"Illusions": A Reflection

As many of you already know, I am the producer of this year's One Act Show "Illusions" at GBN. This has been an incredible experience for me—something completely separate from what I am used to in GBN Theatre. Though I wish not to merely discuss my life and my experiences in this blog, this experience has been very meaningful to me and could perhaps provide some insight into theatre, performance, and life in general.

I've found that it is easy to get settled into a routine without realizing it. Although routine is crucial to organization and productivity, it also leaves little room for growth. During rehearsals for each show at GBN, our theatre director always tells us to "be in the moment"—to imagine as if we are experiencing the scene for the first time, regardless of of how many rehearsals have passed. Certainly scenes are rehearsed and repeated, but I like to imagine as if each rehearsal is a new experience—anything but routine. That being said, theatre productions as a whole are becoming routine in my life. Each year I do about three or four shows, each lasting for about eight weeks, and each new year brings new performances. While I loved every production, last year I began to desire a completely experience—something to break up my theatre routine—and for me, that experience has been producing the One Acts.

As producer, my duties include reading student-submitted scripts, choosing which acts will be performed, organizing rehearsals and show dates, running auditions and callbacks, generating publicity, and so on. It has by no means been a walk in the park, and that's why I have enjoyed the process so much. I constantly approach logistical and theatrical hurdles that require my past experience be resolved, and it is intensely satisfying to see my input help bring this show to life. I am no longer a piece of a puzzle; I am the puzzle-solver himself. 

"Illusions" has helped me grow exponentially as an actor as well. For the first time, I am experiencing a show from behind the scenes, in the once ungraspable realm where some stroke of magic is able to turn a bunch of discombobulated actors into a cohesive ensemble. I have been able to work with that "magic" first-hand, finally demystifying the many moving parts that make a production great. Whereas I could once only see a production from the perspective of myself—but one of many moving parts—I now hope to better adapt my own acting to the other moving parts—cast mates, directors, settings, et cetera.

Above all else, "Illusions" has been a humbling experience. I always thought producing or directing a show would be easy and straightforward. "Just tell the actors and directors what to do," I thought. Though I have always had the utmost respect for my theatre director Ms. Robinson, this experience has, more than anything, showed me how truly awesome Ms. Robinson is. She has incredible talent as an actress as well as a director, and she still manages to find time to bond with her students. In many ways, the One Acts title "Illusions" perfectly fits my experience with this show; the illusions of directing were holding me back, yet I now see that theatre and directing are not at all what they once seemed. 

Semester in Review: Blogging

This semester has certainly been eventful: applying to college, five AP classes, unconquerable stress, etc. And, in addition to the most blogging I have ever attempted, this has also been my most theatre-filled semester thus far at GBN. This, of course, has made blogging about performance somewhat easier, but it has also made it more enlightening. Performance has not just helped my blogging; blogging has helped my performance.

I began the year excited to blog, and, though the initial excitement has waned, I can honestly say that I have learned a lot about myself through this blog. Much to my surprise, I have found it somewhat difficult to blog. Having been accustomed to essay-style paragraphing for so long, taking a more informal approach to writing has been more difficult than expected. That being said, I have noticed more voice in my writing as a result of this blog. Words no longer feel as forced, and the writing process is now easier and faster.

With college essays rampant, the renewed presence of voice in my writing could not have come at a better time. Interestingly enough, I wrote several college essays over the summer in a vain attempt to ease my first semester workload. At the time, I (stupidly) thought they were phenomenal. I actually considered showing them to my parents as examples of how much my writing had improved! Thankfully I forgot about them for some time, and I suppose I have procrastination to thank.

In mid-October, with application deadlines only weeks away, I decided to look back at my summer essays to check for grammatical errors. In a fit of sheer panic, I realized how pathetic the essays truly were. I actually wrote this blog post in my anger, trying to shift the blame from myself to the college process. I should clarify: the essays were by no means awful. They were polished, organized, and informative; however, they were also bland, cliché, and scripted. The voice was non-existent. Thankfully I never had to submit the essays, though I strongly considered starting from scratch.

