2007-02-13
For Every Casualty, A Soul Is Released
Our fantastic failure: Dramafeste 07, All The World's Offstage.
Winning isn't everything, but it certainly counts for something. I'm not going to hide behind a string of pretty words and lofty ideals - you'd expect this coming from someone who was bawling her eyes out after Dramafeste, wouldn't you? How many others were truly disappointed, I don't know. And I'm sorry I didn't find out.
The crying in Sophia's arms felt strange- because most people would agree that letting a verdict un-dam those tear ducts is an incredibly stupid thing to do (Honestly, I thought I wouldn't cry, as the girls who were with me before I met Sophia would testify, but when Sophia ENGULFED me, I just couldn't help it) But I am unembarrassed. Because I knew what I was crying for.
I don't think we deserved to win. And I wasn't upset that we didn't win. I was upset about the fact that we didn't win.
As a director, I am proud - of what the production team, crew and cast had pulled together in a short span of 2 weeks, of the massive improvement the cast had made over the last two days, of the way every little detail had unfolded into everything I ever dreamed of and more. As a playwright, I am touched by the mild lopsided smile of gratitude, to actually see a work of mine declare itself to the world. And as a part of the whole crew who made Dramafeste happen, I am wriggling with the warmth of espirit de corp.
But as a part of the organization, as a Dramafeste manager, I couldn't help but feel completely shattered. Over the two weeks, I'd been watching the tiredness seep out of my various friends particularly in the Faculty committee - tiredness in their smiles, tiredness as they turned their backs. I'd been watching the actors - all of whom I have grown to like - as they pondered over their lines, stayed back late at night, as we freaked out over the characters together (or sometimes, as I freaked and they watched, and then as the date grew closer, they freaked, and I freaked even more). I'd watched as the crew gave up hours of their precious free time to support the production that seemed to be lending itself to materialism as much as a fish would as hooks skimmed the waters.
And as I watched, I couldn't say a word. The only way I thought could make their efforts worth the while, was to have a nice trohpy in our name brought back. It would have been something our fists could close on; something that could bring us some kind of closure, something that could be shared.
There must be other ways of transferring all this feeling I had for them - but I didn't, and still don't know of them.
I remember the only thing I could say was "they worked so hard, Sophia! Do you know how hard they worked?" And the only thing those around me could do was click their tongues sympathetically and say "effort doesn't always equate to winning, you know?"
I know. I know that more than anything else in the world. But it wasn't the affirmation of quality I was looking for in winning - it was the solid and material recognition of what everyone had given. Something I wanted so badly to give, but couldn't, because I was torn between taking on the role of the distant leader of the pack, and the individual who wanted to love the other individuals so badly (I believe that when the two can be seamlessly melded, a true leader would have arrived). Something more than the "Excellent!"s and "Brilliant!"s that I could give. A miscarriage of an award, perhaps, but all that I knew.
This post-mortem needs way too many incisions, but the cadaver shall not yet be mangled.
I am reminded of what a very fine artist once shared with me: [rephrased] that every artist needs the intellectual muscles to defend his work.
The fact that we didn't win anything should perhaps already give you a hint of what an objective judgment pronounced on our (collective) work would say. Despite that, many (theatre experts included) came to congratulate us on our fantastic failure, remarking on how they appreciated many bits of it.
It would only be too easy for us to discard the dregs of Dramafeste into Corridor Horror, and forget all about it. But a streak of stubbornness - the budding of intellectual muscles (defining of my artist persona perhaps, and definitely a new arm of my character) - fights the memory eraser, and I hope that the rest of you feel the same way.
Because it wasn't bad. But it could have been better, and should have. The technicalities and other academic details are for another page. I can't say I wasn't disappointed that, regardless of how 'fantastic' All the World's Offstage was dubbed, it was a still, inexorably, a failure, but renouncing it would make us failures.
But writing and art are things we all have a lifetime for - there are others that live only for the moment.
Like what I am often told, I lead standing alone. My word has been likened to that of God's - though always to a lesser degree of wisdom. I am not, as this post reveals, like our faculty heads and many others - seasoned in leadership, and I suspect it shall always leave a strange taste in my mouth. I leave, as with every other leadership position I have been in, with regrets. This Dramafeste, I have two.
I never should have let myself go: never have lost my temper, never have cried, never have dispaired. Dignity is what makes a leader, and control, what makes for dignity. But more importantly, I should have considered the effects such ill-disciplined behavior would have on the organization. Temperament never steadied the boat.
And when the people around me came to confess their nervousness, I never should have turned them away. I knew the brief words of empathy, that nobody really heard, would not count. And the hoping that I could dismiss Stanley's nerves with half-hearted bad puns, was a sorry mask for my own lack of courage to reach out to him. For at the end of the day, I want to be more than just that "IC" tag, more than just the distant commanding voice. I want to be a person. Because all the world, is truly offstage.
Isn't it?
nothing ever happens at 7:07 p.m.