The Bittersweet Ending of “Sin” pt. 02

And now, in contrast to my last post, the (mostly) sweet…

Unless you’ve put up your own work for the amusement of the general public you can have no idea what it’s like to receive the approval of an audience.  I’ve been doing it all my life, did it professionally for over 20 years in animated films, and in books, music and shows after, and I have still never gotten to a point where I could ever take it for granted.  It’s always a gift.

“Sin” was a success, there’s no question, by any measure—it made its money back and a little more, it played to sold out crowds, we got some great reviews from voices I respected, the cast had a good time and the audiences loved the show and the people who performed it.  What else is there? 

As a child I was pretty prolific from a young age, writing my own books, creating endless artwork, playing piano all day and night and creating short films, to name just a few things.  To some, I think (I know) my creative childhood looked idyllic.  “How lucky you are to be able to express yourself artistically,” people would say.  I also found my creative tendencies invoked jealousy at times…in my siblings, my friends, adults, strangers, even my own parents.  “That doesn’t look so tough.  I bet I could do that.  I could probably even do that better.”  I was also the subject of criticism often enough, “Why are you doing that foolishness when you could be doing something more important?”  Many times people have asked, and still do ask, “With so many things to do in a day—how do you even find the time?” 

Even now people will say to me, in hushed tones (and bless ‘em for it), “Wow, it must be so fun to be so creative.” 

At the risk of bursting someone’s bubble…it is…but it also isn’t.  It’s work, even when it’s fun work.

I don’t know about anyone else, but my creative expressions are often as not my silent voice crying out into the ether to be heard, or understood—the more prolific I am you can be sure, the more I am trying to say something that I can’t figure out how to express or deal with, most likely out of frustration.  Art is my way of dealing with things I can’t deal with. 

Everything I have ever created as a personal project, the simplest to the most complex, from the moment I could hold a crayon to the last time I used some sophisticated form of modern technology, has been about trying to say something I couldn’t say otherwise, to “speak” using a medium that would express what I couldn’t say in words, for whatever reason. 

Often as not, these expressions have not been understood, and so I keep putting things out into the universe, hoping—the next one.  Maybe the next one.  

Sometimes I’m actually relieved when no one ultimately understands what my latest work is “actually” saying, because what I’m saying isn’t very nice (which is why I can’t say it directly).  Sometimes I’m frustrated—doesn’t anyone see what I’m saying so obviously (particularly in the past when my work was often a cry for assistance)? 

Was I just creating things for myself (mostly, yes)?  Or did I want to have an audience (perhaps, yeah, sure)?  If I was creating only for myself, my mom said, it might be helpful to evolve so I had more tools at my disposal…if I was creating for an audience, I’d need those tools and to learn how to communicate my ideas more universally—in either case it would require some work, but doing that work would yield more satisfying results. 

This, then, is how I measure “success,” for my students, for myself:  Did your work communicate in the way you intended?  If so, great…but if not, why?  What could you do differently next time? 

By this measure alone “Sin” was a success.  It exceeded my expectations actually. 

At the end of the first decade of the 2000s I took a gamble on my biggest film-dream idea as a live show (“Ecstasy” in 2009).  While it wasn’t completely successful as a live theatre piece it was strong enough for a first effort I  thought it was worth trying another one, this time writing something new specifically for the medium of live performance, using what I had learned so far. 

Out of this came “Sin,” first as a demo then a live “sing through.”   It was a dream project, and that dream came true. 

I started out by proposing the idea of doing “Sin” as a Fringe Fest show to my new husband in winter of 2015.  I had no idea he’d be so completely supportive and helpful every step of the way through the experience, despite having no idea I was a “closeted” theatre person, and not being one in any way himself. 

I had no idea it would be so easy to secure perfect rehearsal spaces just blocks away from my then-apartment in Studio City, at the charming Debbie Reynolds rehearsal studio. 

I had no idea it was possible for someone like Sarah Kennedy, Kirby Harrell or Natalie Williams to walk into an audition, nail it within minutes and then prove worthy of the investment with such little information as a brief audition (beyond worthy in their cases, I’m still in awe). 

I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams you could just find someone like Chris Smith or Saudia Yasmein, invite them into your show as main leads and have them be the key components that make the show worth doing, and successful, practically sight-unseen. 

I wouldn’t have believed it if you’d told me, months before we found him, that we’d have been able to find someone of Rich Brunner’s caliber so close to opening night who would be willing to jump into our production despite the craziness inherent.  There is no way I could have predicted that everyone in the cast would be so kind, helpful, proactive, and determined to make the show work…to give it their all, and work within the confines of the limited time and budget constraints to pull off something that looked so impressive, without any guarantee it would be worth the doing after all. 

