I’m sitting in an elegant restaurant, ordering dishes from a menu so expensive that it doesn’t show the prices, and sipping expensive champagne. The lights are comfortably low enough to take about five years off and the pianist is playing smooth jazz to complete the ambiance. My date is reminiscing about the eighties (wasn’t that yesterday?) while I have flashbacks of Jane Fonda as Barbarella and Warren Beatty as a sex god while humming “Mrs Robinson”.
“Duran Duran and (…and here’s to you Mrs. Robinson…) Gary Newman blended New Wave and Disco (…heaven holds a place for those who pray…) to produce the distinctly robotic style of hits like “Cars”…. Boefie, why are you frowning?” (…hey, hey, hey…WHAT!) I immediately refocus. Frowning? I feel a personal crisis coming on.
“I’m not frowning! Please excuse me. I’m just going to the ladies room.” I get up a little unsteadily, but as gracefully as I possibly can under the circumstances, head off to the Ladies. I hesitantly look into the mirror above the bathroom basins and there it is: The Grand Canyon etched topographically on my forehead. It is like looking at the Picture of Dorian Grey in the attic. I feel faint. I need to go home or kill myself. I comb my fringe over my forehead, add twenty layers of dark lipstick in order to direct attention to my lips and sashay back to my date.
“Please take me home, darling. I need to learn my lines for tomorrow’s shoot.” I feign aplomb and give him the ‘its-not-you-it’s-me’ look.
At home I frantically punch in Dr. Price’s telephone number on my phone.
“It’s Boefie! Help! Emergency!”
I leave fifteen messages and go to bed exhausted. I lie awake the whole night waiting for the consulting rooms to open. At 8h00 I haven’t slept a wink. I press 1 on my speeddail and hold my breath. Hallelujah! The phone is answered! “Rose, darling, sweetie, I need to see Dr. Price immediately! This is an emergency! I’m aging as we speak!”
I hurriedly get dressed into a long black T-shirt, black leggings and my skulls and roses Wellington boots. No time to waste! Time is fleeting…madness takes control!
I barge into the reception area looking like Mick Jagger and throw myself onto Rose’s desk. “Is he here? Is he running late?” I grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “Do I have to wait long?” Rose tries to clam me down with her soothing I-understand-voice. “Interesting outfit you’re wearing today, Boefie. I like you boots.” She’s trying to distract me! Just then Dr. Price enters the room with a file in one hand and a collagened female in the other. “Dr. Price!” I scream, “Shoot me up!”
He takes one look at me, turns on his heels and disappears around the corner. Where’s he going? No! This cannot be happening. “Rose! He’s running away!” A woman with a band-aid across her nose looks up nervously from her magazine. “Excuse me”, she mutters apprehensively, “did you buy your boots locally or overseas?”
As if on cue, Dr. Price appears with a camera in his hand. I am so happy to see him and have to restrain myself from French kissing him in front of everybody. “Make me beautiful!” is my last desperate plea.
As he escorts me to his surgery he asks to take a few pictures. I’m confused. “But I’m only here for a few life changing Botox shots.”
“Oh, no, not of your face. I want to take a picture of your boots for my daughter. She will love them.” And he proceeds to drop down onto the floor on his stomach and starts to snap away.
And here I stand: in a surgical office, aging, with a plastic surgeon literally at my feet. What more could a girl want?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Arts and Culture
Living on Planet Gorgeous I get invited to parties, product launches, openings of art exhibitions and random functions. I love dressing up and I make an event of going out in full costume and make-up and mingling with people from other planets. Hell, I’ll go to the opening of an envelope if I can sip champagne while being photographed for a social page!
