Being a second son has some interesting characteristics; Sometimes a loyal follower, sometimes annoying pest, but many times resting in a safe position because your brother has paved the way in school, in church, sports, and established how parenting would/might happen.  The older brother carried expectations second sons didn’t always feel and understand.

One of my strongest memories as a child is bugging Tim to play with me; 2 person baseball games that we invented. One was outside pitching against the barn wall, another was  inside with baseball cards, a ping pong ball and a pencil in the living room.  When we had an argument or fought, we rarely if ever apologized, but would rather say; “do you want to throw?” He also broke my arm playing 2 person football when I was in the ninth grade, yes I heard it crack.

I have also learned that my memories are not interpreted the same way by Tim, I think we have both come to a gentle truce regarding who is correct. In this season of life, my siblings, Tim and my younger sister Tina, have become even closer, more meaningful, more precious to me.  In the last number of months and years, the loss of parents, selling the childhood home, going through books, photos, furniture, memories and yes, detritus, I have cherished more time spent on this property on Ridge Road Spring City now owned by my brother Tim and his wife Rachel. 

Tim is a steady presence in my life with a life time of connection. Two of the most consistent influences in my life have been baseball and comedy–yes, yes I know, seemingly trivial pursuits in the grand scheme of faith, community, morality, justice, child rearing, relationships, career etc, etc, etc. But honestly, it’s baseball and comedy. Tim has been beside me in these influences, an effortless bond where a Robert Klein routine from 1973 is still part of our dialog, (“I don’t know from Philadelphia!”) and yes we know unequivocally who played third base for the Giants in 1964, and more importantly why he did not win the Rookie of the Year award that year. 

It was Tim who taught me how to throw and catch–he might not remember it, but who else? I was his catcher as he developed as a pitcher–we both became infielders because it was easier to throw ground balls to each other than throw flies–we had one ball at a time and only when it became grass stained and heavy to the point of danger, we got another.   

He is a fabulous artist, aficionado of obscure musical trends, patient, gentle and a good friend.

And yeah he’s funny too.

We are marching onward toward our 70’s with the occasional limp, both physical and emotional but I still feel safe in my position in the middle, the second son.

I love you big brother. 

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The ellipsis…

I have been in love with the ellipsis since I started writing. Not everyone shares that love. My indiscriminate love affair with this punctuation annoys and occasionally infuriates editors and administrators alike. Here’s the thing…or a thing. It may not be the thing, but it’s certainly a thing. The thing is…

…I don’t want to change this habit of affectionally turning to the ellipsis.

And when does an annoying habit become a charming affectation? Is it related to age? Is it related to our own acceptance of the habit turned affectation? Does it include the wearing of a beret?

Those infuriated editors have asked, “Why don’t you use a comma? It’s a perfectly fine, time tested and honored punctuation. EVERYONE knows what the comma means. What did the comma ever do to you? What have you got against the comma!?  What makes you so freakin’ special?!…and what is the deal with inconsistent number of dots? I see here you use three, but here it’s four, and here two and here you went all out with five!”

Okay, I see your point. OR Okay…I see your point.

And that’s my point.

I use the beloved ellipsis is used to indicate I will write more here…

…an indication of an unfinished thought, it’s incomplete. It holds momentum for me, a liminal space where the potential for surprise and new understanding looms.

I believe it became habit because most of my creative writing has been for the spoken word. Sketches, monologues, speeches, plays, sermons, welcomes, introductions, benedictions…funeral eulogies.

It is a device to indicate to myself the pause needs more than a comma. It needs a breath more, a second more of silence to hold the moment. It hangs…

My point is…we are in a non-comma time. The comma is not enough. Through readings, conversations, pilgrimages, I have come to understand the notion of threshold. Full disclosure,  I like the idea of thin spaces, I have written about my search for the spirit’s presence in the silence—and have felt nothing.

And yet, at this moment I feel the presence of an awaited turning. It is an ellipses moment. We have all experienced change, and in Brene Brown’s words, “If we don’t understand that grief is going to be a part of change and that loss is going to be a part of change, I don’t think we can successfully evolve and I don’t think we’re doing people a favor by not saying there’s going to be some loss.”

In the past two and a half years we have lost spouses, parents, jobs, and in many cases our faith in systems we were taught were foundational—the church, democracy and simple human decency.

