hood disassembled.

I was asked to figure out how to help a headband to stay on the head properly, and provided headband input for a 3D printed face shield.

I was then tasked to develop a flat pattern, both digital and paper, for a Level III surgical gown for Susan Purdum. I did it with my graduate student, Alyssa Ridder over Zoom, working methodically through the measurements of a gown that took up half of my living room floor.

Charlene Gross sitting on floor smiling into camera holding a legal pad and working with Alyssa Ridder who appears on screen of the laptop on step stool beside her
Alyssa Ridder MFA Candidate ’21 on screen and Charlene on the floor patterning the surgical gown in paper and digitally

Then an email popped up asking if I knew of someone in theatre who works with makeup. I’d be the person. I teach stage makeup for School of Theatre every semester. The question of how to remove makeup from the now highly valued N95 masks they were sterilizing for reuse came up. Well, I can remove makeup from most fabrics, but the N95 mask is a highly oleophilic fiber which binds the oils from the skin and makeup doesn’t release oils. I offered to try if they sent me a few masks, suggested possibly an industrial surfactant would work, but the easiest solution in my mind? Ask the wearers to not wear makeup. Touchy, I know (I work with performers!) but it may be worth asking to see if that helps with some of the issues. Guess what the solution was?

Let me pause here and say, for my first two and half years at PSU, I’ve worked with amazing colleagues. Best in the field of theatre. But to do things which are truly interdisciplinary, while theoretically encouraged, is really hard given the demand on all of our time. Between course loads, production loads, mentoring student designers, designing shows myself, outside creative research, recruiting… there is little time to work on other things. Let alone find others in the University who want to do the same. The first three years have been about navigating Penn State and demands of my day-to-day academic job.

Suddenly, with performance production stopped, and having fortuitously found the MASC team I was working among 300+ engineers, surgeons, epidemiologists, materials scientists, airflow engineers, proto-typers, business procurement experts and 3D printing technicians with amazing skills, many of which were completely outside of my prior experience.

But my skills were completely outside of theirs, and much needed to meet several of their goals.

Now I have become part of this astounding group of problem solvers. I read our daily MASC reports on innovations in testing, containment, process and treatment, and marvel at how many people with novel skills have contributed.

I hope someday soon to once again be designing real clothes to put on imaginary people in the theatre, but in the meantime I am continuing to expand my skills, and, I believe, expand to many other people how valuable the thinking and process of theatrical design can be, when applied to many other demanding tasks. I have met some amazing people during this process, and was deeply honored, even embarrassed, when my colleagues awarded me one of the MASCed Marvel Awards for our COVID response. They cited my unique contributions to developing protective clothing and organizing cloth masks when supplies were extremely difficult to find. I am personally humbled, but extremely proud I was able to represent our Theatre and Performance community to the larger world in this way.

We are Theatre people. This is what we do.

Stay Safe.  Wear a Mask*.  We will get through this.

A selection of protective cloth face masks hanging from a horizontal wooden beam, a saw horse, and a poster board in Charlene's driveway
Mask contactless pick up/ drop off point at my house on a particular busy day.

*If you don’t have one, send me an email and I’ll make sure you have one or 25 within 24 hours.