Post by RAIVEN on Nov 6, 2006 22:14:06 GMT -7
Eugene Stickland is an award winning playwrtite who also writes a newspaper column for the Calgary Herald. This particular article talks a bit about how people in the arts often struggle to survive:
A century of theatre worth celebrating
Eugene Stickland, Calgary Herald
Published: Saturday, November 04, 2006
So here I am, staring into the dusty screen of my laptop. I'm typing on an external keyboard because the keyboard on the actual computer hasn't worked since I dumped a full glass of Chardonnay into it a year and a half ago. Oh well. It's my own damned fault.
I am looking at a letter that just came to me by e-mail. It's a rejection letter. It's very polite and encouraging in an ironic sort of way. It's from a man named David in New York City. I go through all the stages of rejection.
Anger is the first. David's an idiot. Obviously, he doesn't know what he's talking about. It was a waste of 89 cents to write him in the first place.
The anger doesn't last long. It's followed by a feeling of respect and admiration for the man.
He said thank you, after all. He said he was sorry, he said good luck -- all in the same paragraph. He didn't have to do that. That was awfully nice of him. I want to do better so I'll be worthy of his affection and regard, so he'll never have to say he's sorry to me, ever again.
And then, after the anger and the love, I feel a deep sense of despair settle over me. A kind of bruising ennui that's enough to send one scuttling back to one's bed . . . to ride out the afternoon, not in the bed, but underneath it where everything is dark and still and safe.
On the radio, Murray Perahia is playing two of the Mendelssohn Songs Without Words. Beyond my window the late autumn sky looks milky and cold, like this air can hold no warmth. Actually, it would have been nice if David had just said yes. And come up with an advance for me. One hears about that kind of thing. But not for me, not from David in New York, not today.
Telus phones. A recording. My phone has been scheduled for disconnection. My daughter is in New York so this could be a problem. David is in New York, but he's no help. I'm tired of asking friends to bail me out. They're even more tired of it than I am. But what can you do? This is the life of the artist. This is the life I chose. If I don't like it sometimes, it's my own damned fault.
Maybe today is a write off; tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow evening, I'll be attending the launch of a new book called Theatre 100.
It's been published by the Alberta Playwrights' Network, of which I am the president. It's a book celebrating the top 100 theatre artists in Alberta's history.
I am in the book. Some of my friends are in the book. Some of them aren't and probably should be. You don't make a lot of friends, putting together a book like this. It probably matters more to the people who aren't in it than to the ones who are.
But I'm in it, and although it's not going to help me much with the people at Telus, and it's not going to make David in New York change his mind about me, it is none the less recognition of the fact that I rode out enough afternoons like this one and created a body of work that is thought to be significant enough to secure a place in this book for me.
A play, or a painting, or a poem or a paragraph in a novel probably comes into being on a day like this. In the words of the American poet Charles (Bumowksi) Bukowski, "As the spirit wanes, the form emerges." You can only get to this point of hopelessness and intensity by sitting in it, by going through it. And it doesn't always pay. And it isn't always glamourous. But it's all part of the process.
would suspect that all of us in the Theatre 100 book share in this process, to some extent.
Theatre 100 began as a way for the APN to celebrate Alberta's 100th birthday.
The cheque came to us far too late to do anything about it last year, but thanks to the efforts of our executive director Ken Cameron and our indefatigable editor, Sherri Wattling, it's finally ready.
We are launching it tonight at the Glenbow Museum, starting at 7:30. There's a program that will offer a snapshot of the history of the theatre in this province, followed by some mingling and some drinking of wine. For a mere $12.50, you can walk away with your own copy of Theatre 100.
So tonight, I will turn off the computer and step out into the world and celebrate with my friends and colleagues.
For now, there is one perfect line of dialogue that is eluding me, but I will sit here until I find it, and then I'll write it down. And then I'll deal with Telus.
All in a day's work.
Eugene Stickland is a Calgary playwright.