I had no idea what a strong impact doing auditions would have on me, as a person, in good ways.  Renato sat through most of the auditions with me, despite being busy at a demanding new job at the time, and he can vouch…the characters we met, including some people who were clearly living on the street not far from the studio, and some who had clearly never performed a day in their lives but found the audition notices and decided to try anyway, and mostly people who were almost—but just not quite—up to the standards I was looking for, compelling me to call them up and tell them they didn’t have the part…it really changed me, us.  I have more respect now than ever for those who dwell in the world of live performance.  They deserve it. 

It was beyond my comprehension that “The Three Clubs” would end up being the absolute ideal venue for what I was trying to do, a vision I’d had five years before I mounted the 2015 version that I hoped would be the closest to my original intent. The club was exactly what I’d had in mind, even before I knew it was what I had in mind. 

I look back and can’t believe how good our tech person Thomas was, running both the sound and light cues every night based on a matrix he configured with very little time, inventing the sound mix and light show with minimal direction from me and making our little amateur production look like it cost twice what it did. 

I was stunned at the gorgeous photos we got from the photographer I hired randomly who was offering himself up to Fringe Shows.  We got tons of great snaps of the show, both from this fellow and throughout the run, and I don’t even know who to thank for them all.  These pictures are gold to me and, again, I’m honored and humbled that they exist and I got to receive them. 

I was thrilled that the Fringe Fest existed and we were welcomed into it, that there was an event for us to use as a forum to try out an unproven show in an environment where we wouldn’t be judged too harshly for our rough edges.  It was exciting and even magical at times to be part of something new that I hadn’t even known existed before, that brought a sense of the show business excitement in the heart of Hollywood that I’d known in feature animated films, but in a more personal way, and without as much pressure or confusion. 

I was ecstatic opening night, even with some technical glitches.  The audience loved the show, the cast loved receiving the love of the audience and if I’d had any doubts—and I did, about my directing abilities, about the piece I’d created and dragged everyone into, other choices—they were all put aside after the first song played out.  The show worked, there was no question, and worked again and again, night after night. 

I loved the secure feeling of knowing we had lots of performances left after it was clear the show was being well-received, so we could coast a little. 

Then the unthinkable happened; I was sitting having a drink, waiting for the cast to arrive after setting the show up for the night (in the Fringe you had to set up and strike every performance, in a manner of minutes, to get ready for the next show on the schedule).  It was the usual wonderful calm before the hurricane of ushering in audiences while making sure everything was up and running and ready.  One of the representatives of the club, and the Fringe—a person who I would eventually find to be unpleasant but at that time I was still getting on with OK—interrupted me to say, “Hey, have you heard?” 

“Heard what?” I said, slightly irritated at being interrupted from my peace. 

“You’re famous.” 

“I’m…what--?”

He went on to explain about how my paid review had ignited a storm of conversations and that “Sin” was at the center of all of it.  After telling me what was going on, he smiled, with a tiny glint of jealousy in his eyes, and said, “You’re on.  You’ve got everyone’s attention.  Have fun.” 

I loved that feeling.  I get it now, I know why people chase a dream of showbiz success, fame, fortune, whatever…I had known it before to some extent,  but that night I really saw it…it’s intoxicating to have a spotlight shine on you like that, if it’s for the right reasons anyway. 

It reminded me of the feeling I had when I won a big payout in Reno with my parents not long after I turned 21, one of a handful of times I gambled.  For $20, in roughly 20 minutes, I saw three gold bars drop on a slot machine I was playing and was suddenly nearly $2,000 richer.

This was like that.  It was as if the world was suddenly bathed in gold, or maybe neon, and I was floating an inch or two above the ground.  No, it wasn’t like that, it’s indescribable, but those who have felt it know what I mean.   All the struggles were worth it, just to have that feeling, just for a little while, even as I’ve never personally chased that feeling; I got to have it, it was great, and I enjoyed it thoroughly while it lasted. 

Then—I remember one of the best nights…we almost always played before two big productions that had garnered most of the Fringe Fest attention that year, and likely rightfully so.  The people in these shows were professionals and really cool, and very courteous to us, as we crossed paths in the club a lot. 