And we need to grieve all of these.

While we wait…

The post The Ellipses appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

Steven Stauffer sneaks up on you. It’s not just that he is innately quiet, the third child in a family of 6, and a natural peacemaker. No it’s something else…something else. Hmmm.

If you have been following along in this series, Steven has been mentioned many times. AND If you haven’t been following along, why not?! (Go check out the previous posts, starting here, for the whole story.) The series moves from Steven’s idea to shoot in a “really cool theater,” to Michelle’s description of him: 

“I’m there too, watching both the screen … and Steven’s dance. It’s a beautiful dance to behold… up then down, tilting to one side, leaning in, backing up. Ted leads, Steven follows.”

We feel Steven’s presence. 

He has a lanky athletic grace, could be a poster child for skinny jeans, and moves a bit like a small forward looking for the crevices in a zone defense; never bullying his way through a crowd, but slipping along the seams, lurking on the baseline until he spins in a reverse layup. 

He also has a sneaky sense of humor in person and translates that sense to a brilliant editing style.  I see it when he shows me an edit of a monologue that makes me laugh out loud, not because I’m so freaking funny, but because his edits are so spot on, milking every bit of possible laughter, you are holding back so you don’t miss the next laugh. 

I remember “Steven, the high school student,” that my wife Sue and I taught and directed in Senior Play and acting class, then I wonder, “When did he learn how to do that?” Sneaky. 

And he’s still doing it. From the early conversations of shooting in a barn, to working in concert with Michelle, Jacob and Jerry, Steven was seemingly inexhaustible and unfailingly positive. He always makes the job easier and comes to each project with a calm confidence, without bravado, and large amounts of humility.

I count on his level, calming influence in the room, or the basement, or in a goat field, or the woods (Valentine’s Day), or a sidewalk (The Banana Explains the World), or a warehouse (7 years of Food), or a historic house even when he was not feeling well during the shoot and spent a good amount of time sitting between takes, followed soon after by an emergency appendectomy (The Mustard Seed). 

Steven’s name is all over Ted and Co. video library (see also Listening for Grace Trailer, Addictions, and A Few Questions among others.)

I know I am susceptible to mood swings related to stress, fear, and quite frankly the prospect of unintentionally appearing stupid, or even worse, out of touch. Steven is open to almost any suggestion, and that wicked, sneaky sense of humor keeps the shoot days light and the creative juices flowing. 

Inner conceit is a term I first heard from Joe Torre, longtime baseball manager. It is holding your confidence close to the vest, not blowing your own horn…but knowing just how good you are.  Steven just might have this inner conceit.

When Valerie, Steven and I began formulating a plan to publish the  book, Portraits Of The Human Faces Tour, Steven said he’d like to “have a go at ” the design and layout–again something new approached with quiet confidence. The understated elegance of the book is another testament to his artistic sense.  

I‘ve come up with a word for Steven–I think he’s a Stealth Genius. 

And I’m fortunate I get to work with him

~ Ted

The post Anatomy of a Work in Progress Part V: Stealth Genius appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

So, one afternoon last week, I’m watching the first video cut from Steven — and I’m feeling the story, we’re carrying it through. On screen, Ted makes me laugh, brings me to tears, enlarges my heart… he draws me in, it’s just him and me. I’m Audience Member Number One, first focus group member, and my feedback is in: we haven’t finished editing yet, but it’s there. It’s working. I’m with him.

And then… I take off my Audience Member goggles, moving on to other Director Duties, and I’m struck by something.

I’ve been pulling photos for social media posts, and there’s a striking contrast here. On video, I was right there with Ted, feeling it with him, just him and me — as the Very Special Audience Member.

But looking through these pictures as Director, I’ve zoomed out from the video frame. There in the frame of a photo, is Steven, the videographer, with Ted.

— “Hey!” says the Very Special Audience Member who thought Ted was talking to them directly. “There’s someone else here! What’s he doing here?!”

— “Yep,” says the Director. “You’re still Very Special, but well… there’s a little more to the picture.”

The person looking through the camera — ie, your eyes, Dear Audience — is Steven Stauffer.