My college essay-writing capabilities have actually increased two-fold as a result of blogging, through voice as well as self-discovery. At the beginning of the year, my English teacher pointed out that blogging should exist in the magical space in between school and home, wherein writing is both substantive and meaningful. I believe that my blog has accomplished this very well, bringing what I've learned in class and applying it to performance—my true passion. For example, my post "Metamorphoses and the Role of Myth" connected my AP Psych class, Joseph Campbell, and Greek mythology to the play I was involved in, Metamorphoses. Similarly, "It's All Just a Game of Thrones" somehow found a balance between life in Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible and my favorite animated TV show, "The Legend of Korra." Discovering relationships between different aspects of my life has helped me sort through and condense my complex interests, which has in turn greatly improved my college essays. I now have a firmer understanding of myself and my interests, and I have blogging to thank.

As this post should prove, blogging is not meaningless or irrelevant: it is a means of self-discovery. The title of my blog is "Discovering Theatre," and, after four months of blogging, I can't think of a more accurate title. I have discovered theatre in places that I would never expect, from AP Psych (see "Erecting Facades") to Azar Nafisi (see "Reading Korra in Tehran"), but, more importantly, I have improved my performance as well. As I mentioned in "Metamorphoses and the Role of Myth," discussing a playwright's intentions and a show's themes in rehearsal is a common tactic used to improve acting. It helps make the acting more genuine and emotional, telling a story instead of reciting one. My blogging has done just that, and I now truly feel like I am telling a story on stage.

Despite these strengths, my blogging still has a ways to go until I will be satisfied. Some of my posts (like "Museums are the Absolute Truth!") still feel academic and forced. I hope to learn from one of my classmates, Charlie Kelly, whose blog about feminism is deeply related to her own life, mixing school and home perfectly. I will continue to try and make my writing more like Charlie's—fluid and genuine—just as I hope to improve my performance. And, in reference to my first post, "Feel free to join me for the ride!"

The Grapes of Wrath

As many of you already know, I had the privilege this weekend to travel to Illinois State University for this year's Illinois High School Theatre Festival (yes, the official festival name is spelled "TheatRE"), also called "Theatrefest." This was my fourth and final Theatrefest, and although I'm feeling awfully nostalgic right now, I figured this is as good a time as ever to blog about theatre and performance.

Theatrefest 2014!

This year's All-State Production, wherein high school students from across Illinois audition for a production to be performed at the festival, was "The Grapes of Wrath," and it was certainly intense. Based off the novel by John Steinbeck, "The Grapes of Wrath" follows the story of a family from Oklahoma and their attempt to escape poverty and famine. The family packs up and decides to leave for California, where the work is abundant and the orchards are fertile—according to rumor. When the family finally reaches California (spoiler alert!), they realize how untrue the rumors were: wages are desperately low, work is limited, and the family is split apart. Their dreams of prosperity were both dangerous and ungraspable, and they pay the price in the end.


Steinbeck is well-known for his cynical approach to the American dream. He sees dreams as dangerous, convincing men and women of a future that is impossible to obtain. He blatantly criticizes capitalism for instilling these dreams in the minds of hard-working families, believing that in the end, it's all just a farce.

This blog continues to surprise me by how relevant theatre is to the rest of my life, and "The Grapes of Wrath" is no exception. In English class we too have been discussing the damaging effects of dreams in the context of the memoir "Reading Lolita in Tehran," which explains how an impossible dream led to the oppressive regime that exists today in Iran. The characters in the memoir further relate this reality to "The Great Gatsby," in which Gatsby reaches towards an impossible dream, one that leads to his eventual death.

Performance of "The Great Gatsby" from 2008

Are dreams dangerous? Certainly. Should we avoid them at all costs? While Steinbeck and Fitzgerald might think so, I tend to disagree. In the play I saw over the weekend, dreams of grapes and oranges and prosperity did indeed lead to a broken family; however, dreams of stability and a better life are not always detrimental. Perhaps idealizing a dream is what's truly dangerous. If the family in "The Grapes of Wrath" had realized that no future is ideal, perhaps they would have been more logical in their actions. What's dangerous is when dreams cloud judgement—when they override logic and promote blind faith to an ideal.

In a fit of boredom last week, I decided to watch Conan O'Brien's commencement speech to the Dartmouth Graduating Class of 2011. In it, he states that telling college graduates to follow their dreams is illogical. "Dreams change," he said. I'd like to thank the cast of Theatrefest's "Grapes of Wrath"—or "Grapenation" as they like to call themselves—for showing me that perhaps it's not the dream that's dangerous, but rather the close-mindedness surrounding it.

In conclusion, #GrapeNation #TheatreFest. Time to study for finals!

A Brief "Sportz!" Reflection

Freshman year me (Aww, so cute [and fat]!)