Renato and I, and sometimes our cast members who were hanging around after our latest show, would watch with amazement as the waiting area of the Three Clubs became packed with people who would then file into the tiny stage area to see one of the “big” shows in the club.  One night, pre-show the bar was particularly full and there were some complaints from people waiting outside who couldn’t get it—the venue was at capacity and people were being turned away.  The owner of the bar approached me and I said, “Aww, it’s one of those big shows again eh, lining up early tonight I see?” 

“No,” the club owner said, “These people are here to see YOU guys.  Some of them are really upset they can’t get in, I guess they didn’t book in advance.  You might want to go out and talk to them.”  I did, and was astonished to see a line down the block…all people who were going to try to get into our show last minute and had to be turned away.  My jaw was on the ground.  I decided to up the price of tickets at that point, and it didn’t change our status as an “SRO” show for the last couple performances…in some ways it might have made us more popular. 

Then there were the fans.  I had so many people come up to me after the show and tell me how much they enjoyed it, tell me, “I never see stuff like this, I don’t usually like this kind of thing…this is the first time I’ve liked a musical…the best thing like this I’ve ever seen.”  I have some close friends who trekked all the way up from Orange County in rush hour to see both the sing-through and 2015 versions of “Sin.”  My friend’s husband, who wouldn’t go to a traditional musical if his life was being threatened,  came to my show—twice—and still raves about it. 

One night I noticed a bookish, plain, unremarkable young woman sitting in the front row (we had to bring seats into the stage area to accommodate the overflow audience on sold-out nights) for a big Saturday night showing.  This person clearly knew every word of my show and was mouthing along and bouncing in her seat (in a respectable way) the entire performance.  After the show she hung around in the lobby talking to Saudia.  I gently moved in on their conversation and introduced myself.  The young woman was thrilled and gave me a big hug—she said my show was the best show at the Fringe that year, hands down, she’d seen every performance, bought the (non-Saudia, unfortunately) CD I was selling of the show and intended to come back for all the remaining performances. 

I was stunned…humbled is a better word…struck numb with flattery better still.  The woman became a friend of the show, I comped her the remaining seats and we kept in touch through the next year’s festival.  That kind of warmth—from a stranger, who bonds with something you created…that, to me anyway, is the most validating response I think you can get…she didn’t know us, didn’t have any prep or hype…she just found us, and having found us joined our family.  I’m not spiritual by nature, as I’ve said…but I’m not NOT spiritual either.  That sort of thing at least feels like a kind of magic. 

I was in awe of how professional the performers were in the face of the controversy we got involved in with reviews, the shadiness of the venue, the unprofessional nature of some of the Fringe stuff, the way they handled fans after the show, the wonderful feeling of lounging in the bar after another successful night or going to one of the Fringe social events and how we sometimes hung out outside of it all (sometimes at Chris’ local apartment)…the way they promoted the show and were responsible for bringing in our initial audiences (particularly Saudia and Chris, who easily booked whole nights just from their names alone).  I loved that they showed up on time, worked hard when needed, were realistic about the show being over when it was time and yet still participated in the soundtrack after the show closed.  It was truly a labor of love on their part, something beyond what I could have hoped or expected they’d do, and it made the show the success it was. 

Finally, mostly perhaps, I remember after opening night, my husband Renato (who, by the way, designed the gorgeous, eye-catching poster for the show) approached me as I was clearing things up in the control booth area.  I’d been unsure how he’d take this whole thing, not being a show business person then in any way.  I knew he was uneasy about a lot of it, and he was also going through a really important transition in his personal life that was unpleasant and stressful (not to mention, I recruited him to be a ticket taker for most performances, a role he accepted with surprising confidence). 

As the lights came up and the audience cleared out to make way for the next scheduled show, Renato walked up to me, looked me up and down (almost in mock indignance) then gave me a huge hug, his eyes watering up.  “I loved it,” he said.  “I mean, I really, really loved it, it was fantastic…you did it.  You really, really did it.” 

 “Sin” succeeded in ways I didn’t even know were possible.  It helped me believe in myself as an artist capable of putting out a successful project,  it helped me reach a wider audience than I’d ever suspected I could touch, gave me an outlet to say things I couldn’t say any other way, introduced me to amazing people whose presence changed me in positive ways and brought me to a place where the world felt “magical” for a while.  It brought me closer to my husband and gave me a chance to show him how much passion I had, in a symbolic way, that I could now share with him, having expressed it symbolically for so long.  It gave me something to remember all my days, and share with anyone inclined to share it with me, and it made a lot of people happy. 

If that isn’t success, I don’t know what it is. 

Thanks for checking out my blog and some of the material I’ve shared here.  If you do, in fact, have something to say…I urge you to say it, any way you can.