Previously I have written about my business plans of opening a creative space / kindergarten classroom for adults or becoming a palm reader. Neither of those plans have progressed much (though I still like them), but now I’ve got another one.
The other day I read that cosmetics companies don’t sell lipstick, they sell feelings. Hope, fantasy, desire. This is not news, everyone knows that Mary Kay is selling eternal youth not skin cream, and Levi’s is selling Portland hipster dreams, not jeans.
Still, it got me thinking. If what most businesses are actually selling is feelings and desires, then why not sell that directly?
I’m all for paying $7 so you can apply long lasting color to your lips. But I also know that the pleasure found in lipstick is fleeting. And if what people want is hope and encouragement and a reason to feel good about themselves, is there a way to give this to them in a more satisfying way? For a similar price?
I think maybe I can. So I present to you: TANGIBLE FEELINGS™ (note: I realize this is a terrible name. Can anyone think of a better one? Someone suggested FEELINGS BY FAITH but that makes it sound like a Christian rock band).
Some things I might offer:
TINY BIT OF HOPE. $7.
A short message tailored to your situation, to lift your spirits and get you feeling good.
SEXY SEXY SEXY. $10.
A passionate exhortation on what it is that makes you incredibly sexy and what you can do to expand on your natural sex appeal.
BIG RAY OF HOPE. $15.
A personal pep talk written just for you, including your favorite quotes, heroes and inspirations, and oratorically delivered and recorded so that you can play it any time you’re feeling low.
JOY JOY JOY. $20.
A song composed and recorded just for you. It’s yours to do with as you please. And you can tell everybody, this is your song. It might be quite simple but, now that it’s done, I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is when you’re in the world.
IMMORTALITY & ETERNAL YOUTH.
Still in development.
So. What do you think? Am I crazy? Would this be something anyone would actually pay for, ever? I am half-serious about making this into an actual business.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Rant #3: Speaking in Accents
Every once in a while I like to talk about something that makes me spitting mad. And this article on the NY Times arts blog got me thinking about my #1 pet peeve in theatre: the pointless mastery of accents.
I can’t imagine a bigger waste of time than having a broad range of accents and dialects at your disposal. And yet many actors spend their precious life energy -- time they could be using to learn judo or tap dance or something else that actually enhances your stage presence -- learning how to do just that.
I know many people think that without someone speaking a perfect Irish accent the audience will not enter into the world of The Lieutenant of Inishmore. But I have found the opposite to be true. And I just don’t get why you’d care.
Actually I do get why you might care. That’s why it bothers me. Because when I was in college I spent hours listening to British and Southern and Irish dialect tapes. It was something I could easily master and write down on audition forms and display at parties as an example of Something I Know How To Do. And if I was cast in a play I could spend all my time focusing on the easiest, most graspable aspect of it: the accent.
In my present life, I don’t need to master an accent because I do not act in plays that require them. (I act in plays that require you to be yourself with quotation marks, which I’m sure some people find equally annoying). But I do still watch plays in which actors are speaking in accents, and I always find it distracting and I always wish the director had decided to not bother with it. Good accents have never made me love a performance. In fact there is nothing more annoying to watch onstage than an actor who has effortlessly mastered a dialect (except of course for an actor who is painfully butchering one). There’s a flair and a self-consciousness in their delivery that says LOOK AT ME, I’M SPEAKING PERFECT BRITISH. Or South African. Or god help us, Russian.
It’s just a waste of time, in my opinion. For everyone involved. And then to justify that waste of time, actors inflict their mastery on innocent people at parties, people who are just trying to have a conversation and don’t want to hear you launch into guv’nor, fancy a bite to eat, what for NO REASON AT ALL.
Honestly, I’m trying to think of one reason why speaking in an accent would improve the quality or depth or intellectual merit of a play at all, and I can’t. The only reason I can think of is to show off. And if you want to show off, I’d much rather you dress head to toe in sequins and sing me a show tune. Well… as long as it isn’t this show tune. (that is another pet theatre peeve: fifteen year old girls singing On My Own at musical theater auditions. But I can’t in good conscience rail against that since that’s how I spent my adolescence).
UPDATE: see, the Guardian agrees with me.
I can’t imagine a bigger waste of time than having a broad range of accents and dialects at your disposal. And yet many actors spend their precious life energy -- time they could be using to learn judo or tap dance or something else that actually enhances your stage presence -- learning how to do just that.
I know many people think that without someone speaking a perfect Irish accent the audience will not enter into the world of The Lieutenant of Inishmore. But I have found the opposite to be true. And I just don’t get why you’d care.