My best friend, Belg Droller, and I were recently invited to the opening of an arts festival. The two of us are always invited to events because we are equally fabulous and people like to been seen with us. Belg is an artist, and together with my musician friend, Kabous Gouws, we can basically make up the entirety of an Arts and Culture programming board and are a threesome-force to be reckoned with. We arrived at the theatre fashionably late, but dressed to kill in appropriate high fashion black outfits. As we enter the pre-show cocktail party, we graciously accept the champagne offered at the door from a cute waiter in pants tight enough to enable a medical student to pass an anatomy exam. Photographers are taking pictures of the guests and I smile obligingly while being photographed with the Who’s Who of the entertainment industry. The journalists group faces together for perfect pictures and everybody looks like they are having the time of their lives with people they don’t know. Socialising is completely out of the question as the journalists and photographers dictate the ambiance and we happily comply while keeping one eye on the guests’ dates and their designer clothing. Somebody in charge announces that the play is about to start and we all filter into the auditorium to take our seats.
After the production we are escorted to the foyer where we are entertained with speeches, an art exhibition, finger food and wine. Wine? What happened to the champagne? I spot the anatomically correct, cute waiter.
“Darling, where’s the champagne?” I ask while looking at his quadriceps contract.
“The champagne was for the pre-show party. Red or white?”
“No, lovey, red and white are the colours of Switzerland’s national flag. There must be some champagne left from the cocktail party.”
He looks at me with an expression of total twenty-year old innocence. I look at Belg with an expression of total ageless devastation. Belg guiltily looks at the glass of red wine in his hand. Kabous hides his wine glass behind his back. The organiser of the event approaches us.
“Boefie, Belg, Kabous! Good to see you. So glad you could come.” He continues chatting animatedly about the evening and the guests and the food and the generous wine sponsorship from some renowned wine estate. “Boefie, you’re not drinking…oh…you don’t drink wine…I’ll see what I can do…” He disappears into the crowd.
A journalist asks Belg what he thinks about the art. While Belg and the journalist engage in a conversation about light and shade and lines and shapes, I furtively look around to see what the hell they are talking about. I have not even noticed the art, as I am too busy smiling for the cameras and networking. “Where’s the art?” I whisper to Kabous. “All over the place,’ he replies as he swoops his arm across the venue. Just then the organiser appears with a bottle of champagne and a few flutes. Everybody’s spirits are immediately elevated with the pop of the cork. We toast to the event and the forthcoming festival. The journalist wants to take a few photos of us having a good time, so we proceed to assemble for the picture. I put my glass down on a quaint little stand close by, position myself in the middle of the group and smile. Suddenly we are startled by a long haired man in a tie-dye shirt breaking though the crowd screaming: “Take that @#$% glass off my sculpture!”
Ah, at last! I found the art! And it makes a great table for my glass of expensive French Champagne.
My best friend, Belg Droller, and I were recently invited to the opening of an arts festival. The two of us are always invited to events because we are equally fabulous and people like to been seen with us. Belg is an artist, and together with my musician friend, Kabous Gouws, we can basically make up the entirety of an Arts and Culture programming board and are a threesome-force to be reckoned with. We arrived at the theatre fashionably late, but dressed to kill in appropriate high fashion black outfits. As we enter the pre-show cocktail party, we graciously accept the champagne offered at the door from a cute waiter in pants tight enough to enable a medical student to pass an anatomy exam. Photographers are taking pictures of the guests and I smile obligingly while being photographed with the Who’s Who of the entertainment industry. The journalists group faces together for perfect pictures and everybody looks like they are having the time of their lives with people they don’t know. Socialising is completely out of the question as the journalists and photographers dictate the ambiance and we happily comply while keeping one eye on the guests’ dates and their designer clothing. Somebody in charge announces that the play is about to start and we all filter into the auditorium to take our seats.
After the production we are escorted to the foyer where we are entertained with speeches, an art exhibition, finger food and wine. Wine? What happened to the champagne? I spot the anatomically correct, cute waiter.
“Darling, where’s the champagne?” I ask while looking at his quadriceps contract.
“The champagne was for the pre-show party. Red or white?”