And just behind Steven as we film, I’m there too, watching both the screen (your view), and Steven’s dance. It’s a beautiful dance to behold… up then down, tilting to one side, leaning in, backing up. Ted leads, Steven follows.

And Steven isn’t just dancing with Ted; he’s dancing while carrying 5000 pounds of something called a “camera” (okay, it might only be 12 pounds, but you try carrying 12 pounds on your shoulder, holding it steady, while you do a graceful dance following the actor’s lead for 12 hours a day 4 days in a row…) as if it’s part of Steven’s own body.

I love this part of being a director — watching the meta-performance that the audience can’t see. It’s like a superpower — I can see through layers. I can see outside the frame.

Side Note (Side Notes are kind of like Rabbit Trails): When we get this pandemic under control and I can teach movement classes again, maybe I’ll suggest the students can get extra credit by learning videography. Or the whole course could be substituted by learning videography. Just follow Steven around for a while, do what he does, and I’ll give you full credit for the course. Balance, grace, flexibility, responsiveness, strength, endurance…you have to have it all in order to do the job.

Anyway. That’s Steven. Dancing.

On camera, you see Ted running up and down a bunch of stairs. Zoom out, and you see Steven running up and down behind him. Running up and down stairs HOLDING A CAMERA ON HIS SHOULDER, I might add.

On camera, you see Ted talking to you, his Very Special Confidante. Zoom out, and you see Steven walking backwards, through a basement cluttered with tripping hazards.

Zoom out a bit more and you see me behind Steven, following his moves (who is following Ted’s moves). We’re all dancing. Ted leads, we follow. He’s the star, after all.

Of course, we lead Ted too. In good dancing, you might not be able to tell who’s leading and who’s following.

I’m watching over Steven’s shoulder so I can see the frame, or stepping to the side so I can see Ted in 3D. I’m moving a bucket out of the way as Steven backs up, so Ted can keep walking and talking to you, his Favorite Person.

Zoom out some more and you see Jacob.

Jacob leaning in with the boom mic so he can get the right sound. Jacob in the back of the house making the lights shift at just the right moment. Jacob hidden under the sound board so he can monitor the audio, but stay out of your sight as Ted moves through the space.

Invisible.

Zoom out and you also see Jerry catching a door when it swings so it doesn’t bang behind Ted after he’s gone through it; or reading lines into Ted’s earpiece from the other room, so Ted has a real person to talk to in this scene.

Later, Ted’s son Derek is recording the missing dialogue over the phone and we all crack up.

Side Note… We thought it was a great take until Jacob, on sound, diplomatically said, “Okay, let’s do it one more time and, uh… can we laugh a little quieter this time?”

We’re all there. We just have to be quiet. And invisible. More superpowers!

I whisk a hat out of the frame, or hand Ted a jacket. Jerry throws a prop into the frame so it lands in Ted’s hands. If we do our jobs well, you will hardly notice we’re there. Magic!

What you see on screen looks like an empty theatre (poor Ted, all alone…). The reality is that in between takes there are a slew of coats, water bottles, backpacks, and notebooks we move from one corner of the theatre to another as Ted takes you, Best Friend, on a walk that looks so easy, so graceful.

It’s just you and him. All he can see is You.

You see Ted crossing a dark street and entering a bar alone.

I see Steven in front of him, walking backwards. I’m behind Steven so I can watch what he’s filming; I’m also walking backwards. When we get to the street, I step away so Jerry and I can make sure cars stop as Ted crosses “alone.”

Then I run to catch back up with Steven and Ted, while Jacob and Jerry hide behind a sign, on headphones so they can track the sound.

You won’t know we’re here.

Ted walks slowly, easily, while we all scurry in the background. He’s the host, he keeps you engaged. We’re the catering, we make sure the food is on the table and tastefully arranged by the time you arrive.

You won’t see the kitchen mess, but as a director I kind of love seeing it… the mess, backstage, choreography… the way the magic happens.

If we’re seen, we break the magic.

Unless it’s at just the right moment… I do love crew cameos. You might catch a grumpy stagehand in the shadows, waving Character Ted off to the bar; an impatient stagehand pushing Character Ted onstage; a sound op saluting as Character Ted leaves for a break.

Ted the Actor is used to having all those people there, just out of your sight, supporting him.

Ted the Character makes you feel like he only sees You, even though you’re not there in the moment.