Actually I do get why you might care. That’s why it bothers me. Because when I was in college I spent hours listening to British and Southern and Irish dialect tapes. It was something I could easily master and write down on audition forms and display at parties as an example of Something I Know How To Do. And if I was cast in a play I could spend all my time focusing on the easiest, most graspable aspect of it: the accent.
In my present life, I don’t need to master an accent because I do not act in plays that require them. (I act in plays that require you to be yourself with quotation marks, which I’m sure some people find equally annoying). But I do still watch plays in which actors are speaking in accents, and I always find it distracting and I always wish the director had decided to not bother with it. Good accents have never made me love a performance. In fact there is nothing more annoying to watch onstage than an actor who has effortlessly mastered a dialect (except of course for an actor who is painfully butchering one). There’s a flair and a self-consciousness in their delivery that says LOOK AT ME, I’M SPEAKING PERFECT BRITISH. Or South African. Or god help us, Russian.
It’s just a waste of time, in my opinion. For everyone involved. And then to justify that waste of time, actors inflict their mastery on innocent people at parties, people who are just trying to have a conversation and don’t want to hear you launch into guv’nor, fancy a bite to eat, what for NO REASON AT ALL.
Honestly, I’m trying to think of one reason why speaking in an accent would improve the quality or depth or intellectual merit of a play at all, and I can’t. The only reason I can think of is to show off. And if you want to show off, I’d much rather you dress head to toe in sequins and sing me a show tune. Well… as long as it isn’t this show tune. (that is another pet theatre peeve: fifteen year old girls singing On My Own at musical theater auditions. But I can’t in good conscience rail against that since that’s how I spent my adolescence).
UPDATE: see, the Guardian agrees with me.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Inspirations
I know I talked recently about being inspired by bad art, but that doesn’t mean I’m not inspired by good art too.
I want to mention some awesome things that have been inspiring me. BLOGGY STYLE.
Jenny the Bloggess and her funny ass descriptions of social panic and confidence wigs. Oh my god, I love her so much I want to show you her picture:
And speaking of social panic, I love this post over at Mommy Melee about freaking out at BlogHer. I love it when people are honest about their struggles with high pressure social situations. It’s always a surprise when you hear it from someone else.
You’re like, “what? But you have your shit together and you’re so articulate!” And they’re like, “what are you talking about, I’m having a panic attack right now!” And you’re like, “wow, that’s the classiest panic attack I’ve ever seen!”
I think that’s a beautiful thing for us neurotic introverts to aspire to: classy panic attacks. It worked for Greta Garbo.
Other inspiring things:
Shiva Nata, this crazy kind of yoga I heard about through Havi Brooks over at Fluent Self. I’ve been practicing it most mornings for the last five months (give or take a few weeks where I got frustrated and dropped it altogether) and though it is many times bewildering and seemingly pointless, I totally credit it with getting my mind out of a dark place post-NYC in August, and changing some of my habits without me even thinking about it. Of course I still have a lot of bad habits I’d like to get rid of, so that I can be a gleaming golden ice bodied icon of perfection. But my brain probably realizes that would actually be horrible. And honestly: the number one habit that trips me up lately is Perfectionism. Oh perfectionism, you cold-eyed, diabolical taskmistress. That is a topic for another day.
But let’s move on and talk about a lovely taskmistress: Dooce! This was the first blog I ever got hooked on. Whenever I check in on Dooce, I feel like I’m catching up with my cousin or something. And more often than not there is something that makes me laugh out loud, and then my husband looks over and I say, “Dooce poured bacon fat into a plastic bowl and melted it!” and he gets that concerned/horrified look on his face that means he thinks I’m spending too much time on the internet (he does not believe in using the internet for anything except finding artist residencies in Berlin. I think he thinks Dooce is my imaginary friend. Which... wouldn’t be all that far off, I guess, since we certainly aren’t real life friends). Anyway, I just love Dooce.
Jeff Hylton Simmons’ internet radio station. I just met this dude a few months ago and of course because this is Portland it turns out he knows every third person I know. He’s got broadcasts from people all over the world. Big dreams, big ideas. It's awesome.
And one more thing before I say goodnight, dear internet: the ultimate inspiration. I can remember my brother sitting rapt, 4 years old, in front of the TV watching this performance of Michael Jackson on the Grammys in 1988. I DON'T CARE, I CAN'T GET CYNICAL ABOUT MICHAEL JACKSON! I just can't.
I want to mention some awesome things that have been inspiring me. BLOGGY STYLE.
