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NY: DAY 4
The legal requirements attached to the J1 Visiting Scholar visa swirl around its gleaming summit like a dense and slightly foul smelling fog. The only way through is the path laid out by the U.S. State Department. All other routes lead to the precipice.
I always feel slightly nauseous when obliged to give up another chunk of my liberty in order to satisfy the State Machine. There is, of course, very potent evidence why the sacrifice of such liberty may to some extent be justified. Look at the WTC site. However, terrorists are winning the war, in my opinion. They are changing the way we live. They are changing our relationship with government. It now appears that we are in the service of the State, not the other way around.
So, you ask, where on earth did the path lead you today? Why, gentle reader, to the Office for International Students and Scholars (OISS). We had to make our way here, so that the University could confirm to the government, that we had arrived and had taken up our posts. I'll never look at a tick box in the same way again: tick, he's here and legal; cross, he's a 'no show' and somewhere in that precipice along with the illegal Mexicans and Islamic extremists.
I attend this meeting with Brian Parsons, who is here to direct Jekyll and Hyde. Now, Brian refers to himself as fat. He says this in order to establish a point of reference in the context of a conversation about the ballooning waist lines of other Aquila staff. However, Brian is one of those people who you can't imagine any other way. He came out as a marble, worked up to a cricket ball, swelled to football and has now matured to great big beach ball. Put a grammar school cap and a pair of round framed specs on him and he'd be Billy Bunter.
When you meet someone with whom you're going to working so closely, it's always a little nerve wracking. Whatever, the bravado, you always hope for someone with whom you're going to get on. Intellectually, emotionally and, though I hesitate to mention it in this hallowed space, spiritually. I'll come back to this theme another time. But suffice to say for now, that theatre is an intimate act, as much if not more so in its creation as in performance. The vibe from Brian is very good and we chat with ease about everything from the banal experience of the New York day-to-day, to the philosophical background to the Jekyll and Hyde show. We bond further, when we reflect, with surge of hysterical bemusement, on the fact that neither of us have seen a copy of the Louis' adaptation as yet. I think we'll get on very well.
We are the only two to attend the meeting at the OISS. Kimberley Wetzel gives us the guided tour round all the administrative and legal requirements relative to our time at NYU. One thing catches my eye: bank accounts.
Robert has already mentioned to me that he has put in a call to the Company's bank in Columbia, South Carolina, in order to facilitate the opening of an account for me. It's a mark both of his paternal desire to ensure everyone in the Company is cared for, but also of a rather dysfunctional administration that, after so many years based at NYU, he's not aware that it's very easy for me to open an account myself. Kimberley informs us that, armed with a passport, supplementary visa information, proof of address and NYU Student/Scholar I.D. card, opening an account is a cinch. The only thing we lack is the I.D.. For that, we just need to pick up authorization from the Dean's office.
Well there were hoops. And we jumped through them all. Suffice to say - for the tale of administrative acrobatics is no more riveting here than elsewhere - that the I.D. wasn't available today. Staff away. Forms unavailable... The bank account will just have to wait.
After lunch, Brian goes off to meet an American actor friend, Lucas, who may be interested in taking on Claudius. Just as well someone is. The first performance is on the 31st!
Back at BPAC I help out in Bob's Shakespeare class, thereby releasing him to talk costume with Megan, our sole costume designer, maker and supervisor. I work with them on their audition monologues, and with each one try to dispel the idea that such a speech has anything to do with being alone. I push them to make each thought specific and to find the necessity to speak in the audience.
After continuing with Malvolio for a while, we see another intern candidate for Horatio. Darren looks in his early twenties. Earnest and concentrated, he admits that he's engaged to be married and that, in view of the tiny stipend which the interns receive, he would have to take out a loan in order to take on the tour. I admire his honesty, but at the same time think he'd be too much of a risk.
Leaving BPAC, I call Jamie and discover he's set aside a ticket for me for his show at the Irish Rep at 132 W. 22nd St: Philadelphia Here I come. It's $25, but what the hell.
Having picked up my ticket, I find a fabulous whole food supermarket and lose some more dollars on fruit and a salad for my tea. In his message, James mentioned that we might meet in Mullen's after the show. I find it, and spend a few moments in the air con cool, sipping a beer before reaching the theatre.
