Week 4 begins with 3/5 of a show and a whole lot of water.

Last night’s audience – one of the best yet – was treated to flooded roads on the way in, some compensating-ly loud scenes (did the stage get transplanted to Niagara Falls?) and a power outage at the top of Act 2 for good measure. We waited, but that was that. Rhonda never saw the light of day. Or any light, for that matter.

We got dressed by flashlight and made our way out to the kitchen, incomplete and anti-climaxed. It’s a testament to the playwriting that although each scene is in itself a fully told play-let, the show as a whole still takes us all on a ride. No fun getting off in the middle.

I’m tired after this weekend.

I suppose it’s all starting to wear on me: the living two half-lives, country mouse and city mouse combined, with no chance to fully sink into either one; the back and forth without a full day off in over a month; the fact that I made an ass of myself at the company bowling outing. One spare in two games, from a Milwaukee native? Embarrassing.

But when it comes down to it, how can you complain about the actor’s life? (Actors – don’t answer that.) But really, working – doing what I love – two hours a day (three if you count showering, setting props and getting dressed) and having the rest of the time to relax, kayak, create… it’s the beginning of a dream come true. I’m just going to appreciate it right now from the comfort of a nap.

I re-read yesterday’s post and thought, good grief, now I’m misrepresenting myself, making it sound like I didn’t do my homework until three weeks into the run. Which of course isn’t true. But there’s a different sort of subtlety, ease, playfulness that’s coming in as I’m no longer cramming for opening night or clarifying what the eff I’m doing or rehearsing that prop exchange for the umpteenth time. There’s upkeep, sure. But it’s a never-ending process. The show will grow until we close next week, and then we’ll put it away, but not because there was nothing left to explore.

It’s like painters say, right? The masterpiece is never finished; you just stop working on it.

All right I’ll say it: this project has been more difficult than I anticipated. Not only the photography part, which I’m remarkably unqualified for (thank goodness for camera+), but what to tell you every day! Short of waxing poetic about our lovely audiences or remembering the quirks of each night [likely meaningless to all except my boyfriend, who saw the show three nights in a row last week], I’m not used to finding myself that consistently interesting…

I’ve started playing around in the lulls of the show, making up stories and imagining the rest of these characters’ lives, where did they buy this shirt, was it the first thing in the drawer or did she pick it out special, does she love her job, what does she listen to on the commute? The questions are endless, the danger is forgetting to walk back onstage. But it’s funny to me how long it’s taken (three weeks into the run!) for me to do it as often, as much as I do now — how much permission is necessary when we become adults just to sit and make believe. Kids can transfer seamlessly between our reality and any one they choose to make up at a moment’s notice, and don’t they seem the happier for it? Whoever decided that growing up and “facing facts” was the way to get on in life?

This was an accidental shutter-happy moment (does anyone even know that reference anymore?) but I couldn’t pass up the Bud Light feature in the background. Rhonda would be proud.

Discoveries made this week:
– Sometimes the intermission blackout doesn’t come as soon as it usually does. Be prepared to improvise.
– Taughannock Falls, Ithaca
– Noses can drip indiscriminately and without warning, even onstage (and onto the stage), while one is being proposed to.
– There are still places where you can leave your door unlocked night and day; where one store sells bolts of fabric, soy cheese and dime candy; where the local antique shop owners go down to the pub and dance on Friday nights after 54 years of marriage.
– Having a campfire to sit out at changes everything.

Another weekend almost gone already? Seems we just start to find our rhythm and it’s time to turn around and head back to NYC.

Last night we had a post-show talkback. I will say that some of my most memorable talkback experiences were on my children’s tour, where questions ranged from “Are you guys dating?” (Long Island) to “Y’all man and wife?” (West Virginia). So the bar wasn’t set too high, but still I was happily surprised by the discussion last night. From a board member noting how everyone can relate to a piece of the play, whether they talk about it or not – to a professed non-theatergoer wondering how this place ended up in Greene – without realizing it, we started touching on some of the big questions we ask as artists (why this play, why this play now, for whom?).

This morning after breakfast in town I was stopped on the street by the local salon owner, who saw me through the window and ran out to say hi. “Don’t I know you from being onstage?” he said, and we laughed as he recalled how much he had enjoyed the Rhonda scene.

Local celebrity notwithstanding, I am reminded what I did love about that children’s tour, why it’s so good to do theater in places that aren’t saturated with it. This play just speaks to the heart, and the guilelessness of an audience full of people who don’t see live theater every week can be refreshing, welcoming, real.

Someone asked last night if the show changes from night to night, and I replied that — at the risk of being saccharine, and I know it’s probably too late already! — yes, it does — not least because of you.

Clothes are funny. Winter clothes are maybe funnier (although there are some people in NYC these days giving that theory a run for its money), and any woman who’s ever worn a pair of skinny jeans knows that the things we do to get ourselves into and out of clothes are probably the funniest of all. Last night around the campfire we were talking about evolution, among other things, and so it occurs to me that it seems rather odd to evolve into a vulnerable state of being that requires so much extra protection from the elements. Although in the end, that necessity gave us Carolina Herrera and Coco Chanel, so I suppose I’ll just count my blessings.

With special thanks to Jen Burry for photographic assistance.

It’s a triptych for Day 3! (Almost.)

First weekend down. I love the way every show is different — the crazy goofs that happen with lines and accidental head-butts and sudden southern drawls that character never had before — but how much the differences also depend on the audience and the energy they bring to the room. The subtle ways an actor learns to gauge the laughs and the bits and how different audiences react to the same moments. On opening night the audience gasped audibly at the surprises; one lady ran a running commentary about events as they happened, as well as a few forecasts of things yet to come. The next night’s crowd was almost inevitably more subdued, but it’s dangerous to judge that as lack of enjoyment. Every group brings something different to the table, whether it be loud laughers or otherwise, and isn’t that why we go to the theater? To truly be a part of the experience, because it’s really never the same show twice.