Jenny the Bloggess and her funny ass descriptions of social panic and confidence wigs. Oh my god, I love her so much I want to show you her picture:
And speaking of social panic, I love this post over at Mommy Melee about freaking out at BlogHer. I love it when people are honest about their struggles with high pressure social situations. It’s always a surprise when you hear it from someone else.
You’re like, “what? But you have your shit together and you’re so articulate!” And they’re like, “what are you talking about, I’m having a panic attack right now!” And you’re like, “wow, that’s the classiest panic attack I’ve ever seen!”
I think that’s a beautiful thing for us neurotic introverts to aspire to: classy panic attacks. It worked for Greta Garbo.
Other inspiring things:
Shiva Nata, this crazy kind of yoga I heard about through Havi Brooks over at Fluent Self. I’ve been practicing it most mornings for the last five months (give or take a few weeks where I got frustrated and dropped it altogether) and though it is many times bewildering and seemingly pointless, I totally credit it with getting my mind out of a dark place post-NYC in August, and changing some of my habits without me even thinking about it. Of course I still have a lot of bad habits I’d like to get rid of, so that I can be a gleaming golden ice bodied icon of perfection. But my brain probably realizes that would actually be horrible. And honestly: the number one habit that trips me up lately is Perfectionism. Oh perfectionism, you cold-eyed, diabolical taskmistress. That is a topic for another day.
But let’s move on and talk about a lovely taskmistress: Dooce! This was the first blog I ever got hooked on. Whenever I check in on Dooce, I feel like I’m catching up with my cousin or something. And more often than not there is something that makes me laugh out loud, and then my husband looks over and I say, “Dooce poured bacon fat into a plastic bowl and melted it!” and he gets that concerned/horrified look on his face that means he thinks I’m spending too much time on the internet (he does not believe in using the internet for anything except finding artist residencies in Berlin. I think he thinks Dooce is my imaginary friend. Which... wouldn’t be all that far off, I guess, since we certainly aren’t real life friends). Anyway, I just love Dooce.
Jeff Hylton Simmons’ internet radio station. I just met this dude a few months ago and of course because this is Portland it turns out he knows every third person I know. He’s got broadcasts from people all over the world. Big dreams, big ideas. It's awesome.
And one more thing before I say goodnight, dear internet: the ultimate inspiration. I can remember my brother sitting rapt, 4 years old, in front of the TV watching this performance of Michael Jackson on the Grammys in 1988. I DON'T CARE, I CAN'T GET CYNICAL ABOUT MICHAEL JACKSON! I just can't.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Manifesto update!
I was thinking it would be a good idea to check in on my manifest declarations and see if they still hold. Because I’ve noticed that often when I passionately declare my opinions, I’m talking out of my ass.
For instance – my last manifesto was all about doing it yourself and not fetishizing teachers into gurus and just getting on with it and learning stuff. DARE TO BE A PIECE OF CRAP, I believe I said.
And the example I used was how I was going to learn how to play piano on the old keyboard I found in my basement.
Yeah. Well here’s the thing: as it turns out it’s really HARD to learn piano that way. And I’ve been plunking away every morning for 5-10 minutes and then I go do something else. Which is fine. But it’s become clear to me that I’m never really going to learn piano that way.
So daring to be a piece of crap isn’t the best mantra for me to use if I want to dare to learn piano. Maybe DARE TO GET YOUR ASS IN MOTION AND FIND A TEACHER would be a better one.
Anyway. As for the items in my first manifesto:
- Still don’t want to work for anyone, but my unemployment runs out in a month or so and with it my noble intentions. I’m hoping I can hold out for a boss who isn’t insane.
- Still think we shouldn’t make excuses for Roman Polanski just because he’s a great artist. Though I have to admit I’ve moved a little into Michael Jackson territory with Roman: I’m not making excuses for his appalling behavior, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. I don’t know if this makes me a good empathetic humanist or a bad feminist. Or both?
- Still love beets with every fiber of my being. In fact: I have developed a variation on my beloved Beet Blast: so you’re boiling the beets along with some carrots, celery and onion in a big pot of water, right? Well after 45 minutes you can remove the beets, chop them up and eat them with the broth! Or by themselves! I always thought they were too mushy after that much boiling but I suddenly realized – hey wait a minute, beets take a long time to cook. So 45 minutes of simmering and you’ve got a beautiful bright red broth, AND beautiful tender beets!