Unfortunately, my seat is in the front row. The show's good, the cast is strong, Jamie is, as ever, fabulous, but every time he's off, I struggle to the point of inflicting pain, in order to stay awake. Even when James is not in a scene he remains on stage and I can tell he's spotted me. My embarrassment is not sharp enough to keep my eyes open, so I pinch my forearm as hard as possible...
After, in the bar, James says immediately, "are you still suffering from jet lag? are you really tired?" I mumble something about the heat and the lack of sleep in the hot, airless room in Astoria. I feel the tension, but don't feel up to admitting my struggle with Lethe during the show.
The pinch bruises on my forearm will stay with me for nearly a week
NY: DAY 3
Today begins with some considerable frustration. Erica pointed out on Monday that, since they have wireless high speed internet, I should feel free to get on line. Trouble is, I can't seem to connect. "This is the reason I bought you and brought you," I hiss at the laptop. "Wireless ready. Out of the box. That's what it says in the instructions!" Of course, if I'd actually read the instructions, I would also have known there was a very simple way of getting it working...
I tell David. Now David's sole purpose in life appears to be to make things work. His permanent expression is one of benign concern, as if he were saying, "everything ok with you? Anything I can help with?" He takes the laptop from me and piles in to menus and sub-menus, searching for the solution to the conundrum. Eventually, he ends up in places I know for sure will not provide the answer. "It's supposed to be wireless ready, out of the box!" I joke, trying to shame the machine into a sudden change of mind.
David leaves for work, and I call PC World in the UK from the land line here, using my chargecard. A cheery voice announces that I'll be charged 39p per minute for this call, exclusive of call charges. Yes, of course, once connected, they keep me on hold as they go off to speak to the 'techies'. "Are you near the machine now? There should be a button on top, near the power switch, with a little wireless symbol on it..." There is. I press it. I'm connected. "Have you found it, Mr Price?" I cut my losses with, "no, I still can't seem to locate it. But I'll have a look round and call you back if I have no luck. Gotta go!" Why couldn't I just admit it?
At BPAC, Rob & I get to work on the letter scene (Act 2, Sc 5). We get to this phrase: "Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh." When Ken delivered this line, he pretended not to understand the word 'slough' and made a laboured joke about trying to pronounce it. In my opinion, it just held up the scene. Malvolio's getting into top gear, here. It comes just a little before: "Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered." My instinct is not to stop for such a gag. Robert wants to keep the gag. I protest that it doesn't add anything to the scene or anyone's understanding of it. Unfortunately, he agrees and, conscious that I'm only taking over the role, I relent and agree to pause on the word, so that Sir Andrew can interject with the right pronunciation. Ho-hum.
After this rehearsal I walk with Rob to the office and, while he goes up to get on with some work, I start walking south. I mean to go into the bank to ask about opening accounts, but it's closed. I continue walking. South Village, SOHO, Tribeca... I pop into pharmacies, looking for electric toothbrushes... and see prices ranging from $40 to $140. I keep walking.
Eventually I get to the World Trade Center site. Throughout my walk I've been disoriented by the absence of the towers, which, formerly, would always have been visible along the whole route of my walk. Arriving alongside the high fence now surrounding area, I hear the American voices of other 'pilgrims', coming for their first look at the scene of the disaster. Nothing at all is left of the debris. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say it was the foundations work at a construction site. But I do know better and my mind tries to fit my memory of the complex into the vast vacancy before me. Boards fixed to the fence tell the story of the events of September 11th 2001 and list the names of the dead. Repairs are nearing completion on a nearby tower. They still haven't begun on another tower, still shrouded in black netting. The densely packed buildings and bustle of the evening rush hour, press right up to the fence. Then beyond, there is only stillness, vacancy, and silence. Like the rest of the city, I now turn my back and walk away.
In Borders bookshop at 100, Broadway, I manage to find a comprehensive street atlas of the city. Its publication predates the disaster on the site, just a few yards away. There, on map 104, the two towers still stand.
I meet Rob at a bar near the office for a drink and end up at his place once again, where Dionne has prepared tacos. We're all exhausted and I have another struggle to stay awake on the subway ride to Astoria.
