The Nature Of Journals
Today I had the good fortune of looking into the newspaper and finding that there was a free performance of a play, "The Journals of Fanny Kemble: A Melodrama" at Vassar College on the Rockefeller Lawn at 6:30pm. It was being put on by the Powerhouse/New York Stage and Film Apprentice Program, a highly exclusive and intense summer program group I was going to attempt to join until I found the cost too much, and so I decided it'd be beneficial to go see what acting the group turns out, and maybe to take notes on the acting.
The show itself was very good. It had an odd start, due mostly to the fact that the spectator had to first realize that all the girls on the stage, being dressed the same with the same prop- a small journal and pencil on a red string around their waists- and answering to the same name as well as various others, were similtaneously playing Fanny as well as any number of other people, from daily society types and slaves to Fanny's mother and the overseer. The play, I soon realized, took place in the early 1800's, beginning in England where Fanny's break as an actress saves her father's failing theatre, and traveling to America; New York City, where her acting made her popular in the states (though she insisted on her dreadfulness) and where she would meet her husband, Pierce Butler, and Georgia, to her husband's plantation, where she would find her opposition to the slavery that gave her husband and her their livelihood would in the end destroy their marriage. The first part is a reflection on the nature of an actress coming into the business: thrown on stage by her father, knowing how to act but seeing herself inept, being praised for her inept acting, finding that (especially in America) that shoddy acting was celebrated, and forced to deal with the adoration of many fans. The second part, a brief interlude as it is, records the courtship of Fanny by one of these fans, gentleman Pierce Butler, and their marriage. The third part contains the meat of the play, as Fanny goes with her husband to the plantation he has inheirited in Georgia and witness the cruel treatment of slaves there. Brutally honest and portrayed by six actresses, Fanny deals with her conflict against the institution that provides her livelihood, with the man she loves and his approval of such an institution, and within herself between the two. It's a powerful display of slavery and the struggle against it, creatively and strikingly portrayed by the six women and two men.
The end result was great. I was pleasantly surprised by the display and captivated by the acting. It was interesting to watch six girls portray the same character with their own uniqueness, and how the central, universal stuff of the character made them all the same. The only fault I found was contained in one of the girls voices, because she always seemed to be shouting and came off harsh during tender moments, many times betraying the moment. As Ted has told me, however, no actor is ever 100%, even on good days.
Truthfully, the only time my mind was taken from the show was when I was poked by a stranger, and I turned to see Annette, a good friend from Binghamton! Her friend was in the show and she decided to come see it, and thus ran into me there. Being that she and I worked on Our Town together (she backstage, myself onstage), it was a great pleasure to share an evening of theatre with her.
Anyways, the end result had me thinking about the nature of journals. I've been keeping one for over two years online, not to mention the ones I kept during my early years (now safely locked away). The show was a real reflection of the life and times of this person and the world she lived in, through her own eyes. My journals have often been the same.
It's evident to me that three things are kept in journals: records of important events (and sometimes daily events), reflections on any number of subjects, and cathartic writings, drawnings, musings and other forms of expression to ease the mind. These three things I find precious. The latter is where great works are often produced, things worthy of sharing with the world, who most likely has felt like you; in them you find the universality of the human experience. The records are your history- your own personal story and what you've made of it so far. By the end of it, you have had the chance to make it anything you want to, and it will be recorded for generations to follow. And in the reflections, as this lengthy entry is, tells about who we are and how we became that way. For ourselves to look back at, as a reference for others to see, or as a quick note so that the world won't lose those gems of thought we sometimes stumble upon, reflections speak volumes about the people we are and the world we live in. A journal, kept like this, is the literary embodiment of a person. If we exist already, however, why do we want to make these literary embodiments? Simply because in every man's futile struggle for immortality, the figurative victory is the best they can get, and can ever really achieve.
