Why Make Art? Are We Still Asking This?

I was at work today in the midst of finishing up on editing the November issue of American Theatre magazine (since the last time I posted, two issues have come out that had my name as part of the masthead, pretty cool!) and I got distracted by a blog post. Brooklyn-based playwright Matthew Freeman, whose work I have not yet seen, was addressing an article from the Wall Street Journal, one that questioned why playwrights write plays.

Not surprisingly, most playwrights (like most artists) do not make living from writing plays. Tony Kushner makes his living as a screenwriter, eventhough Angels in America is an established piece of the American theatrical canon (and he has also inspired a theatrical tribute, a sure sign of immortality). Terry Teachout, whose work I also have not seen, writes that the reason playwrights write is because you meet the "nicest" people in the theater and because of the audience's reactions.

Freeman's rebuttal (emphasis mine):

Honestly, I do like that I've met nice people, but as a playwright, that is not why I write plays. I also don't write plays because I really like sitting in the room and hearing the reactions (a luxury, apparently, that TV writers don't get?) I don't do it for applause, or to satisfy myself or feel the love of others. Frankly, the theater I like is usually a bit terrifying and difficult: the sort that makes people leave feeling unsettled, and not like they love you.

I write plays because they are the long-standing, traditional form of art that I've chosen for my medium. Does there need to be further explanation than that? Just because photographs exist, does that mean painters need to explain why they still paint?

I'm more inclined to agree with Freeman. People write, paint, play music, act, sing, are generally artsy for the reason that they cannot do anything else. It's a compulsion. Artists that I've spoken to say it's because they do not feel like they were meant to do anything else. "It feeds my soul." "I just fell in love and it wouldn't let me go."

As for myself, I wonder why the question of "Why be a playwright?" exists. It goes without saying. And for that matter, why engage in the arts and humanities at all? Why work in non-profit? Why am I a journalist? Why do anything that doesn't pay a salary or ensure financial stability?

I'm not even going to point to the sociological reasons of why art is important and keeps man in touch with his humanity, his compassion, spirit. Or that helping others is its own reward.

No, I'm more inclined to think that it's something more primal than that. It's a need to do devote your life to this thing because it's what you love and what makes you happy and what you feel like you're the most skilled at and what you felt like you were meant to do. 

As a great man, my dad would say, "Making money is easy. The important thing is to do what you love. Money is not important." 

On Employment (Finally!)

I meant to write this post as soon as I got the job. But as soon as I got the job (after I jumped up and down in the apartment and called my entire family and some close friends), I promptly went out and got a couple of drinks to celebrate. And then promptly forgot about writing this post. And then I started work.

Here's the thing about 40-hour work weeks, they take some getting used to. It's the end of my second week as an editorial assistant for American Theatre magazine. Besides having designated sections of the magazine that I am now in charge of (look for my writing in the awards sections, entrances & exits, and production notebook), I also edit, fact-check, process photos and make misc changes to magazine copy as they come in. And if I come up with a brilliant idea (still waiting on that one), I can write a feature article for the magazine.

At the moment, I'm trying to refresh the well on the ideas. It's writing about theaters (which is spelled theatre in the magazine, that takes some getting used to) on a national scale, which I am getting used to.

So upon getting home everyday at around 7 p.m., all I want to do is eat and watch Netflix. The exhaustion is not nearly as bad this week as it was the first week. And hopefully, it will not be as bad next week as this week. I'm just taking it one day at a time and hoping for some good ideas to write/blog about in the process.

In the meantime, I wake up everyday and I am excited about going to work. And for a job, that's all you really need, I think.

Then again, I've only been a real adult for two weeks.

P.S. How did I find the job?

An alumni who interned at the magazine was forwarded the job opening by the managing editor, who forwarded the listing to my Goldring adviser. Who knew that I loved theater, so she forwarded the listing to me. A month later (with a follow-up e-mail two weeks after I sent the resume), I was called into interview where I promptly tried to be my wittist, most likable self. A second round of interviews later, a copy-editing test, multiple phone calls to my mother telling her to pray, and a phone call to my old editor at one of my old internships...I got the job.

The lesson in all this:

1. Follow-up
2. Stay in contacts with your old bosses and forge good relationships with your academic advisers
3. Job hunting takes longer than you usually think it will
4. Never underestimate the power of sheer luck (a quick aside: as another alumni said: "There are, like, three theater writing jobs out there." And by sheer luck, I got one of them.)

New York City: the Land of Free Goods

So here is a problem: a narrow doorway into a two-bedroom apartment, a too-wide couch, and three 20-something girls. What do you do?

Well, with some advice by a very nice neighbor, we took the door off the hinges (with only a pink screwdriver) and pushed the couch in. I imagine giving birth to be something of the same concept.

My First Byline in Time Out New York: "Batz"

At the behest of a fellow journalism alumni, I was given the name of the theater editor at Time Out New York, David Cote, who was looking for some new theater critics. And as of now (I just mailed in the contract today), I am a freelance theater reviewer for "Time Out New York." It's amazing to think that I am now published in two New York City magazines.

So here's another lesson for those wanting to break into communications, relationships are everything in this business. Journalism is not for the anti-social types. Network!

Read my review at Time Out New York.

And this one, I'm actually paid for it. Which led me to promptly jump around my room shouting, "I'm a writer! I'm a writer!" Not that I had not been a writer prior to "Time Out," but this was the first time I have actually gotten paid in cash (instead of school credits) for my writing. To say it's a surreal experience would be understating it. I feel like my career is actually starting...

