About Me

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Michael seeks to create works that reflect his struggles with the world he finds himself living in, and the commonalities that we all share in this. Desire, Defeat, Acceptance, Judgment, Love, Fear, Time, and Space. Michael's studio is downtown Los Angeles in the Spring Arts Tower. "Happiness is that funny little place halfway between fantasy and reality." -me

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Backstage and on Broadway from the wings....

I wondered tonight how many shows I have worked through, and ultimately listened to. If I have worked in the theatre, basically nonstop since 1993, then I have heard well over 5000 performances. The breakdown would go something like this: Cats = #1 (having worked there for 2 1/2 years) then The Scarlet Pimpernel (all 3 versions), Saturday Night Fever...and so on, and then it becomes more of an even mix of numbers...per show/play. Most shows I worked on for at least a year. If you don't miss a day of work, which many times I didn't, that is 416 shows a year. Some were short runs, some closed too soon. I have always considered this a real privilege. I love my work, it isn't my "A" plan, but it is an "A-" plan for sure. I work with brilliant artists, and it affords me my studio...
Backstage.
Listening to Laurie Beechman singing Memory from Cats. How many times did I listen to her, perhaps a hundred times? More, maybe? Her amazing voice I can still pick out in my head in brief moments...such a fierce peformer and singer. Douglas Sills singing Into the Fire, maybe 600 times? Sandra Bernhard singing about the rivers on Mars, Genius. I will hear a song from a show I've worked on, and in my mind I see exactly what I am doing, at that moment and with whom, backstage. I don't usually see the performance of what is happening, just who I am interacting with, and what task is at hand. In many of the shows if I didn't have a cue I would pick out a special moment and watch from the wings. Watching Carol Channing every night walk the passerelle in Hello Dolly, or eating the potato puffs with Horace. Claudia Shelle would quietly run through the White Cat adagio all by herself in the dark. Every show. Sometimes quickly, but with the same concentration, and application. As beautiful as watching her perform it moments later for the audience of the Winter Garden Theatre. Tonight I watched Alice Ripley's reaction at the end of singing Didn't I See This Movie when her husband Dan walks in. Shocking...unbelievable...beautiful and haunting. I watched it twice today, being a two show day. I was curious what happened at the end of this rocking song, so I watched from the wings. Even busy with changes backstage, I listen carefully to I Miss the Mountains, the previously mentioned song, and a specific line she says about grief. The way she says it every night tells its own story, all by itself.  What I get from these performances each night, from each show I work on, I have never quite been able to calculate. I know the energy of working with a performing artist enables me to constantly think about my own work as a painter, which one might think of as constant/not live...but I think of what Fosse said; "pretty picture" and I think of each picture, of each second, of each moment that a stage performer works to convey; amidst all the scenery, lighting, music, and staging. Each moment conveying an ever reaching arc of emotion that lives on in the audiences memory, reflecting the human experience...and I strive for that 'live' feeling in my work. Listening to a performer while backstage, usually in the dark, it feels to me like you are being let in on a secret. Not seeing them, just listening, gives it a nuanced air that might get missed in viewing it onstage. There are so many distractions designed to coerce the story along to its conclusion. And rightly so. For me, I try to let the viewer in on a secret too, in my paintings. Silently looking at the story and noise, color and shape, texture and harmony of its picture.


Dancer in Attitude 
Wire sculpture
9"

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

...and then there was Orion.

...Midnight, November 20. Just got home from a long day of pre-production on Next to Normal, the national tour. The sky had been full of clouds and rain all day, but as I got home the clouds parted, the Moon bloomed the night sky full, and there he was. Orion, big as your hand when held flexed straight armed and up to where he stands. I had been looking for him every night for the past two months. Who was feeling crazier, me or Diana, the character that Alice Ripley examines in Next to Normal? She sings of missing the mountains, sings of something lost and forgotten, sings of who she used to be...or maybe wasn't...or maybe of something that was just misplaced. And I finally found Orion after looking for him. What does Diana find? Reality in its' infinite wisdom reveals to us what we design, and it's timing is not coincidental. I pondered if Diana didn't create her family out of her delirium entirely...that perhaps Gabe isn't the only one missing. If you are free enough to not continually create the same reality day after day, then the possibilities are endless. If you don't carry the past around with you like a heavy emotional weight, then you are free to fly, and those memories are but part of the multidimensionality you access to recreate experience. Why I wasn't seeing Orion I don't know, but he was there. It was me that wasn't.

Schrodinger's Cat 
Box, marker, (cat)
1'x1'x1'
2009