You can take the girl out of the costume shop, but you can't take the costume shop out of the girl.
So last Saturday, Andrew and I went down to the grand reopening of Arena Stage, because since I used to work in their costume shop, I'd been invited to their alumni brunch. It's been a while since I last walked around SW DC, beyond the baseball stadium, but I'd seen the new Arena from the road a few times and I was very much looking forward to seeing the interior.
Bill: Weren't you the one making fun of the new design when it was unveiled to you guys eight years ago or whenever it was?
Me: Shut up.
Because no one really wanted to tear down the two existing theatre spaces themselves, what the designer, Bing Tom, did was to knock everything else down (shops, offices, dressing rooms, the works) and encase the two theatres in a free-standing glass fishtank. Sort of. It's not so much a fishtank as it is a wavy pond sort of thing, but the metaphor stands anyway, because now everything in encased in glass.
(Here's hoping the cleaning crew has stock in Windex.)
What amazed me the most was how small this made the theatres look. Previously, they'd been the largest parts of the building: they dwarfed the shops, the offices, everything. Looking at the old building, it was kind of hard to tell where the costume/prop/scene shops were, let alone the office spaces.
So seeing the Fich encased in glass (the Fich being the actual Arena, which is a theatre-in-the-round, except it's actually a theatre-in-the-square) - well, it looked tiny. Suddenly, it wasn't the theatre being larger than life. It was the fishtank.
The Fich on the right, the fishtank on the left.
There's a fantastic metaphor right there, and I'm pretty sure that the artistic director Molly Smith (who I really don't like much) didn't quite mean for that, but I'm going to let that slide for now.
The view from the cafe on the third level. There's a cafe now! Not that any employees can afford to eat there.
So after poking around a little, and realizing that the brunch line was not only ridiculously long but unable to accommodate Andrew's stroller (the end of the line was down several staircases, thus making it kind of tricky to get into it), Andrew and I called Noel for rescue and escort to the new costume shop.
Before, if you wanted to get backstage, all you had to do was know which door to open. Now, not only do you need to know which door to open, you need one of those little magnetic passcards. Theatre, meet technology. Technology, meet the theatre.
The new shop is gorgeous, and has a view of the Washington Monument if you stand in the right spot. Happily for her, that spot is somewhere near Noel's new cutting table. There's a couple of apartments in the block next door that look right into the shop, too - I say lucky apartments. The people in the apartments apparently don't agree, because their blinds were shut tight that day - there's also been some noise from their direction indicating worry that the costume shop will spend their days spying on their neighbors' activities. Yes, because the costume shop has nothing better to do than watch you guys make dinner and talk on the phone and watch Oprah.
Andrew and his Auntie Noel
After the costume shop, we wandered back up to the brunch, where the line had doubled. So much for free food - and anyway, there were speeches and people to meet. Andrew got to meet some of Mommy's co-workers who she hasn't seen in years (LaVonne! Erika! Sue!), and then the speeches. I am happy to say that when Molly Smith started talking, Andrew started crying. (Good boy, Andrew!)
After that, we wandered outside for the actual ribbon cutting. One of the costume fellows was hoping for Obama. Instead, we got:
Adrian Fenty, Mayor of DC (for a few more weeks, anyway). The design on the woman's shirt, btw, is the new "logo" thing for Arena. It's a stylized rendition of what the space looks like now. I kind of like it.
We also got Eleanor Holmes Norton, but I couldn't get a good picture of her, whereas Fenty walked right by us to get to the front doors. He also shook my hand and called me by name (I was wearing a nametag, so really it just proves he can read). I would rather have met Eleanor Holmes Norton, but you can't have everything. (You know, like Obama, who was a no-show. This sparked a long discussion in our corner about how it's highly unlikely that any member of the first family will likely go to an Arena Stage production ever again since all of the box seats have been removed, and thus there are no safe places for them to sit that the Secret Service is likely to approve.)
We waited for a while, and then waited some more, and waited a little longer, and finally finally finally, Molly Smith showed up to cut her ribbon.
And then she started talking.
And then Andrew, right on cue, started crying again.
(No, really. He did. I'd think he doesn't like the sound of her voice, but we'd been waiting so long, it was now his lunchtime, and Andrew does not like waiting on lunchtime.)
So back inside we went, and missed the ribbon cutting, and hung in the costume shop for a bit longer, and then headed home, because Andrew was about ready for his nap, which I knew he'd take on the way home. First, though, Mommy got in some more pictures, and also a cup of butternut squash and crab bisque from one of the vendors outside, which was easily the most delicious soup I have had in weeks, if not months. Yum.
The old sign faces Maine Avenue, because it's been replaced over the entrance by...
The new sign, with the much longer name. (Take a breath before you say it.)
I vaguely remember this was supposed to be a waterfall, or something. No water now, which is probably just as well.
Close-up of the Fishtank, which is supported by wooden pillars. There's some kind of thing about those pillars being from sustainable wood sources or something, but I can't remember exactly and I'm not wasting Andrew's nap by looking it up.
And so ended our trip to Mommy's Old Workplace, which technically speaking doesn't exist anymore. I will say this, though - it was odd going back and seeing everyone and everything, and my old sewing machine and the new dressing rooms. There's new people in the shop, and new jokes, but the same sort of back-and-forth and conversations. It made me realize how much I miss it. Which isn't to say I would go back - working in professional theatre is not exactly conducive to raising a family, unless you want a live-in-nanny or to never put your own kids to bed. But to me, there's something homey about building a costume from scratch, seeing it go from a flat length of fabric into some out-of-this-world costume.
