the lights will inspire you
Day Eight: A moment, in great detail
I went into this knowing full well that there would be late nights, emotional and mental draining, and, most frighteningly, that my heart will be left behind somewhere in all this. The days leading up to Paparazzi 2010: Exposure were a mind-racing blur; I had to precariously manage that fine balance between rehearsals, and my much-neglected school work. It was even more tricky, as most of this "school work" involved group projects and me being accountable to other people who had as much investment in it as I should be having. The day of theatre bump-in, I'd just presented my group midterm case study in the morning - the most stress-inducing 10% of my whole university life. All of us had done much more work than was demanded of us for a mere 10%. I even found out that I'd severely screwed up my ticketing, leaving one of my friends without a ticket even though she'd paid for one, and I had to despairingly break the news to her that she had no ticket, and that I would refund her.
But the magic of theatre is that, it allows you to deliciously traverse into another world and escape reality, if just for a little while. When the lights of the dressing room come on, you can't help but imagine yourself slowly being morphed into the character you're supposed to play: the foundation and powder covers any imperfections you have until you acquire the perfect mask, the dark brown and black eyeshadow, and jet-black eyeliner, intensify your eyes until they're so intensely deep-set that you don't recognise the face staring back at you, the darker shade of blush sculpts your face and brings out your cheekbones from hiding, the dark brown eyebrow pencil fills in the sparse brows until you have a set of strong eyebrows to frame your face.
Shutting out the bustling of activity, I closed my eyes and, with my iPod plugged in, tried to envision myself in the space, creating the world we were to unravel in front of the audience.
40 minutes before standby: Hums and buzzings abound as everyone engaged in vocal warm-ups.
15 minutes before standby: We stood in the space, bathed in the warm glow of the stage lights above us, and the empty seats in front of us. I imagined them filled with faces eager to discover the secrets that are slowly being exposed.
5 minutes before standby: We said a prayer, giving thanks to the Lord, and asking for His Grace to be upon us so that the show would be smooth.
2 minutes to standby: We silently waited in the wings with bated breaths and thudding hearts. From this point on, there's no turning back. Suddenly crumbling and caving in to the nerves was simply not an option.
Standby: We entered the space and got into positions. I heard the animated chatter of the audience streaming in through the doors. Some were familiar and distinctive, others an unrecognisable buzzing. I felt the all-too-familiar stirring in my stomach, in my chest, signalling to myself that I was more than ready, that this was what I'd invested so much emotionally for.
And then the lights came on, and the stirring transformed into a swell of adrenaline coursing through my body. It was something I could not suppress, could not control. And when the set transitioned from the first to the second play, and I heard the melancholic music, I became part of the changing set, building up layers after layers of thoughts and feelings. In the darkness I walked over to my spot behind the panels, my feet heavy with the emotional tension that this play has placed upon me. I look around me, and I see my other cast members, changed now to becoming my family. I see fear on their faces, as they waited for the moment when the sirens would wail and they could seek refuge in their safe yet claustrophobic room. I hear the faint cry of the siren, and then getting louder, more deafening. They burst into the room, shutting me out, leaving me, and I couldn't help but feel alone.
My life is the stage, the stage is my life.
I went into this knowing full well that there would be late nights, emotional and mental draining, and, most frighteningly, that my heart will be left behind somewhere in all this. The days leading up to Paparazzi 2010: Exposure were a mind-racing blur; I had to precariously manage that fine balance between rehearsals, and my much-neglected school work. It was even more tricky, as most of this "school work" involved group projects and me being accountable to other people who had as much investment in it as I should be having. The day of theatre bump-in, I'd just presented my group midterm case study in the morning - the most stress-inducing 10% of my whole university life. All of us had done much more work than was demanded of us for a mere 10%. I even found out that I'd severely screwed up my ticketing, leaving one of my friends without a ticket even though she'd paid for one, and I had to despairingly break the news to her that she had no ticket, and that I would refund her.
But the magic of theatre is that, it allows you to deliciously traverse into another world and escape reality, if just for a little while. When the lights of the dressing room come on, you can't help but imagine yourself slowly being morphed into the character you're supposed to play: the foundation and powder covers any imperfections you have until you acquire the perfect mask, the dark brown and black eyeshadow, and jet-black eyeliner, intensify your eyes until they're so intensely deep-set that you don't recognise the face staring back at you, the darker shade of blush sculpts your face and brings out your cheekbones from hiding, the dark brown eyebrow pencil fills in the sparse brows until you have a set of strong eyebrows to frame your face.
Shutting out the bustling of activity, I closed my eyes and, with my iPod plugged in, tried to envision myself in the space, creating the world we were to unravel in front of the audience.
40 minutes before standby: Hums and buzzings abound as everyone engaged in vocal warm-ups.
15 minutes before standby: We stood in the space, bathed in the warm glow of the stage lights above us, and the empty seats in front of us. I imagined them filled with faces eager to discover the secrets that are slowly being exposed.
5 minutes before standby: We said a prayer, giving thanks to the Lord, and asking for His Grace to be upon us so that the show would be smooth.
2 minutes to standby: We silently waited in the wings with bated breaths and thudding hearts. From this point on, there's no turning back. Suddenly crumbling and caving in to the nerves was simply not an option.
Standby: We entered the space and got into positions. I heard the animated chatter of the audience streaming in through the doors. Some were familiar and distinctive, others an unrecognisable buzzing. I felt the all-too-familiar stirring in my stomach, in my chest, signalling to myself that I was more than ready, that this was what I'd invested so much emotionally for.
And then the lights came on, and the stirring transformed into a swell of adrenaline coursing through my body. It was something I could not suppress, could not control. And when the set transitioned from the first to the second play, and I heard the melancholic music, I became part of the changing set, building up layers after layers of thoughts and feelings. In the darkness I walked over to my spot behind the panels, my feet heavy with the emotional tension that this play has placed upon me. I look around me, and I see my other cast members, changed now to becoming my family. I see fear on their faces, as they waited for the moment when the sirens would wail and they could seek refuge in their safe yet claustrophobic room. I hear the faint cry of the siren, and then getting louder, more deafening. They burst into the room, shutting me out, leaving me, and I couldn't help but feel alone.
My life is the stage, the stage is my life.