Nothing ventured...
Well, as I'm certain you can imagine it has been a substantially eventful last couple of weeks. With the engagement happening as it did and the dramatic repercussions across both of our families, it's been difficult to get a moment of rest until quite recently.
At the beginning of September, I was originally supposed to start a contract for Large Production Company. When I don't perform, I also on occasion serve as a reasonably competent stage manager, audio technician and video/computer jockey for theatre companies. It should be noted I don't particularly like the work, it's merely a few extra dollars on the side while I wouldn't be doing too much otherwise in my offtime.
This last tour was to start on September 4th and last over two months, into the middle of November. Upon coming home from the summer festival circuit where I was performing my show, winning awards(!), and having an amazing time as always, imagining nine weeks of soul-draining work that had nothing to do with circus or performing and most people were working for the money didn't appeal to me.
I tried to give it a fair chance, attending rehearsals and doing my job as video/computer jockey, stage manager and a host of other duties, and I felt my motivation leak out of my ears every passing second I stayed in the rehearsal studio.
I have several misgivings with Large Production Company. I have a moral objection to working so hard to profit someone else so much. The logistics of working for them are difficult. They push their people and push them hard- and that in itself isn't a bad thing, but it's done so consistently that people get burnt out. I never did, but I could feel it coming if I were to go out on the road with them again. Byron (remember him?) was fired. No one I knew was going out on the road.
Now I know some of you business saavy people are wondering about contracts. I didn't sign mine, not because of any malicious intent or desire to leave, but because I honestly forgot. What that did though was give me a little leverage. I could still decide not to do it, but the ramifications of that were that I would probably never work for Large Production Company again.
Financially too, it would mean I wouldn't have enough money to last through the winter with my current slow season looking the way it does. From a personal standpoint, I also knew I wouldn't get the chance to train as much as I would want to. The average day for a tour like this is usually around twelve hours or more. Nikki would be in Germany for most of the time I was on the road, otherwise the decision would have been a million times easier.
So it all came down to the quintessential artist question: Do you sell out, doing something you don't like so that you can have the safety of some cashflow? Or... Do you throw caution to the wind, pursue the things you really love and take a big risk in doing so?
As if being a full time street performer with a mortgage and a decent car isn't a risk enough already.
It is a bright, sunny morning, and I head into the theatre. I say hello to my colleagues, and talk to my technical director. I open the computers, the equipment, and try to get familiarized with all of the electronic components in case I need to do repairs later. I plug them into one another, and I create a web of computers, circuitry and networks. The projection screens are built, thirty six feet of delicate skin clasped around folding steel frames. I walk to the edge of the stage and align the displays using an IR remote connected to three amazing projectors. Every button I push, every cord I connect and every cable I run I feel my feet getting heavier, heavier, until I'm shuffling zombie-like across the stage. I relay to my colleagues that the system works, and all is ready for the show.
There's only one problem.
It's not my show.
About half an hour later, after a brief chat with my technical director (who is awesome might I add, and also the only person working for Large Production Company left that I can relate to and can travel with) about my thoughts, I leave the system on, exit stage left, exit backstage, exit the stage door, and walk back to my car. The sun is still shining. It's a lovely September... I check my phone. Morning still.
"Without risk there is no reward, and if nothing is ventured, nothing will be gained." I say aloud, as I open the door to my car to drive, but I didn't go directly home. I drove aimlessly for a little while, letting the sun come through the sun roof, feeling the warm wind blow in my ears, listening to music, collecting my thoughts- and most importantly, feeling secure in my choice that while it wasn't easy, I made the right choice.
"Nothing truly worth doing is really easy..." I mumble over Neil Tennant's tenor voice.
I hope I'm right.
At the beginning of September, I was originally supposed to start a contract for Large Production Company. When I don't perform, I also on occasion serve as a reasonably competent stage manager, audio technician and video/computer jockey for theatre companies. It should be noted I don't particularly like the work, it's merely a few extra dollars on the side while I wouldn't be doing too much otherwise in my offtime.
This last tour was to start on September 4th and last over two months, into the middle of November. Upon coming home from the summer festival circuit where I was performing my show, winning awards(!), and having an amazing time as always, imagining nine weeks of soul-draining work that had nothing to do with circus or performing and most people were working for the money didn't appeal to me.
I tried to give it a fair chance, attending rehearsals and doing my job as video/computer jockey, stage manager and a host of other duties, and I felt my motivation leak out of my ears every passing second I stayed in the rehearsal studio.
I have several misgivings with Large Production Company. I have a moral objection to working so hard to profit someone else so much. The logistics of working for them are difficult. They push their people and push them hard- and that in itself isn't a bad thing, but it's done so consistently that people get burnt out. I never did, but I could feel it coming if I were to go out on the road with them again. Byron (remember him?) was fired. No one I knew was going out on the road.
Now I know some of you business saavy people are wondering about contracts. I didn't sign mine, not because of any malicious intent or desire to leave, but because I honestly forgot. What that did though was give me a little leverage. I could still decide not to do it, but the ramifications of that were that I would probably never work for Large Production Company again.
Financially too, it would mean I wouldn't have enough money to last through the winter with my current slow season looking the way it does. From a personal standpoint, I also knew I wouldn't get the chance to train as much as I would want to. The average day for a tour like this is usually around twelve hours or more. Nikki would be in Germany for most of the time I was on the road, otherwise the decision would have been a million times easier.
So it all came down to the quintessential artist question: Do you sell out, doing something you don't like so that you can have the safety of some cashflow? Or... Do you throw caution to the wind, pursue the things you really love and take a big risk in doing so?
As if being a full time street performer with a mortgage and a decent car isn't a risk enough already.
It is a bright, sunny morning, and I head into the theatre. I say hello to my colleagues, and talk to my technical director. I open the computers, the equipment, and try to get familiarized with all of the electronic components in case I need to do repairs later. I plug them into one another, and I create a web of computers, circuitry and networks. The projection screens are built, thirty six feet of delicate skin clasped around folding steel frames. I walk to the edge of the stage and align the displays using an IR remote connected to three amazing projectors. Every button I push, every cord I connect and every cable I run I feel my feet getting heavier, heavier, until I'm shuffling zombie-like across the stage. I relay to my colleagues that the system works, and all is ready for the show.
There's only one problem.
It's not my show.
About half an hour later, after a brief chat with my technical director (who is awesome might I add, and also the only person working for Large Production Company left that I can relate to and can travel with) about my thoughts, I leave the system on, exit stage left, exit backstage, exit the stage door, and walk back to my car. The sun is still shining. It's a lovely September... I check my phone. Morning still.
"Without risk there is no reward, and if nothing is ventured, nothing will be gained." I say aloud, as I open the door to my car to drive, but I didn't go directly home. I drove aimlessly for a little while, letting the sun come through the sun roof, feeling the warm wind blow in my ears, listening to music, collecting my thoughts- and most importantly, feeling secure in my choice that while it wasn't easy, I made the right choice.
"Nothing truly worth doing is really easy..." I mumble over Neil Tennant's tenor voice.
I hope I'm right.