“No, lovey, red and white are the colours of Switzerland’s national flag. There must be some champagne left from the cocktail party.”
He looks at me with an expression of total twenty-year old innocence. I look at Belg with an expression of total ageless devastation. Belg guiltily looks at the glass of red wine in his hand. Kabous hides his wine glass behind his back. The organiser of the event approaches us.
“Boefie, Belg, Kabous! Good to see you. So glad you could come.” He continues chatting animatedly about the evening and the guests and the food and the generous wine sponsorship from some renowned wine estate. “Boefie, you’re not drinking…oh…you don’t drink wine…I’ll see what I can do…” He disappears into the crowd.
A journalist asks Belg what he thinks about the art. While Belg and the journalist engage in a conversation about light and shade and lines and shapes, I furtively look around to see what the hell they are talking about. I have not even noticed the art, as I am too busy smiling for the cameras and networking. “Where’s the art?” I whisper to Kabous. “All over the place,’ he replies as he swoops his arm across the venue. Just then the organiser appears with a bottle of champagne and a few flutes. Everybody’s spirits are immediately elevated with the pop of the cork. We toast to the event and the forthcoming festival. The journalist wants to take a few photos of us having a good time, so we proceed to assemble for the picture. I put my glass down on a quaint little stand close by, position myself in the middle of the group and smile. Suddenly we are startled by a long haired man in a tie-dye shirt breaking though the crowd screaming: “Take that @#$% glass off my sculpture!”
Ah, at last! I found the art! And it makes a great table for my glass of expensive French Champagne.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Suffering for Art
On Planet Gorgeous life is one long musical. People break into song and dance to illustrate a point and there is always a happy ending. The weather is Mediterranean-ly amazing and everybody is groomed to couture perfection. Here you are always the charming protagonist delivering witty one-liners and the antagonists get what they deserve.
Back in the real world, though, life more often than not actually resembles aspects of a Greek Tragedy. Things can go horribly wrong and the protagonist suffers while the chorus laments and wails into the wind to the gods.
When I got up this morning it was darkly overcast, the wind was blowing at gale force and torrential rain was beating down outside. I had a shoot and had to brave the elements in order to get to the location. Not a good start to the day.
Luckily we were shooting on set inside a building, but all the caravans were parked outside. I parked my car and ran in the tempest to the production caravan. Drenched and muddy I barged through the door, slipped on the steps and dived ungraciously head first into the production manager’s crotch, while the wind was banging the door repeatedly against my legs.
I heard, “Close the damn door!” but could not see anything as I was buried in a pair of jeans. I was yanked up by a production assistant and propped up against the wall. “Good morning Boefie. Quite an entrance. You look like shit, let’s get you to wardrobe.” Read: Get your wet ass out of here.
The assistant gave me an umbrella and I had to battle my way though the wind and rain to the wardrobe trailer. I was already soaked to the bone, but I humoured him anyway and took the umbrella. I got dressed in a navy wrap dress and high heels and on my way to the make-up trailer a gust of wind blew the umbrella out of my hand and lifted my dress over my head. I ran for cover while trying to pull my dress down, but wrap-dresses have a life of their own in the wind and this bloody thing was twisting itself round my head and body like a koeksister. I arrived half undressed and wet at the make-up trailer which resulted in the make-up artist blow drying my dress instead of my hair. So far so bad.
As the heavy rains continued to pour throughout the day, the shoot was delayed and I had to wait in a trailer. When I got to my trailer it was inhabited by two twenty year old girls lying on the couch watching television. Both of them were on their cell phones, giggling and flicking through the channels. It looked like an exercise in ADHD multitasking.
“Hello?”