Also speaking of beets (I should have a weekly post devoted solely to beets), I just remembered this opening passage from Jitterbug Perfume which I have always loved, even before I had tasted a beet:
- Back to the manifesti: still a cryer. That is never going to change. In fact I’ve been thinking more and more about how useful & cathartic crying can be. Case in point: back in October we were rehearsing Everyone Who Looks Like You two weeks before opening, which is to say we were madly swooping and careening and wheeling in circles. I was trying to write a song based on screaming (oh, I see I’ve mentioned this before) and I’d gone through at least three distinct versions and every time people didn’t quite like it and I was getting more and more frustrated and in the middle of rehearsal I just burst into tears, cried out I’M SORRY THAT’S THE BEST I CAN DO and ran into the bathroom. It was so embarrassing. I stayed in the bathroom for a while, not sure what to do, and then walked back out expecting horrified silence. But instead everyone came up to me one by one and gave me a hug and apologized! And they hadn’t even done anything! Somehow by letting people see I was overwhelmed, we were able to let go of the tension that had built up around that stupid song, and I was able to see that in fact the pressure wasn’t coming from anyone except me (and after that we figured out how to fix the song, so it was a win win all around).
Of course, if I cried every rehearsal, that would be a problem. But once in a while, it’s a good idea to let your feelings roll over you, come what may.
So that’s where I stand. Looks like half of my convictions still hold water, and the rest have run out of steam (to mix my metaphors). Stay tuned for NEW random passionate declarations, coming soon.
For instance – my last manifesto was all about doing it yourself and not fetishizing teachers into gurus and just getting on with it and learning stuff. DARE TO BE A PIECE OF CRAP, I believe I said.
And the example I used was how I was going to learn how to play piano on the old keyboard I found in my basement.
Yeah. Well here’s the thing: as it turns out it’s really HARD to learn piano that way. And I’ve been plunking away every morning for 5-10 minutes and then I go do something else. Which is fine. But it’s become clear to me that I’m never really going to learn piano that way.
So daring to be a piece of crap isn’t the best mantra for me to use if I want to dare to learn piano. Maybe DARE TO GET YOUR ASS IN MOTION AND FIND A TEACHER would be a better one.
Anyway. As for the items in my first manifesto:
- Still don’t want to work for anyone, but my unemployment runs out in a month or so and with it my noble intentions. I’m hoping I can hold out for a boss who isn’t insane.
- Still think we shouldn’t make excuses for Roman Polanski just because he’s a great artist. Though I have to admit I’ve moved a little into Michael Jackson territory with Roman: I’m not making excuses for his appalling behavior, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. I don’t know if this makes me a good empathetic humanist or a bad feminist. Or both?
- Still love beets with every fiber of my being. In fact: I have developed a variation on my beloved Beet Blast: so you’re boiling the beets along with some carrots, celery and onion in a big pot of water, right? Well after 45 minutes you can remove the beets, chop them up and eat them with the broth! Or by themselves! I always thought they were too mushy after that much boiling but I suddenly realized – hey wait a minute, beets take a long time to cook. So 45 minutes of simmering and you’ve got a beautiful bright red broth, AND beautiful tender beets!
Also speaking of beets (I should have a weekly post devoted solely to beets), I just remembered this opening passage from Jitterbug Perfume which I have always loved, even before I had tasted a beet:
The beet is the most intense of vegetables.
The radish, admittedly, is more feverish, but the fire of the radish is a cold fire, the fire of discontent not of passion. Tomatoes are lusty enough, yet there runs through tomatoes an undercurrent of frivolity. Beets are deadly serious.
- Back to the manifesti: still a cryer. That is never going to change. In fact I’ve been thinking more and more about how useful & cathartic crying can be. Case in point: back in October we were rehearsing Everyone Who Looks Like You two weeks before opening, which is to say we were madly swooping and careening and wheeling in circles. I was trying to write a song based on screaming (oh, I see I’ve mentioned this before) and I’d gone through at least three distinct versions and every time people didn’t quite like it and I was getting more and more frustrated and in the middle of rehearsal I just burst into tears, cried out I’M SORRY THAT’S THE BEST I CAN DO and ran into the bathroom. It was so embarrassing. I stayed in the bathroom for a while, not sure what to do, and then walked back out expecting horrified silence. But instead everyone came up to me one by one and gave me a hug and apologized! And they hadn’t even done anything! Somehow by letting people see I was overwhelmed, we were able to let go of the tension that had built up around that stupid song, and I was able to see that in fact the pressure wasn’t coming from anyone except me (and after that we figured out how to fix the song, so it was a win win all around).
Of course, if I cried every rehearsal, that would be a problem. But once in a while, it’s a good idea to let your feelings roll over you, come what may.
So that’s where I stand. Looks like half of my convictions still hold water, and the rest have run out of steam (to mix my metaphors). Stay tuned for NEW random passionate declarations, coming soon.
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