If my home is in a theatre, then my bedroom is in the workshop.
Read into that statement what you will; I met my husband in a prop shop fer chrissakes. It’s not all glue guns and foam rubber in there… drills and hammering…. latex and moldmaking… ahem…what I mean is that a workshop is a personal, intimate space where there can be private moments of creative bliss, and gut-wrenching uncertainty. Some of the most fun is collaborative, especially in the midst of explosive fireworks of brainstorming, or the third wind at 3 a.m. when the first layer of paint finally dries or the resin finally sets or the plaster finally hardens.
I learned to drink in the UCB workshop (“teatime” with Jack and Bob). Students would keep relationship scores on the painting frame.
Paul James wrung the neck of a chicken we wanted to stuff at the OSFA workshop; the body flew off and Paul James ended up with the head in his hand. We drew a chalk line around where the body eventually came to rest.
At Berkeley Rep I shared a garden shed shop with the tech director/carpenter/painter and the table saw, which we covered in plastic when it rained.
The nearest ventilation at Long Wharf was the door at the end of the storage area; I didn’t really think about it as I stuck my nose into expanding foams and spray painted fake foods.
The prop master at CAPAB wore a tie to work, and we had a tea lady who arrived with a tray of cups, saucers, and a teapot exactly at 10 every morning. One of my coworkers gave pedicures to the costume department seamstresses during lunch.
The Sesame Street Workshop in New York had drawers full of Miss Piggy breasts and bums, and three or four versions of Kermit sat on shelves conversing with each other.
The shop of my dreams, at SCT, is tidy and organized, with a separate room for “clean” work, and an enclosed spray room, and a dye vat. I had a real office, with a door that closed, and a computer and a comfortable chair that still had its upholstery intact. Best of all, I had a view all day long of Elliot Bay and the Olympic Mountains. During many a tech week I would pull Jack D. out of the right-hand drawer, pour half an inch into my coffee cup, and admire the excellent sunset scenic painting skills of Yaweh.
Now I want a small space where I can close the door and play music and look out of a window, with the scent of melting glue gun and freshly-cut foam rubber enhancing a tidy mess of sequins, leather, paint pots, and odd bits of rubber. And, maybe, a bed.
Read into that statement what you will; I met my husband in a prop shop fer chrissakes. It’s not all glue guns and foam rubber in there… drills and hammering…. latex and moldmaking… ahem…what I mean is that a workshop is a personal, intimate space where there can be private moments of creative bliss, and gut-wrenching uncertainty. Some of the most fun is collaborative, especially in the midst of explosive fireworks of brainstorming, or the third wind at 3 a.m. when the first layer of paint finally dries or the resin finally sets or the plaster finally hardens.
I learned to drink in the UCB workshop (“teatime” with Jack and Bob). Students would keep relationship scores on the painting frame.
Paul James wrung the neck of a chicken we wanted to stuff at the OSFA workshop; the body flew off and Paul James ended up with the head in his hand. We drew a chalk line around where the body eventually came to rest.
At Berkeley Rep I shared a garden shed shop with the tech director/carpenter/painter and the table saw, which we covered in plastic when it rained.
The nearest ventilation at Long Wharf was the door at the end of the storage area; I didn’t really think about it as I stuck my nose into expanding foams and spray painted fake foods.
The prop master at CAPAB wore a tie to work, and we had a tea lady who arrived with a tray of cups, saucers, and a teapot exactly at 10 every morning. One of my coworkers gave pedicures to the costume department seamstresses during lunch.
The Sesame Street Workshop in New York had drawers full of Miss Piggy breasts and bums, and three or four versions of Kermit sat on shelves conversing with each other.
The shop of my dreams, at SCT, is tidy and organized, with a separate room for “clean” work, and an enclosed spray room, and a dye vat. I had a real office, with a door that closed, and a computer and a comfortable chair that still had its upholstery intact. Best of all, I had a view all day long of Elliot Bay and the Olympic Mountains. During many a tech week I would pull Jack D. out of the right-hand drawer, pour half an inch into my coffee cup, and admire the excellent sunset scenic painting skills of Yaweh.
Now I want a small space where I can close the door and play music and look out of a window, with the scent of melting glue gun and freshly-cut foam rubber enhancing a tidy mess of sequins, leather, paint pots, and odd bits of rubber. And, maybe, a bed.