(Do you have superpowers too, oh Honored Audience Member, the One and Only? How do you make us believe in you as we create this film… believing you will appear, believing you will listen, believing you will care?)

The magic of theatre and film is that there is always more happening than you can see. We are in the space with Ted at every moment. Cheering him on between takes, laughing, brainstorming, problem-solving… the room holds confusion, rising tension, inspiration,  exhaustion, delight….

Ted carries our presence into the shots. On camera, you see one person, as if he’s alone. But he wasn’t.

Solo shows are never solo.

There are five of us in the room, breathing together, moving together, dancing together. Ted is with you, and we’re all there with Ted, and with you, too — You, the Audience of Our Dreams, our VIP Guest, the Reason We’re Here.

Invisible (if we’ve done our jobs right). Bringing our superpowers. Making the magic happen.

There are five people in this room, and a lot of hidden coats, water bottles, coffee cups, clipboards, and backpacks… We’re doing it for You. Our Beloved Audience. (Well, and also for the Magic.)

— Michelle

(All       by Michelle Milne)

The post Anatomy of a Work of Art in Progress: Shifting Perspectives… A Director’s View appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

Now, when we rented the Goshen Theater, Jerry Peters came with it. It’s right there in the contract: “In signing this contract, as a bonus, you also receive a healthy dose of Jerry Peters.” Everyone needs a healthy dose of Jerry Peters. I first met Jerry in 1991…

JERRY: …29 years ago.

TED:  Wow, that makes me feel…

JERRY: Seasoned?

TED: Seasoned.

JERRY: So, I’ll be there a bit, get the heat going, turn the lights on, run the spot if you need it. 

TED: Right.

JERRY: But mostly dropping in and out… checking in.

TED: Can you join us for a pre-production meeting via Zoom?

JERRY: Sure.

And he was hooked. See, we also wanted Jerry’s eye and imagination involved. 

He’s done a little of everything…lighting, sound, set building, problem-solving, cameo acting, croissant runs…. and he’s the Goshen Theater Technical Director. Michelle told me he’s notorious for “dropping in,” like every rehearsal, with lots of great ideas, but nooooo he doesn’t want to be a director, he’ll just drop in and out, he’s got a lot going on…. and there he is. He likes it. We like him.

STEVEN: There’s a marquee out front right?

JERRY: Yeah.

MICHELLE: What’s on it for the shoot?

JERRY: Title of the film?

MICHELLE: Do we have a title?

* All look at Ted *

TED: I’m sorry, was that question directed at me?

STEVEN: So maybe a title, what else?

TED: My name spelled wrong?

STEVEN: Fun, it could be a subtle thing, where you have to really pay attention to see what changes are happening.

MICHELLE: Is the marquee telling a part of the story?

TED: Yes.

JERRY: Is the marquee the “Greek Chorus” of the film?

ALL: Yes!!

TED: Who changes the marquee?

JERRY: I do…and you know, it does take a while to make those changes.

STEVEN: We figure that out when we are there. And we’ll have a title, right?

TED: I’m sorry, was that question directed at me?

Unbeknownst to me, prior to my arrival in Goshen, Michelle and Jerry had already been plotting about use of the space.

 MICHELLE: Why do we have to stay on stage?

JERRY: No reason.

MICHELLE: We’ve got the place to ourselves right.

JERRY: Right, because…

ALL TOGETHER…”The pandemic hit and all performances were canceled.”

MICHELLE: We could have a scene in the dressing room.

JERRY: Which dressing room?

MICHELLE: There are options?

JERRY:  We have the diva dressing room and the plebian dressing room.

MICHELLE: Both.

JERRY:  Wanna see the basement? 

MICHELLE: Do I?!

JERRY: We could clear this part of backstage off. Or leave it.

MICHELLE: Let’s leave it for now, the mess seems right for the character’s brain… what’s this?

JERRY: Just a closet.

MICHELLE: We can use that.

JERRY: Ted will be coming out of the closet?

MICHELLE: Big changes in 2020.

Jerry giving Michelle a tour of the closets…

In another production meeting, another fortuitous moment…

JERRY: You know, Jacob Claassen, a student at Goshen College, knows a whole lot more about the lights here than I do.  Can we bring him on board?