As many of you already know, I am currently involved in Glenbrook North's production of "Comedy Sportz!" performing this Wednesday through Saturday in the CPA. As a means of remembrance and self-reflection, I always try to contemplate how each show I am involved in has affected my life or the lives of others. Never, however, have I performed the same show twice on two different occasions. This time is different; I was also involved in the 2009 production of "Comedy Sportz!" as a freshman, and performing the same show twice is unique to say the least.

I'll first start by mentioning that which has remained continuous since my freshman year. The show is still being performed at the same times on the same stage in the same auditorium as my freshman year, and my friends Ellie and Ed have been involved in both productions of the show as well. The show still revolves around improvisation, so every showing is technically different, though the set-up is almost identical to what it was three years ago. Essentially the foundation of the show has remained constant, whereas numerous differences lie in the shows inner workings.

Me reffing the show
Yay!

To start, I'm no longer a frightened, shy freshman. I am the captain of my Comedy Sportz team (cleverly named the "Matzo Ballers" due to our Jewish heritage), and I tend to actively involve myself in almost every scene. In almost total opposition to my deer-in-the-headlights-like demeanor three years ago, I am now one of the more experienced members of the show, and I have tried to establish myself as a leader as a result.

What's more insightful to me (and more blog-worthy in my opinion) has been the change I have witnessed in myself. Change is a slow process, and I have often criticized myself for not growing enough as a performer or as a person throughout my high school career. Although performance can be liberating, I have found that it can also foster low self-esteem. I have struggled with this issue throughout my performing career, but this production of "Comedy Sportz!" has demonstrated to me how important it is to look back upon the past with positivity and lack of regret.

"Comedy Sportz!" this time around has acted as a window to the past. I'm not one of the best players in the show by any means, but I am still proud of the growth I have seen in myself over the past three years. I have learned that it often takes a repetition of the past to propel oneself into the future. Our wonderful theatre director Ms. Robinson has always told us to "Trust the process"—to trust that it will all work out in the end. "Comedy Sportz!" has demonstrated to me how important that advice truly is; if we trust our own potential, positive change is inevitable.

Reading Korra in Tehran

I try to avoid "geeking out" over my favorite TV shows (and trust me, I could if I wanted to) in my blog posts, but this was simply too intriguing to avoid. The other day, I noticed that Mike DiMartino, the creator of my favorite animated show "The Legend of Korra," had started his own blog about the series and about life. Half hoping for some insight about the show and half simply geeking out, I decided to follow his blog. Turns out his most recent post not only struck a chord with my life but also related immensely to my recent study of modern Iran in English class. Relevance notwithstanding, DiMartino touches on something we could all use a bit more of.

[If you would like to visit DiMartino's blog post, click here. Highly intriguing (if you can get past the fandom nerdiness)!]

Just for some background, our English class is currently reading Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran. Following the story of several Iranian women who create a reading group in silent objection to the fundamentalist Islamic regime, Reading Lolita in Tehran provides key insight into the power of fiction and storytelling in a confusing and often unfair world. The world around this small reading group is considered to be a farce—a false reality—whereas the women's real selves are revealed within. In reference to Nabokov's Invitation to a Beheading, Nafisi claims the women are living in a "staged world," wherein the "only window to another universe is... writing."

This "staged world" clearly lends itself well to the umbrella of performance. What was not immediately evident to me, however, was how well this related to DiMartino's blog. What I originally thought would simply be a blog about upcoming developments in the new season of "Legend of Korra" has pleasantly surprised me, and DiMartino, too, talks about the power of storytelling and myth, quoting Joseph Campbell's "The Power of Myth" liberally. DiMartino claims, "Stories, when made with love and integrity, contain the possibility to effect personal and societal change."

Nafisi certainly would not disagree. Although our class is but one hundred or so pages into the book thus far, Nafisi has already revealed to us the vast restrictions placed on women in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Each day, as the women enter the living room to discuss literature, they cast off the black attire and veils that they are forced to wear outside. Nafisi claims these women had almost become solely defined by the veils they wore; in essence, the fundamentalist regime had stolen their individuality—stolen their stories. Only through fiction (or what DiMartino calls "myth"), can these women embrace the world around them as well as themselves. It's a powerful message to women in fundamentalist nations around the world, specifically Iran.