Spotlight:
Theatre 100: Celebrating 100 Theatre Practitioners Over 100 Years, is available for $12.50 through the Alberta Playwrights Network at (403) 269-8564
A century of theatre worth celebrating
Eugene Stickland, Calgary Herald
Published: Saturday, November 04, 2006
So here I am, staring into the dusty screen of my laptop. I'm typing on an external keyboard because the keyboard on the actual computer hasn't worked since I dumped a full glass of Chardonnay into it a year and a half ago. Oh well. It's my own damned fault.
I am looking at a letter that just came to me by e-mail. It's a rejection letter. It's very polite and encouraging in an ironic sort of way. It's from a man named David in New York City. I go through all the stages of rejection.
Anger is the first. David's an idiot. Obviously, he doesn't know what he's talking about. It was a waste of 89 cents to write him in the first place.
The anger doesn't last long. It's followed by a feeling of respect and admiration for the man.
He said thank you, after all. He said he was sorry, he said good luck -- all in the same paragraph. He didn't have to do that. That was awfully nice of him. I want to do better so I'll be worthy of his affection and regard, so he'll never have to say he's sorry to me, ever again.
And then, after the anger and the love, I feel a deep sense of despair settle over me. A kind of bruising ennui that's enough to send one scuttling back to one's bed . . . to ride out the afternoon, not in the bed, but underneath it where everything is dark and still and safe.
On the radio, Murray Perahia is playing two of the Mendelssohn Songs Without Words. Beyond my window the late autumn sky looks milky and cold, like this air can hold no warmth. Actually, it would have been nice if David had just said yes. And come up with an advance for me. One hears about that kind of thing. But not for me, not from David in New York, not today.
Telus phones. A recording. My phone has been scheduled for disconnection. My daughter is in New York so this could be a problem. David is in New York, but he's no help. I'm tired of asking friends to bail me out. They're even more tired of it than I am. But what can you do? This is the life of the artist. This is the life I chose. If I don't like it sometimes, it's my own damned fault.
Maybe today is a write off; tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow evening, I'll be attending the launch of a new book called Theatre 100.
It's been published by the Alberta Playwrights' Network, of which I am the president. It's a book celebrating the top 100 theatre artists in Alberta's history.
I am in the book. Some of my friends are in the book. Some of them aren't and probably should be. You don't make a lot of friends, putting together a book like this. It probably matters more to the people who aren't in it than to the ones who are.
But I'm in it, and although it's not going to help me much with the people at Telus, and it's not going to make David in New York change his mind about me, it is none the less recognition of the fact that I rode out enough afternoons like this one and created a body of work that is thought to be significant enough to secure a place in this book for me.
A play, or a painting, or a poem or a paragraph in a novel probably comes into being on a day like this. In the words of the American poet Charles (Bumowksi) Bukowski, "As the spirit wanes, the form emerges." You can only get to this point of hopelessness and intensity by sitting in it, by going through it. And it doesn't always pay. And it isn't always glamourous. But it's all part of the process.
would suspect that all of us in the Theatre 100 book share in this process, to some extent.
Theatre 100 began as a way for the APN to celebrate Alberta's 100th birthday.
The cheque came to us far too late to do anything about it last year, but thanks to the efforts of our executive director Ken Cameron and our indefatigable editor, Sherri Wattling, it's finally ready.
We are launching it tonight at the Glenbow Museum, starting at 7:30. There's a program that will offer a snapshot of the history of the theatre in this province, followed by some mingling and some drinking of wine. For a mere $12.50, you can walk away with your own copy of Theatre 100.
So tonight, I will turn off the computer and step out into the world and celebrate with my friends and colleagues.
For now, there is one perfect line of dialogue that is eluding me, but I will sit here until I find it, and then I'll write it down. And then I'll deal with Telus.
All in a day's work.
Eugene Stickland is a Calgary playwright.
Spotlight:
Theatre 100: Celebrating 100 Theatre Practitioners Over 100 Years, is available for $12.50 through the Alberta Playwrights Network at (403) 269-8564