The blonde one looked up at me without turning her head away from the television or putting down her phone. “The production co-ordinator said we could wait here… (eyes back on the TV)…stay on this channel…hee hee… (a quick glance in my direction again)…the rain, noise on roof during shot… (back to TV)…yes, the cartoon…hee hee…have to wait for rain to stop…”
There were clothes, empty coke cans, wrappers, make-up and shoes all over the place, so I cleared a space on the other couch and sat down. Can things get any worse? On Planet Gorgeous I do not get wet, run in the rain in my underwear and watch cartoons on television. I was miserable, I was bruised and sore from my fall and trapped with two giggly, cellulite-free extras (bitches).
After about an hour of Trailer Hell, I got called on set. The first take went smoothly, but the director wanted to change a camera angle and I went back into make-up because the bruises on my legs from my fall were visible on camera. On “action” and in character I went through my paces, rounded the corner as directed and walked head first into the camera. I bounced back into another actor, lost my balance and fell on top of him. There I was again, with the back of my head in a man’s crotch, my wrap-dress over my head and a bruise above my left eyebrow. Déjà vu.
Back on Planet Gorgeous after a long day’s shoot, I made myself a champagne cocktail, ran a bubble bath, lit a fire in my fireplace, dimmed the lights, put on my Andrea Bocelli CD and realised once again: I love my job!
Back in the real world, though, life more often than not actually resembles aspects of a Greek Tragedy. Things can go horribly wrong and the protagonist suffers while the chorus laments and wails into the wind to the gods.
When I got up this morning it was darkly overcast, the wind was blowing at gale force and torrential rain was beating down outside. I had a shoot and had to brave the elements in order to get to the location. Not a good start to the day.
Luckily we were shooting on set inside a building, but all the caravans were parked outside. I parked my car and ran in the tempest to the production caravan. Drenched and muddy I barged through the door, slipped on the steps and dived ungraciously head first into the production manager’s crotch, while the wind was banging the door repeatedly against my legs.
I heard, “Close the damn door!” but could not see anything as I was buried in a pair of jeans. I was yanked up by a production assistant and propped up against the wall. “Good morning Boefie. Quite an entrance. You look like shit, let’s get you to wardrobe.” Read: Get your wet ass out of here.
The assistant gave me an umbrella and I had to battle my way though the wind and rain to the wardrobe trailer. I was already soaked to the bone, but I humoured him anyway and took the umbrella. I got dressed in a navy wrap dress and high heels and on my way to the make-up trailer a gust of wind blew the umbrella out of my hand and lifted my dress over my head. I ran for cover while trying to pull my dress down, but wrap-dresses have a life of their own in the wind and this bloody thing was twisting itself round my head and body like a koeksister. I arrived half undressed and wet at the make-up trailer which resulted in the make-up artist blow drying my dress instead of my hair. So far so bad.
As the heavy rains continued to pour throughout the day, the shoot was delayed and I had to wait in a trailer. When I got to my trailer it was inhabited by two twenty year old girls lying on the couch watching television. Both of them were on their cell phones, giggling and flicking through the channels. It looked like an exercise in ADHD multitasking.
“Hello?”
The blonde one looked up at me without turning her head away from the television or putting down her phone. “The production co-ordinator said we could wait here… (eyes back on the TV)…stay on this channel…hee hee… (a quick glance in my direction again)…the rain, noise on roof during shot… (back to TV)…yes, the cartoon…hee hee…have to wait for rain to stop…”
There were clothes, empty coke cans, wrappers, make-up and shoes all over the place, so I cleared a space on the other couch and sat down. Can things get any worse? On Planet Gorgeous I do not get wet, run in the rain in my underwear and watch cartoons on television. I was miserable, I was bruised and sore from my fall and trapped with two giggly, cellulite-free extras (bitches).
After about an hour of Trailer Hell, I got called on set. The first take went smoothly, but the director wanted to change a camera angle and I went back into make-up because the bruises on my legs from my fall were visible on camera. On “action” and in character I went through my paces, rounded the corner as directed and walked head first into the camera. I bounced back into another actor, lost my balance and fell on top of him. There I was again, with the back of my head in a man’s crotch, my wrap-dress over my head and a bruise above my left eyebrow. Déjà vu.