Yeah, I miss it. I know I left of my own volition, and it was the right decision at the right time, and I wouldn't go back on it. But someday, it's nice to think that maybe I'll go back. Even if it's only pipe-dreams.
Bill: Weren't you the one making fun of the new design when it was unveiled to you guys eight years ago or whenever it was?
Me: Shut up.
Because no one really wanted to tear down the two existing theatre spaces themselves, what the designer, Bing Tom, did was to knock everything else down (shops, offices, dressing rooms, the works) and encase the two theatres in a free-standing glass fishtank. Sort of. It's not so much a fishtank as it is a wavy pond sort of thing, but the metaphor stands anyway, because now everything in encased in glass.
(Here's hoping the cleaning crew has stock in Windex.)
What amazed me the most was how small this made the theatres look. Previously, they'd been the largest parts of the building: they dwarfed the shops, the offices, everything. Looking at the old building, it was kind of hard to tell where the costume/prop/scene shops were, let alone the office spaces.
So seeing the Fich encased in glass (the Fich being the actual Arena, which is a theatre-in-the-round, except it's actually a theatre-in-the-square) - well, it looked tiny. Suddenly, it wasn't the theatre being larger than life. It was the fishtank.
The Fich on the right, the fishtank on the left.
There's a fantastic metaphor right there, and I'm pretty sure that the artistic director Molly Smith (who I really don't like much) didn't quite mean for that, but I'm going to let that slide for now.
The view from the cafe on the third level. There's a cafe now! Not that any employees can afford to eat there.
So after poking around a little, and realizing that the brunch line was not only ridiculously long but unable to accommodate Andrew's stroller (the end of the line was down several staircases, thus making it kind of tricky to get into it), Andrew and I called Noel for rescue and escort to the new costume shop.
Before, if you wanted to get backstage, all you had to do was know which door to open. Now, not only do you need to know which door to open, you need one of those little magnetic passcards. Theatre, meet technology. Technology, meet the theatre.
The new shop is gorgeous, and has a view of the Washington Monument if you stand in the right spot. Happily for her, that spot is somewhere near Noel's new cutting table. There's a couple of apartments in the block next door that look right into the shop, too - I say lucky apartments. The people in the apartments apparently don't agree, because their blinds were shut tight that day - there's also been some noise from their direction indicating worry that the costume shop will spend their days spying on their neighbors' activities. Yes, because the costume shop has nothing better to do than watch you guys make dinner and talk on the phone and watch Oprah.
Andrew and his Auntie Noel
After the costume shop, we wandered back up to the brunch, where the line had doubled. So much for free food - and anyway, there were speeches and people to meet. Andrew got to meet some of Mommy's co-workers who she hasn't seen in years (LaVonne! Erika! Sue!), and then the speeches. I am happy to say that when Molly Smith started talking, Andrew started crying. (Good boy, Andrew!)
After that, we wandered outside for the actual ribbon cutting. One of the costume fellows was hoping for Obama. Instead, we got:
Adrian Fenty, Mayor of DC (for a few more weeks, anyway). The design on the woman's shirt, btw, is the new "logo" thing for Arena. It's a stylized rendition of what the space looks like now. I kind of like it.
We also got Eleanor Holmes Norton, but I couldn't get a good picture of her, whereas Fenty walked right by us to get to the front doors. He also shook my hand and called me by name (I was wearing a nametag, so really it just proves he can read). I would rather have met Eleanor Holmes Norton, but you can't have everything. (You know, like Obama, who was a no-show. This sparked a long discussion in our corner about how it's highly unlikely that any member of the first family will likely go to an Arena Stage production ever again since all of the box seats have been removed, and thus there are no safe places for them to sit that the Secret Service is likely to approve.)
We waited for a while, and then waited some more, and waited a little longer, and finally finally finally, Molly Smith showed up to cut her ribbon.
And then she started talking.
And then Andrew, right on cue, started crying again.
(No, really. He did. I'd think he doesn't like the sound of her voice, but we'd been waiting so long, it was now his lunchtime, and Andrew does not like waiting on lunchtime.)
So back inside we went, and missed the ribbon cutting, and hung in the costume shop for a bit longer, and then headed home, because Andrew was about ready for his nap, which I knew he'd take on the way home. First, though, Mommy got in some more pictures, and also a cup of butternut squash and crab bisque from one of the vendors outside, which was easily the most delicious soup I have had in weeks, if not months. Yum.
The old sign faces Maine Avenue, because it's been replaced over the entrance by...
The new sign, with the much longer name. (Take a breath before you say it.)
I vaguely remember this was supposed to be a waterfall, or something. No water now, which is probably just as well.
Close-up of the Fishtank, which is supported by wooden pillars. There's some kind of thing about those pillars being from sustainable wood sources or something, but I can't remember exactly and I'm not wasting Andrew's nap by looking it up.
And so ended our trip to Mommy's Old Workplace, which technically speaking doesn't exist anymore. I will say this, though - it was odd going back and seeing everyone and everything, and my old sewing machine and the new dressing rooms. There's new people in the shop, and new jokes, but the same sort of back-and-forth and conversations. It made me realize how much I miss it. Which isn't to say I would go back - working in professional theatre is not exactly conducive to raising a family, unless you want a live-in-nanny or to never put your own kids to bed. But to me, there's something homey about building a costume from scratch, seeing it go from a flat length of fabric into some out-of-this-world costume.
Yeah, I miss it. I know I left of my own volition, and it was the right decision at the right time, and I wouldn't go back on it. But someday, it's nice to think that maybe I'll go back. Even if it's only pipe-dreams.