MICHELLE: Jacob’s good.

TED: Sounds like a great idea. 

We now had a lighting designer. 

Michelle, getting excited (she might have been doing a little dance), watching Jacob play with the lights: 

MICHELLE: You can do color?!

JACOB: Have I got color!

MICHELLE: Nice! Can we have that color over there? 

JACOB: Yes and…

MICHELLE: …ah, I see, over there as well. 

JACOB: And you can add this color, or this color, combine the three.

MICHELLE: Sweet! Can we add forestry wilderness upstage for the “backstage” scene?

JACOB: Deciduous or evergreen?

MICHELLE:  Yes.

JACOB: Done.

MICHELLE: Can we have them change in the middle of a shot? 

JACOB: Sure.

MICHELLE: There’s a backstage scene. Can we light that?

JACOB: Yes! And! Yes, And! Also this and this and this… colors! patterns! Is this a dream scene, a memory, or “today”? 

Jacob had lighting for it all. 

Jacob and Jerry hanging lights

On the first day of production, he was thrust into the sound production as well.

TED: Jacob, I picked up a new microphone along the way, here’s the box.

JACOB: Oh wow, toys!

TED: You got this, right?

JACOB: Got it.

And it was so. So nice not to have to worry about my own mic. 

On the second day of the shoot… 

JACOB: I was wondering… would you like a stage manager? 

TED: Wait, we don’t have a stage manager?! Who’s in charge here?! Besides me, I mean. 

Rabbit trail: There is a reason stage managing is one of the most marketable theater career paths. Despite the term, it is not the stage, but rather people they are managing… creative, distracted, passionate, volatile, sometimes temperamental, habitually late, talented, self absorbed, generous, wounded people. Wheww. They are often in charge of schedule, continuity, schedule, props, running rehearsals, communication, and schedule. 

 JACOB: No. We don’t have a stage manager.

TED: Is it noticeable?

JACOB: (simply stares at him)

MICHELLE/STEVEN/JERRY Yes!!

TED: Sounds like a good idea. Can you do that?

JACOB: Yes.

MICHELLE/STEVEN/JERRY: Thank you!!!

And it was stage manager Jacob who reminded us of the schedule, who watched for continuity…it was lighting designer Jacob who made us all (and by us all, I mean me, the actor) look good, it was sound tech Jacob who noted “Ted’s shirt is rustling, we need another take.” He kept track of scenes, made sure sound was running, and…

JACOB: Ted, uh, don’t forget to turn your mic off when you go to the bathroom.

TED: Of course, have I EVER not done so?

JACOB: This morning.

JERRY: And in Oregon in 1991.

TED : Ok, Ok!!  (Retreats to the sanctuary of the men’s room. Fumbling for his…off switch). 

Thank you Jerry and Jacob!

The budget grew, but more importantly the collaboration expanded, there were 5 minds free to throw ideas into a beautiful caldron of imagination and art. It was more complicated yes, but boy it was a whole lot more fun. In the post shoot debrief, we all expressed an appreciation of the spirit of collaboration. It was a shout out to “Yes and…” This phrase is a bedrock of improv comedy. 

Rabbit trail: Why hasn’t Improv Drama ever caught on? Because surprise is so closely tied to comedy? Because we have enough drama in normal life? Or is it just a really horrible idea? Like trickle down economics. 

Regardless, most theater people are familiar with the phrase “Yes And…” and try to honor it, responding to an idea with yes – keeping the creative channel open, rather than no – closing it off. It is also a great philosophy of life, “yes and…”  How might society change if our impulses were to always say yes first?

 So ‘yes and’. 

In that celebration of collaboration we realized we had needed an addendum to this phrase. In the midst of a delightful ‘jam session’  we came up with, “yes and…but.”

As in, Yes, and let the lights change here to reflect a “dream sequence,” Steven nimbly circles Ted amplifying the moment, but flying Ted in from the rafters is probably not possible…in the time we have.

TED: And the budget….also I’ve heard those harnesses really bind you in the crotch.

This whole project was a surprising, anxiety filled celebration of unexpected challenges and delights. We were now ready to shoot. I was stressing about lines, vulnerable acting choices, whether I had planned dinners for us all, what was I going to do with my COVID hair? 