Back on Planet Gorgeous after a long day’s shoot, I made myself a champagne cocktail, ran a bubble bath, lit a fire in my fireplace, dimmed the lights, put on my Andrea Bocelli CD and realised once again: I love my job!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Airbrushing
On Planet Gorgeous everyone is beautiful, fabulous and ageless. I don’t know about you, but I like to document just how amazing I am by organizing occasional photo shoots. For my last shoot my hair was blow-dried to perfection, my make-up meticulously applied and I was dressed to flaunt my perfect plastic cleavage and waspish waist. I felt amazing and confident that every photo taken of me was going to be flawless.
As I stepped into the studio the photographer instructs me to “be natural”.
“Excuse me?” I am confused.
“Just be yourself, be natural.” He says nonchalantly as he lifts the camera to his right eye.
“Darling, how the hell do you expect me to be…” I choke, struggling to get the word out, “n..a..t..u..r..a..l, when I’m wearing enough beauty products to keep the cast of ‘Le Cage aux Folles’ in make-up for a year!”
He drops the camera from his face, looks at me and shakes his head.
“Let’s just take a few shots and see how it goes, okay?”
Clearly this boy is a new in the business. I have been doing photo shoots my whole life and have been photographed by all the great photographers in the country. I have been on more magazine covers than this milksop’s age. It’s going to be a long day.
With my experience in front of the camera I know all the tricks of the trade to make a good photo. I know which side of my face photographs best, I know how to tilt my head to catch the light just right, and I know what to do with my hands and how to turn my body to get the best silhouette. So, I pull out all the stops. The camera is my expectant lover and I flirt ferociously.
After a few frames he stops and asks me if I want to come and have a look at what we have so far. How I love digital cameras! Gone are the days of contact sheets and trannies!* I can see the outcome of my work immediately. I look expectantly at the first shot and my knees start to buckle. I hold onto his arm to stabilise myself. “What are those?” I point to the image on the camera I have difficulty identifying with. The photographer is puzzled. “What? Where?”
“Those things under my eyes! The bags! O my god! They are not bags, they look like luggage! And crows feet my arse! An ostrich landed on my face!” I am devastated. “How could you do this to me? Change the lighting states! Change your camera! I don’t care if you photograph me through a tissue or a porcelain tile, just fix this!”
“Can you please let go of my arm? You are cutting of my circulation.” He tries to pry my hands off his arm, but I am hanging on for dear life. If I let go now I will fall down and make a complete spectacle of myself.
“Let go!” It sounds like he’s in pain.
“CAN YOU FIX THIS?” I shout while shaking the poor boy like a rag doll.
“CAN YOU CALM DOWN?!”
“Bags…birds…botox…” I am whimpering now. I think I’m having a panic attack.
“I’ll airbrush your pictures! I promise! Can we continue with the shoot now?” He cries desperately.
Ah! The magic word for aging actors: Airbrush! I let go of his arm.
“Okay, cool.” I’m feeling better!
“I’m going for a costume change and you can fix the lights while I’m changing, darling.”
When I return I see his assistant massaging his arm. “You can do this. You’ll be fine.” I hear him whisper to the photographer. He is clearly resembling a James Bond Martini: shaken AND stirred, but he’s trying his best to be brave.
“Okay lovey!” I croon. “I’m ready! Let’s rock ‘n roll!”
They look at me and roll their eyes. Not quite the roll I was hoping to get.
*transparencies
As I stepped into the studio the photographer instructs me to “be natural”.
“Excuse me?” I am confused.
“Just be yourself, be natural.” He says nonchalantly as he lifts the camera to his right eye.
“Darling, how the hell do you expect me to be…” I choke, struggling to get the word out, “n..a..t..u..r..a..l, when I’m wearing enough beauty products to keep the cast of ‘Le Cage aux Folles’ in make-up for a year!”