NY: DAY 2
With David's directions, I arrive easily at the Baruch Performing Arts Center - BPAC - a huge, modern college building on Lexington Avenue near 24th Street. The charming lady on the front desk is like a little barrel: short and rotund. She's in uniform: navy trousers, light blue badge-festooned shirt, navy tie with clip. However, above the uniform, her face is, if anything, quite glamorous. She has very dark skin, a mane of dark 'relaxed' hair in waves, lip gloss... "Andrew Price, I'm with Aquila in the theatre." I'm always conscious of how English I sound here, and all the more so when, as now, I see the slight pause and flicker in the eyes as the recognition dawns. A broad smile. Unexpected, as elsewhere here in the States, putting on a uniform on seems to be accompanied by taking off your sense of humour. "Hi Andrew," she drawls, "he's expecting you. Take the elevator three floors down." I find Robert in the Recital Hall, helping some girls out with Shakespeare scenes. This is a course he's running. They seem barely out of school, although I'm told they're in their early 20s. Robert works on technique, encouraging good articulation and intonation. However, the fundamental challenge here is in getting these kids to connect with what they're saying. I suggest to one girl that Beatrice is in a state of considerable agitation when Benedick opens the conversation (Act 4, Sc 3). Her cousin Hero has received a public insult, the gravity of which is hard to grasp in 2005: she should think of it, perhaps, as a living death. She restarts the scene... with the exactly the same level of banal disengagement, as if Hero had just been given a hundred lines: "I must not talk at the window". The language is simply not connecting with thought. Hamlet is still not fully cast. Rehearsals began before I arrived without a Horatio, Laertes, Claudius, or Polonius (played by me). The first performance is on the 31st of this month in the Skirball Center at New York University. Now, for some directors, staging a production of Hamlet represents a statement of confidence: a seminal work, the distillation of all their experience to date. In the UK, many newly-appointed directors choose the play as their first production. Here this is not the case. Hamlet is just the next play on the Aquila touring slate, alternating with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. If the preparations seem chaotic - and they do - the situation has to be seen in perspective. Aquila does not receive guaranteed public funding. It is, essentially, a commercial operation. It receives very little from the Center for Ancient Studies at NYU where it is the company in residence, apart from office space. However, this important status allows the company access to some limited educational funding. The majority of venues on the tour are theatres within colleges and universities, who use their own educational budgets to buy in company's The company's status also allows me to receive a 'visiting scholar' visa to get in to the country. The other key to facilitating my involvement is that actors in the company are employed on AGMA (American Guild of Musical Artists), rather than Equity, contracts. AGMA represents "the men and women who create America's operatic, choral and dance heritage." If, like American Equity, they made it difficult for visiting foreign performers to get intPavarottintry, Pavarotti couldn't perform at the Met. Pavarotti - Andrew Price - same thing. As for justifying its AGMA membership, the company recently took the unusual step of creating a dance version of 'The Invisible Man'...
The status of the company also means that they are able to offer two roles in the touring shows on an internship basis. Essentially, this means that in return for their work in the shows and some stage management duties, the lucky candidates get a small stipend (amounting to no more than pocket money) and the opportunity to acquire experience of classical theatre and to learn from more experienced artists. In other words, it's an educational exercise, which they themselves subsidise. It also means that the company fills the roles for next to nothing. Happy families all round. These positions are normally filled from students in one of the classical theatre classes run by the company.
One such candidate comes into the theatre to read for Horatio and Laertes. His name is Will. A tall, dark 'n' handsome guy in his early twenties, he's a little better than the girls of earlier in the day, but only just. Again, it strikes me strongly that the language is just not connecting with thought. Sentences are broken up, each sub-clause receiving exactly the same amount of emphasis as the main clause, adjectives given more weight than verbs. Frustrating to hear. However, if the remit is to help him improve, perhaps he could just about bring off Laertes...
We finish our gambol through some Malvolio scenes and end up at the Aquila office, overlooking Washington Square. While Robert piles in to some admin, I catch up with a few e-mails. We end up back at his place and order an Indian meal. Dionne is exhausted after another long day with Toby. I end up wrestling with sleep as I wend my way back to Astoria on the subway.
NY: DAY 1
A queue winds back and forth through the huge high-ceilinged immigration hall. On one side, immigration officials, buried in their biometric Homeland Security booths surmounted with murals depicting soft scenes of New York and, I suppose, American life; and, on the other side, a glass wall offering the impressive spectacle of the control tower and two ships of the air, one from Israel and the other, mine, from London, which has just docked. "Welcome to the States, Mr Price."