But I knew I was in good hands.   

…to be continued.

~ Ted

The post Anatomy of a Work of Art in Progress Part III: The Crew appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

So, a change in plans–don’t shoot the video in the barn, amongst the detritus and memories of my childhood, but rather travel to Goshen, Indiana, and rent the gorgeous, recently renovated Goshen Theater where they have been unable to host events because… all together now:

 “The pandemic hit and all performances were canceled.”

In light of this change in plans–a real theater instead of a barn–maybe I need to be better; a better writer, a better actor. The stakes have been raised. 

So we need to hire an exceptional director. Enter Michelle Milne…

Photo by Ted

MICHELLE: How long are you thinking the shoot will take?

TED: I was thinking one day of shooting.

MICHELLE: Really? One day?

TED: I mean after a day of rehearsal.

MICHELLE: A day?

TED: Well, we could do a 2 hour Skype rehearsal before that.

MICHELLE: Uh huh.

TED: Okay, maybe longer rehearsal. We can add another hour to the skype rehearsal. 

(Long pause, Michelle looking at Ted, he smiles, tries to be charming) 

MICHELLE: Can I see a script?

TED: (Taps his head) It’s all right here.

MICHELLE: In your head?

TED: Yes, in that place where the magic happens.

MICHELLE: The magic? Is that why there appears to be smoke coming out of your ears?

TED: No, I think that’s just rust…in the gears, lack of stage time.

MICHELLE: Seriously can I see a script?

I quickly cobbled together my bullet points from the show I had performed in January, you remember last January, when we were all so innocent—wasn’t it three years ago, last January? Sent the script to Michelle. 

MICHELLE: So I read the script.

TED: Yeah?

MICHELLE: It’s good, it has potential.

TED: Potential? It’s a script, not a minor league ballplayer.

MICHELLE: How high in the system is the player? And whose system?

TED: What? 

MICHELLE: If it’s Tampa Bay you’re close, if you’re thinking of San Francisco…no.

TED: I didn’t think you knew much about baseball…

MICHELLE: I do now! I had to read up, prepare, be able to meet the actor where he’s at, using language he understands…

TED: The actor? I thought we were working on the script.

MICHELLE: And the writer. Lucky for me, they’re the same guy. You remember you’ll be doing both, right?

TED: Yes, yes, acting (waves hands dismissively) … so the script?

MICHELLE:  What’s the story you want to tell?

TED: Ahhhh.

MICHELLE: Is this a documentary to sell books?

TED: Selling books wouldn’t be a bad thing.

MICHELLE: Sure, but do you want to do more? Do you want to draw the viewer in…make us feel…make us laugh…change us?

It’s borderline unfair to ask this question to an actor and writer. Of course that is what I wanted, so…back to the script, more rewrites, restructured the budget, more consultations with Steven and Michelle…contracted the Goshen Theater—thanks, Amber Burgess!…more rewrites, Steven gathered the equipment, I gassed up the van and headed to Indiana while waiting results of the COVID test…wait, what??!!  

Yeah, on Election Day, the first election day, I received my positive results, certifying that my feeling like I’d been run over by Mike Trout in a home-late collision had its roots in that nasty virus. And my memory…it’s…you know that’s one of the side effects…loss of memory…and well, where was I?

Ah, a positive test. So I quarantined in Goshen, and rescheduled the theater for mid December—thanks, Amber Burgess at Goshen Theater! 

So another month to plan, more rewrites, more questions from Michelle…

MICHELLE: You mean really good questions.

TED: Right.

MICHELLE: Like–why is this scene here?

TED: You mean placement?

MICHELLE: No, how does this scene help tell the story you want to tell?

TED: It’s a good scene.

MICHELLE: Yes! It is! Made me laugh…a lot.

TED: One of my favorite scenes.

MICHELLE: I love it!

TED: Great!

MICHELLE:  But…why is it here? What does it do for the story we’re telling?

TED: (Pause) Damn.

That is what directors do. Ask questions to see if you know the truth of the moment and are you clear?  

Once we were ready to take it on stage and then screen, Michelle was relentless…

MICHELLE: Relentless? Passionate.

TED: Relentless.

MICHELLE: Relentlessly… 

TED: …passionate, in a good way mind you, in her questions. And she didn’t let me off the hook as an actor, an actor with a pretty big bag of tricks. 