He drops the camera from his face, looks at me and shakes his head.
“Let’s just take a few shots and see how it goes, okay?”
Clearly this boy is a new in the business. I have been doing photo shoots my whole life and have been photographed by all the great photographers in the country. I have been on more magazine covers than this milksop’s age. It’s going to be a long day.
With my experience in front of the camera I know all the tricks of the trade to make a good photo. I know which side of my face photographs best, I know how to tilt my head to catch the light just right, and I know what to do with my hands and how to turn my body to get the best silhouette. So, I pull out all the stops. The camera is my expectant lover and I flirt ferociously.
After a few frames he stops and asks me if I want to come and have a look at what we have so far. How I love digital cameras! Gone are the days of contact sheets and trannies!* I can see the outcome of my work immediately. I look expectantly at the first shot and my knees start to buckle. I hold onto his arm to stabilise myself. “What are those?” I point to the image on the camera I have difficulty identifying with. The photographer is puzzled. “What? Where?”
“Those things under my eyes! The bags! O my god! They are not bags, they look like luggage! And crows feet my arse! An ostrich landed on my face!” I am devastated. “How could you do this to me? Change the lighting states! Change your camera! I don’t care if you photograph me through a tissue or a porcelain tile, just fix this!”
“Can you please let go of my arm? You are cutting of my circulation.” He tries to pry my hands off his arm, but I am hanging on for dear life. If I let go now I will fall down and make a complete spectacle of myself.
“Let go!” It sounds like he’s in pain.
“CAN YOU FIX THIS?” I shout while shaking the poor boy like a rag doll.
“CAN YOU CALM DOWN?!”
“Bags…birds…botox…” I am whimpering now. I think I’m having a panic attack.
“I’ll airbrush your pictures! I promise! Can we continue with the shoot now?” He cries desperately.
Ah! The magic word for aging actors: Airbrush! I let go of his arm.
“Okay, cool.” I’m feeling better!
“I’m going for a costume change and you can fix the lights while I’m changing, darling.”
When I return I see his assistant massaging his arm. “You can do this. You’ll be fine.” I hear him whisper to the photographer. He is clearly resembling a James Bond Martini: shaken AND stirred, but he’s trying his best to be brave.
“Okay lovey!” I croon. “I’m ready! Let’s rock ‘n roll!”
They look at me and roll their eyes. Not quite the roll I was hoping to get.
*transparencies
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Workshop
Being an expert in my field, I sometimes conduct workshops for dance and drama teachers at a local university. I love the give and take of knowledge that the student-teacher relationship affords me, as well as their creative and personal growth at the end of the course.
Saturday morning 8h30. The teachers, aged between thirty and sixty, file grudgingly into a big hall. I am ready for them and armed with notes, a CD-player, and an appropriate music selection. I greet them convivially as they plonk themselves down on the plastic chairs lined up against the wall. There are about thirty of them and they all look exhausted, but I don’t blame them. Wouldn’t you be tired if you’d been teaching kids the whole week?
“Is this going to take long?”
“Do we have to do anything active?”
“Can I leave early? I have a lift.”
“At what time do we break?”
I sense reluctance. It’s the weekend for godssake! I have been planning my lesson for a week and they want a break? We haven’t even started yet! I decided not to feel the pressure and started the class.
“Come darlings, join me in the performance space and let’s start with a warm-up,” I chirp enthusiastically. “You can take off your shoes if you want, or any other restrictive clothing. No stripping please. Let’s keep this decent.” (I know, this is lame, but I’m clutching at straws.) I get a faint, half-hearted laugh from a middle-aged woman hiding at the back. Breakthrough!
After the warm-up I lead them into a Mime exercise. Tip for drama teachers with big classes: Start by doing a Mime exercise. Your class will be quiet and you will be able to hear yourself think.