In his post, DiMartino mentions how strength lies in an individual's stories. In Iran, these stories are stolen from the individual, and the women in Nafisi's book feel worthless as a result. The upcoming season of Legend of Korra is titled "Change," and it is set to deal with the power that an individual (Korra herself) holds to change the world. I can't wait to see how it further relates to Reading Lolita in Tehran!

Museums are the Absolute Truth!!!

Woman sleeps in a glass box in a modern museum.
Performance exists in museums, too!

I tend to think of museums as nothing more than the absolute truth—neutral representations of what is or what was. This is a common assumption to have; museums are often considered the closest we can get to replicating actual events, so we tend to trust their portrayals. However, I have found that museums relate heavily to performance. In trying to replicate "the absolute truth," museum curators assign greater meaning to certain objects, inserting both their own biases and the biases of the actual museums into the mix. The museum is the stage, the exhibit items are the performers, and the curator is the invaluable director.

One of the best examples of performance at museums is seen at Colonial Williamsburg. This is more of "surface-level" performance, as museum actors quite literally re-enacting the everyday life of colonials. However, the site is not capturing the whole truth. It is performing—choosing which aspects of colonial life hold the most relevance and meaning in a modern setting. Is this wrong? Should small kids (the site's target audience) be exposed to the more gruesome realities—such as slavery and Indian conflict—of the colonial era? This becomes a question not of whether the "absolute truth" is obtainable, but rather if we want to obtain the absolute truth at all.

In more traditional museums, the same dilemma arises. Our English class has been studying the crucial role of the curator as the intermediary between reality and museum visitors. The power of the curator surprised me, as we often think of educating the public as museums' ultimate goal. The optimist in me would like to agree, however the pessimist in me knows that there are countless other factors to consider. Although a majority of museums in the US are non-profit, that doesn't mean that money is not a concern. In order to draw people (a.k.a. money) in, curators must adjust their plans to accommodate the knowledge and interests of the public.

All museums put on some type of performance. Some portrayals are more accurate than others, but effectively showcasing a historical event, culture, or idea in its entirety is nearly impossible by all standards. Performance is inevitable, and it is up to museum curators to balance performance and reality. Like my theatre director Ms. Robinson, they have a great burden to carry. A performance can be misleading, be it on the stage, in a discussion, or in a museum. We must remember that museums are not the absolute truth.

It's All Just a Game of Thrones

Ah, Game of Thrones: my intellectual escape into a fantasy land of knights, thrones, and war. I don't usually seek to blur the lines between my guilty pleasures and my schoolwork, but this time I couldn't resist. Recently in my English and Social Studies classes we have been discussing Africa, our perceptions of Africa, and the realities prevalent in some parts of Africa. In conjunction, we have been reading Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible, the story of an American family's missionary work in the Congo. What I have found is that the people in these Congolese villages are largely uninvolved in their political system, and the heated issues that surround Western debate are of little importance to them. In Kingsolver's Congo, the system is a game of thrones with little influence on daily life, and although her portrayal may not be representative of all Africa, it brings up the key point that what is often portrayed as a fundamental issue in African states may not be an issue at all in the eyes of most citizens.

[By the way, you must go watch Game of Thrones if you are not yet obsessed.]

In The Poisonwood Bible, the evolving revolutionary movement in the Congo is of little notice to most of the Congolese. They understand and crave their newfound independence, but life continues as usual besides that. Orleanna Price, the missionary wife, goes as far as to claim "[the elites] take turns leaning forward to point out their moves with shrewd congeniality, playing it like a chess match, the kind of game that allows civilized men to play at make-believe murder" (317). Orleanna understands that while the elites play their game of chess, a society with graspable, daily dilemmas exists within.

Ruling houses of Game of Thrones depicted as chess pieces
(like I said, watch it...)

The story we tell ourselves about Africa is usually something similar to this "chess match" analogy: civil war, failed states, rampant dictatorship, etc. In all of this mess, we sometimes forget to acknowledge the daily struggles: finding food, purifying water, securing shelter. On the other hand, I'm not denying that the larger, state-based issues are important; indeed, these issues are crucial to helping us understand the broader situation that many peoples find themselves facing. However, they tend to skew our understanding of African nations.

Just like the college essays I mentioned in my previous post, portrayal is not always reality. In reality, millions of stories exist within the African continent (actually 1.033 billion stories to be exact). Obviously we can't learn each and every one, so generalizations must be made. What we must avoid, however, is viewing Africa merely as a game of thrones—although often more event-based and therefore easier to report on, the complexities surrounding a nation should not outweigh the daily struggles within.