MICHELLE: So this show, we have the story…it’s very moving, it’s funny…

TED: Thanks.

MICHELLE: Now, on to the acting…

TED:  Right, working on getting it all up here (taps head).

MICHELLE: And here (taps heart).

TED: Oh. Sounds scary. 

MICHELLE:  The writer’s done a good job. 

TED: Great. Can we just stay there?

MICHELLE: It’s time to give him a break, take some time off, maybe catch a minor league baseball game.

TED: It’s December.  

MICHELLE: It’s time to step up to the plate.

TED: Enough with the baseball.

MICHELLE: Remember that story we’re working to tell… now it’s the actor’s turn.

TED: It is?

MICHELLE: How will the actor–you–tell the story? How vulnerable do you want to be?

TED: (pause) 

MICHELLE: Are you getting pale? Can I get you some water?

Acting is vulnerable, and it’s scary to open yourself up and let anyone in, let alone hundreds of people. A director is a cheerleader, critic, therapist, dramaturge, compassionate truth teller all rolled into one package. 

I was sometimes chagrined, and sometimes delightfully surprised to discover there was always something more to be explored in my performance. If I had the courage to find it. 

The show began to take on a different light, it was becoming a heartfelt, painful, joyful remembrance and celebration of resilience, theater, friendship and collaboration. 

We had come a long way from the barn… Just what had I gotten myself into?  

To Be Continued…

~ Ted

The post Anatomy of a Work of Art in Progress Part II: The Questions Directors Ask appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

And…here is where the performer holds the mic out to the audience and they sing the next lines, all together now…”The pandemic hit and all performances were canceled.”

In late summer my wife Sue made a prescient suggestion, “ Why don’t you put that show on video to create an online product and we can sell those pallets of books in our basement?” 

A great idea. In August I had made plans to spend some time in my childhood home helping with the care of my dad and I thought, “I’ll just bring Steven Stauffer down from Brooklyn for a day and we’ll shoot me talking to the camera…and hey, we could do it in the barn there on Ridge Road, Spring City PA.” 

Photo by Tim Swartz

Recreated conversation with Steven

TED: So hopefully it’ll be just a day, and we can set up lights and do it in the barn at my brother’s place.  So…

STEVEN: ( nodding ) …Hmm, I have an image of you coming on stage like the comedians in TV specials do to a huge crowd…

TED: Ok.

STEVEN: …and then there’s no crowd…

TED: …right, because…

STEVEN: …you see the metaphor?

TED: …Yeah, but..

STEVEN: … and then of course we need a really cool theater. 

TED I was thinking if you could be down by 10:00 AM, I could have some space cleared out in the barn…

STEVEN: Do you know of any theaters like that?

TED:  …maybe a 12 by 12 space…and the budget…by the way, the budget is a “shoot it in the barn budget.”

STEVEN: I’m seeing gold seats…no, red seats…hundreds of them, empty.

TED:  Like the budget?

STEVEN:  And we shoot you in the dressing room, then follow you down halls…corridors… 

TED: Isn’t that the same thing?

STEVEN: Shhh, I’m visually rolling. …I’m following you right out onstage, circling…the lights casting an aura around you…the star. 

( pause ) 

TED: So, a really cool theater…

STEVEN:  Yeahhhh!

TED: Like this one?

STEVEN:  Yeahhhh!

…To be continued…

The post Anatomy of a Work of Art in Progress: Part 1 appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

As well, I have been cleaning out rooms and the basement, discovering a few gems but mostly decades of memories and fleetingly meaningful detritus. 

This time has been deep, occasional hilarious, and an exercise on being present in the moment.

I’ve also dabbled in a new written form, with apologies to actual poets… 

Gospel 

During supper the gospel is proclaimed.

Willie, Johnny and EmmyLou

sing of grace and blood, and sacrifice.  

Prepared by care-giver for Dad.

She, with a Menno background 

‘Fallen away’ and returned,

carrying life as a blessing and a burden. 

Oft times tattered and wounded,

with a love for cowboy boots and cowboy songs

and gospel sung by the stars who hold a similar need 

to sing the old songs.

The ones that harken them back

back to simple homes and simple faith.