That is to say that if, one day, immortality does become a reality, we find that life is indeed as tedious as the great thinkers have told us. I for one have no desire for physical immortality. Instead, I wish my legacy to live on in the life I do live. My immortality comes from the pages.
And even if no one ever reads them again, they exist,/i>. Perhaps that is enough to sustain ones legacy.
The show itself was very good. It had an odd start, due mostly to the fact that the spectator had to first realize that all the girls on the stage, being dressed the same with the same prop- a small journal and pencil on a red string around their waists- and answering to the same name as well as various others, were similtaneously playing Fanny as well as any number of other people, from daily society types and slaves to Fanny's mother and the overseer. The play, I soon realized, took place in the early 1800's, beginning in England where Fanny's break as an actress saves her father's failing theatre, and traveling to America; New York City, where her acting made her popular in the states (though she insisted on her dreadfulness) and where she would meet her husband, Pierce Butler, and Georgia, to her husband's plantation, where she would find her opposition to the slavery that gave her husband and her their livelihood would in the end destroy their marriage. The first part is a reflection on the nature of an actress coming into the business: thrown on stage by her father, knowing how to act but seeing herself inept, being praised for her inept acting, finding that (especially in America) that shoddy acting was celebrated, and forced to deal with the adoration of many fans. The second part, a brief interlude as it is, records the courtship of Fanny by one of these fans, gentleman Pierce Butler, and their marriage. The third part contains the meat of the play, as Fanny goes with her husband to the plantation he has inheirited in Georgia and witness the cruel treatment of slaves there. Brutally honest and portrayed by six actresses, Fanny deals with her conflict against the institution that provides her livelihood, with the man she loves and his approval of such an institution, and within herself between the two. It's a powerful display of slavery and the struggle against it, creatively and strikingly portrayed by the six women and two men.
The end result was great. I was pleasantly surprised by the display and captivated by the acting. It was interesting to watch six girls portray the same character with their own uniqueness, and how the central, universal stuff of the character made them all the same. The only fault I found was contained in one of the girls voices, because she always seemed to be shouting and came off harsh during tender moments, many times betraying the moment. As Ted has told me, however, no actor is ever 100%, even on good days.
Truthfully, the only time my mind was taken from the show was when I was poked by a stranger, and I turned to see Annette, a good friend from Binghamton! Her friend was in the show and she decided to come see it, and thus ran into me there. Being that she and I worked on Our Town together (she backstage, myself onstage), it was a great pleasure to share an evening of theatre with her.
Anyways, the end result had me thinking about the nature of journals. I've been keeping one for over two years online, not to mention the ones I kept during my early years (now safely locked away). The show was a real reflection of the life and times of this person and the world she lived in, through her own eyes. My journals have often been the same.
It's evident to me that three things are kept in journals: records of important events (and sometimes daily events), reflections on any number of subjects, and cathartic writings, drawnings, musings and other forms of expression to ease the mind. These three things I find precious. The latter is where great works are often produced, things worthy of sharing with the world, who most likely has felt like you; in them you find the universality of the human experience. The records are your history- your own personal story and what you've made of it so far. By the end of it, you have had the chance to make it anything you want to, and it will be recorded for generations to follow. And in the reflections, as this lengthy entry is, tells about who we are and how we became that way. For ourselves to look back at, as a reference for others to see, or as a quick note so that the world won't lose those gems of thought we sometimes stumble upon, reflections speak volumes about the people we are and the world we live in. A journal, kept like this, is the literary embodiment of a person. If we exist already, however, why do we want to make these literary embodiments? Simply because in every man's futile struggle for immortality, the figurative victory is the best they can get, and can ever really achieve.
That is to say that if, one day, immortality does become a reality, we find that life is indeed as tedious as the great thinkers have told us. I for one have no desire for physical immortality. Instead, I wish my legacy to live on in the life I do live. My immortality comes from the pages.
And even if no one ever reads them again, they exist,/i>. Perhaps that is enough to sustain ones legacy.