My taxi is driven by Arif Mohammad. I find him at the head of the rank, where a 'despatcher' delivers a chit into my hands welcoming me to 'The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey' and giving reassuring estimates of how much one might expect to pay depending to one's destination. No rip-offs here. As I slump in the seat, I deliver the magic words, which, according to my future landlord, will take me to the exact location: "Steinway Street in Astoria, between 25th and 28th Avenues." (For reasons still mysterious, 26th and 27th avenue don't exist). "Astoria", repeats Arif and off we go into the sticky freeway rush hour.
Now, it's normally at this point that you get an enquiry into your health, your origins, your journey and comments about the weather, though not necessarily in that order. Arif? Nothing. And now I came to think of it, he hasn't even said hello. It's almost as if someone has put him to work against his will. There he is, locked into the well of his driving seat, peddling away, the whipcord of a hands-free wire lashing his ear. I don't bat an eye when he repeats "Astoria" again, almost under his breath and continues to speak, I think, in Arabic: no doubt chatting to his controller. However, after a while, I notice that, in between other, barely audible speech, he continues to repeat "Astoria", over and over. "Odd," I think. Then I notice that the mobile phone, attached to the dash board is on standby. He isn't talking to anyone. "Uh-oh: bonkers," I think. "Does he actually know where the hell he's going? Perhaps we'll be driving round like this for the rest of the night..."
After about forty minutes, we draw up outside the sliver front of the Astoria Animal Hospital, a vet practice the size of a small newspaper stand, which is the landmark I was told would identify the apartment building. $32.70... Is a $3 tip enough? My taciturn driver peddles off without further comment and I soon find myself climbing the stairs to the second floor of the building...
Erica welcomes me. Somewhere between 26 and 32, about 5'6" tall, wavy brown hair worn up and dark eyes which sparkle through the oval lenses of her dark framed specs. She seems shy, but is making an effort not to appear so as she shows me into the room, which will be my home here for the next six weeks. Bare wood floors, a silver-painted communal heating pipe, floor to ceiling in the corner, a blue gingham bedspread, book shelves, closet and my roommate: a large fan, pressed against the mesh which covers the open window, whirring away, spilling it's cargo of warm air into the centre of the room with resigned complaint. "Don't mind the Scout." A nervous looking cat, with a coat the colour of coffee-stained sugar, sniffs around my suitcase. "She's the female and is probably kinda pissed off: this is normally her room." I sit down and then meet the "tuxedo male", Brando, who welcomes me by sinking his claws into my knee. Sodding gangster, I think, as it retreats to crouch, immobile, watching my feet. 'Tuxedo' is the description of his colouring: black with white cuffs and collar.
After chatting about Erica's job in the TV production company both she and I are running out of energy: we've both had long days. David, her fella, calls to say he'll be late back. I decide to head out to meet old college chum Jamie Kennedy, before I keel over: two hours sleep Sunday to Monday: my body is at 11pm British time and wants to be horizontal.
I emerge from the Rockefeller subway station with James and my eyes are suddenly pulled skywards by the downtown Manhattan city-scape. He walks on oblivious. "I'm really here," I think, and reflect that an ambition to live and work here, born on my first visit to city in 1991 is being realised. And that private moment of excitement continues for the rest of evening.
James lives in a large studio flat not far from Times Square, which, as with all his living spaces, is beautifully and sensitively decorated. By him. One of his wonderful abstract paintings hangs on the wall. We sip chilled white wine - the glasses frosted with condensate from the humid August evening - and munch our way through tortilla chips and salsa. The hum of city drifts through the open window. We talk, as if we'd only seen each other last week. James reminds me, it's been a year.
He's at the Irish Rep doing Private in Philadelphia Here I Come. He says he makes more money from his art, at the moment. Just as well, since the Irish Rep pay so badly. He seems harder somehow, than when I knew him in London. His face is older. But that may just be the reflection of mine. He speaks like someone who struggles every day to make steps towards the realisation of ambition, but is, more often, frustrated. It's not bitter. But it is determined. Hard, as I said. Perhaps some of that comes from his recently finished relationship with Lee...
Giovanni's for calamari and more wine follows. Robert, director of the show, turns up, suffering with sunburnt ankles: he's just been in California. I share a joke with the people at the next table on the terrace. We borrow first one, then the other of their spare chairs. They joke that perhaps we'd like them to serve the meal too. "Not before you've rubbed my shoulders," I say, proffering them... "Andrew Price is in town!" laughs Robert, a little embarrassed, perhaps.
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