Dad says, “We let the music be our prayer”

I held for a beat, fork in hand.

Willie’s benedictal twang gave us amazing grace

and so we gave our amen. 

Dad is a pleasant dementia sufferer

Much like a happy drunk.

This insidious disease for him

an annoyance 

rather than angry and tear-filled.

Like Mom’s.

For him

each meal is savored,

“Oh that’s good”

The Special K.

“Wow, that is so good”

The yogurt 

“There’s just something about a banana”

Well, the banana. 

The night I made supper.

“Do you have some music?”

I do, but

no gospel music on my phone.

Bruce, Rhiannon, Kottke and Cohen

and Brandi Carlisle.

So with the BarBQ and sautéed asparagus

Brandi sang our prayer.

I haven’t seen my father in some time

But his face is always staring back at me

His heavy hands hang at the ends of my arms

And my colors change like the sea

But I don’t worry much about time lost

I’m not gunning for the dreams I couldn’t find

‘Cause he taught me how to walk the best that I can

On the road I’ve left behind

But most of all

He taught me to forgive

How to keep a cool head

How to love the one you’re with

And when I’m far into the distance

And the pushing comes to shove

To remember what comes back

When you give away your love

Give away your love

When you give your love away

Give away your love

-Most Of All        B. Carlisle 

In the house I left at 19, with the man

Who raised us with benevolent neglect

Who will ask me 37 times

“When we are leaving tomorrow?”

We communed together

While Brandi gave us the Gospel. 

Ted Swartz 9.20.2020

The post The Gospel Proclaimed… appeared first on Ted & Company TheaterWorks.

He says, “Celtic spirituality invites us into a deeper awareness of the sacred in one another and all things.”  He then noted a three-fold approach to this way of seeing:

1. Let go of old ways of seeing that have failed to see and reverence the sacred in one another as races, as nations, as species, as religions.
2. Reimagine new ways of seeing, or allow ourselves to dream of ways of seeing, living and relating we haven’t known before.
3. Commit ourselves to beginning to live these new ways of seeing now as a way of preparing the foundations for a new day in our world.

Recently I spent a week on a silent retreat (a first for me) at Red Point, Maryland, a block off the beach on the north neck of the Chesapeake Bay.

Rabbit Trail: While standing in line to purchase sun screen and a hairband, I noticed this…

Hmmmm. I thought, I never done that either, paint my nails. Maybe this is a way to mark the days and carry something back with me.

As an artist, I traffic in the language of metaphor. Everything can be a metaphor; your receding hairline, the path you choose to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, the first firefly of the season, the patch of skin on your lower back you missed with the sunscreen, the half and half that soured because you forgot it was behind the orange juice…these all could be metaphors—for life, for art.

So metaphors.

On one of my silent walks down the beach, avoiding people at all costs, I saw numerous downed trees. Well, I did talk to the dogs—dogs don’t count against a silent retreat, right? The roots were fully exposed, you could see the entire expanse of the root spread, and it’s not unusual to see fallen dead trees along the shore…

…except there is green growth out of each tree, sometimes just a couple of green sprouts, sometimes new limbs as big around as my arm. So…

… somewhere beneath the sand a root still grows down to water and soil and the nutrients still held there.

Perhaps a metaphor for new growth in this period of waiting, this period of mourning, and yes, this period of grief.

Most performing artists I know are in various states of denial, despair and development. We are all coming to the realization that it might be a year from now before people are legally allowed to gather in numbers that can sustain a traveling artist and company. In addition, there is a growing realization that should institutions, theaters, churches and schools even be allowed to gather, their first, second or even fifth impulse probably won’t be to book that concert or theater performance. All of these potential hosts will almost likely be facing significant challenges with finances.

As we wait for the turning of our world, we invite your financial support for Ted & Company as we re-imagine how we share theater and art with the world. You can make a tax-deductible donation through the Center For Art Humor & Soul. Live shows, our primary means of sustenance, has dried up. Where will the new growth come from at the roots of Ted & Co? What is opportunity and what is simply loss? And how to Newell’s words take root in us and in your own life? How we move forward is connected with all of you and what we value.

Grateful for the journey with you, friends. Things are not what they seem. May you begin to see the green new growth sprouting up from what is old and dying.

~ Ted

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