The Real World (Not Like the TV Show)

I'm no longer a student. For anyone who has been a student at university, especially those with advanced degrees, you feel like you are never going to stop being a student. Before graduation, I could never see past the cap and gown hour.

I have been a real adult for approximately one week and two days. I moved into my New York City apartment four days after coming back from covering the Spoleto Festival.

How does it feel?

Adulthood is like being on summer vacation though with an added dose of anxiety because I am, presently, unemployed. Not without trying to be employed. Here's a handy piece of advice about the communications industry (excluding PR), they hire as needed so if you have not graduated yet or, like me, will be truly finished after graduation, chances are (75%) you will be spending a month or two unemployed.

So for the first time in my entire life, or at least my life after 18, I do not have a laid-out plan. I have a plan of attack (and a couple of months worth of savings to pay the rent) that I am using to hopefully score a job. But ask me what I'm doing one month, two months, six months from now, my answer will be... "Working?" Working on getting a job. Working at a job. Working on something... It's an endless question mark at the moment.

My sister says that's part of life. The alumni's from Newhouse said that I'm doing the right thing by moving to New York City and trying to find a job. I can tell you that a year ago, I would have moved back to California rather than risk going someplace new without a job. After all, there are worst things in life than moving back to Orange County. At least I won't have to deal with snow anymore.

But there are things you should do and things you want to do. 8 times out of 10, the things you want to do win out. Because those are the things that bring you joy. So for now, I'm comfortable with my question mark of a future plan. There are worst things than spending summer in New York City.

Sarah Jarosz, or, How a 20 year old made me feel like an underachiever

Bluegrass singer-songwriter Sarah Jarosz

I've been in Charleston covering the Spoleto Festival for the "Post and Courier" for about two weeks now. I got in on May 12 and the days have the flowing by like molasses. Not to say that I have not been working. My days begin at 10 a.m. and end sometime after midnight (depending on if I have to submit an overnight review). I've written a feature story, I've done three multimedia videos, five overnight reviews, and five blog posts/reviews for the "Theater Talk" blog. And in my spare time, I either catch up on news or I go see shows. I may or may not review those productions for this blog. So not exactly slacking.

And then I went to a concert by 20-year-old singer/songwriter Sarah Jarosz and all such feelings of productivity flew out of the window. She has two albums out, plays multiple instruments (including banjo and guitar), and she writes lyrics so poetic, I was placed into a haze. And then brought out of when I realized that no matter how hard I try, I'll probably won't be able to write anything quite as beautiful as:

I peruse and conjure
Sit and ponder
Then go under
The blanket of your words
The way I feel
The things I sing
The songs I write
The joy you bring
To me my muse

That song placed me into a haze, which only intensified when she played this piece, one she wrote based on an experience in an NYC subway. I was close to crying, perhaps because I wanted to be in that city but also, because of how hopeful it made me. It was like all of the worries I had - about jobs, about money, about entering adulthood - disappeared in that moment. It was like I was floating in a sea of guitar strings, playing a reassuring refrain, everything was going to be all right.

That's what I love about the arts, how it can transport you to more beautiful, tranquil places. It calms you down and untangles all of the worries you previously had. Though other than those feelings, it was a perfect summer night in the South and I felt peaceful in a way that I had not felt in quite some months. 

The concert, at the beautiful tree-covered backdrop of the College of Charleston

Theater Review (Spoleto Edition): "Impromptu Splendor"

What happens when you take David Mamet, add some references to a certain cheating Governator and leave it out in the Charleston sun? You would have “Unemployed Heat,” a play NOT written by David Mamet. But it very well could have been, provided Mamet wrote it while drunk on scotch.

At “Impromptu Splendor,” presented by the National Theatre of the World (who are actually just from Canada), that’s the idea. The trio – made up of co-artistic directors Ronald Pederson, Naomi Sniekus and Matt Baram – choose a well-known playwright, takes some ideas from the audience and builds a fully improvised one-act play.

Read the rest at the Post and Courier.com

Notes on Graduation (and How to Find a New York City Apartment)

So I graduated. This time last year, I thought there would more hoopla and celebration, and some marvelous bursts of insight upon receiving a Master's degree. But what seems to have happened is more like excitement mixed with fear, mixed with a shrug that says, "Onto the next." Maybe it's because I don't receive my degree until after I finish covering the Spoleto Festival for the Charleston "Post and Courier" so there's no elation that you would usual expect would come after you get a Master's degree. Maybe it's because I haven't had time to bask in that graduation afterglow. Right before graduation, I was on a Canadian road trip with my parents and after, I was in New York City looking for an apartment.

I found a place in two days (How? Craigslist and a good pair of walking shoes). I signed a lease a week after graduation for a two-bedroom apartment. Here is a tip about apartment-hunting in New York, it's usually apropos to look for an apartment two weeks before you plan to move in. Anytime before then is too soon and no one will rent to you.

I had a job interview, which I am still waiting to hear back from.

Then I headed off to Charleston a week and one day after graduation for Spoleto. The work continues indefinitely.

Someone I knew asked me, "How does it feel to get a Master's degree?" My answer, "It hasn't hit me yet." So ask me again in two weeks. For now, it's as it's always been.

Though I'm beginning to get a clearer picture of life after graduation. So perhaps the answer is, it's both satisfying but unsettling. But that's real life, no grand epiphanies. If anything, it's more questions.

Where Were You? (Obligatory Osama Post)

Where were you when Osama Bin Laden died? That will be the question asked 10, 20, 50 years from now. It will be one for the history books, not only because of the event but also, how it fully exemplified the role of social media on this generation.

Case in point, where was I?