For the next hour they rehearse their mime pieces and perform them for each other. They cheer, applaud, laugh and comment on each other’s work. And for a short while even I have forgotten that it was Saturday. They are creative and fun to work with. I love them!
During the break we all go outside as it is a beautiful sunny day. Cigarettes and cookies get passed around and the group is bonding. I find out that these teachers come from far away. Some of them had to get up at 4h00 to make it to the workshop on time. Some arrived yesterday and will be staying in town for the weekend. They are all here, not because they have to be, but because they want to sharpen their saws. They are sharing, not only food, but stories too. I overhear stories of drug and alcohol abuse amongst schoolchildren, sex in primary schools (“I tell you”, says a forty year old teacher, “these kids are having more sex than I am!”), gang violence on playgrounds, teen pregnancies, cutting, rape in school toilets, child abuse… And here I sit amongst them, from Planet Gorgeous, with my childlike enthusiasm and fake boobs…
After the break we dance, we act, we discuss the notes, we laugh and shout and they experience a taste of what life on Planet Gorgeous is like. And then it is over. They have to travel back to the real world where fourteen year old girls cannot go to gym class because they are breastfeeding and sixteen year olds can’t read or spell. As for me? I am returning to where I get served champagne cocktails by just nodding at the handsome waiter, my steak is served medium rare (more rare than medium) and the resident pianist knows my favourite song.
Saturday morning 8h30. The teachers, aged between thirty and sixty, file grudgingly into a big hall. I am ready for them and armed with notes, a CD-player, and an appropriate music selection. I greet them convivially as they plonk themselves down on the plastic chairs lined up against the wall. There are about thirty of them and they all look exhausted, but I don’t blame them. Wouldn’t you be tired if you’d been teaching kids the whole week?
“Is this going to take long?”
“Do we have to do anything active?”
“Can I leave early? I have a lift.”
“At what time do we break?”
I sense reluctance. It’s the weekend for godssake! I have been planning my lesson for a week and they want a break? We haven’t even started yet! I decided not to feel the pressure and started the class.
“Come darlings, join me in the performance space and let’s start with a warm-up,” I chirp enthusiastically. “You can take off your shoes if you want, or any other restrictive clothing. No stripping please. Let’s keep this decent.” (I know, this is lame, but I’m clutching at straws.) I get a faint, half-hearted laugh from a middle-aged woman hiding at the back. Breakthrough!
After the warm-up I lead them into a Mime exercise. Tip for drama teachers with big classes: Start by doing a Mime exercise. Your class will be quiet and you will be able to hear yourself think.
For the next hour they rehearse their mime pieces and perform them for each other. They cheer, applaud, laugh and comment on each other’s work. And for a short while even I have forgotten that it was Saturday. They are creative and fun to work with. I love them!
During the break we all go outside as it is a beautiful sunny day. Cigarettes and cookies get passed around and the group is bonding. I find out that these teachers come from far away. Some of them had to get up at 4h00 to make it to the workshop on time. Some arrived yesterday and will be staying in town for the weekend. They are all here, not because they have to be, but because they want to sharpen their saws. They are sharing, not only food, but stories too. I overhear stories of drug and alcohol abuse amongst schoolchildren, sex in primary schools (“I tell you”, says a forty year old teacher, “these kids are having more sex than I am!”), gang violence on playgrounds, teen pregnancies, cutting, rape in school toilets, child abuse… And here I sit amongst them, from Planet Gorgeous, with my childlike enthusiasm and fake boobs…
After the break we dance, we act, we discuss the notes, we laugh and shout and they experience a taste of what life on Planet Gorgeous is like. And then it is over. They have to travel back to the real world where fourteen year old girls cannot go to gym class because they are breastfeeding and sixteen year olds can’t read or spell. As for me? I am returning to where I get served champagne cocktails by just nodding at the handsome waiter, my steak is served medium rare (more rare than medium) and the resident pianist knows my favourite song.
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