LA Stage Blog - Beta

Life is funny: twisty-turvy, unexpected, often out of - and rarely in - our control. Particularly in the arts, we give ourselves over to hope, luck and timing far more than a legitimate recognition of our talent, skill, education and experience. That’s just the way it is. Sometimes the cream rises. Sometimes other stuff does. Like mold, or the smell of stinky cheese. It took me a long time to realize this, and by the time I did I’d spent over a decade working as an actress. Okay, working and not working. Or, to put it another way, working part-time as an actress and full-time as a waitress. Or, to put it another way, sleeping on a 10-year old futon. Or, to put it another way, playing roulette with my soul.

I remember when my father - an actor - told me that I needed to have a “fallback career,” and I came back to him after thinking seriously - very seriously - about it, and told him that I’d chosen one: If I didn’t succeed as an actress, I would be a director. He enjoyed that. And then I didn’t think about my “fallback career” because things went relatively well for me for a while. I was “in demand,” as they say. At least, sometimes. When I had work it seemed like it came easily, and when I didn’t it seemed like the door was locked, chained and bolted. And life went on like that for a while. And I was okay with two meals a day. And my landlord was okay if I paid my rent a little late. And my cat was okay because she had better health care than I did. Oh, and let me be clear: I was working in theatre.

And then I moved to LA to do film! And TV!! And things slowed down for me. Way, way down. Instead of working for a paycheck, I started paying to work. I paid dues to a theatre company, or I paid to rent out a space for a one-woman show, or I paid a casting director to let me read for them - I’m sorry, I meant, to run a workshop in which I could soak up their wisdom about the business. (You know what I’m talking about.) And then I was offered a job at a major film studio. Not an acting job: a desk job. I was temping and they offered me the job I was filling in for, and I said I couldn’t possibly because I was an actress, and they said really, are you working regularly, and I took the job. It came with a hefty salary, health benefits, a matching 401K, paid lunches (I mean the actual food - not just my time - was paid for), a gym on the lot, and, despite the 12 to 14 hour days, I reasoned with myself that I would learn a lot about the business.

I did. I learned too much. I planned to take my newfound insights back into the acting world after a couple of years, and be fortified with my knowledge. That would have happened had I not been completely disappointed and disgusted with the way actors were treated, referred to, and categorized. I’ll go into that another time. Suffice, for the moment, to say that I decided to break up with acting, which was like separating my skin from the muscle underneath: painful, difficult and I wasn’t sure I would live through it. But I did. And in that break-up, as often happens during such things, I discovered strengths and desires within myself that I hadn’t recognized or allowed before. I had this epiphany - which seems so obvious now but wasn’t before - that what I wanted, the reason I pursued theatre, the satisfaction I got out of it had everything to do with telling stories. I know, I’m getting a bit cliché here, but bear with me. Once I let go of the need to be on stage, I realized that I wanted to be the storyteller, rather than a pawn within the story. And so it was that I came to my “fallback career.” Except that I wasn’t really doing my “fallback career.” My “fallback career” at that point actually consisted of working with overly developed, overly coddled, mindlessly spoiled middle school students - I’m sorry, I meant film executives. So during the day I was in the ninth circle of hell, and at night I was directing and writing plays, and I came to realize that no matter how big the pay cut, I had to get out of the film world. I wanted to be working in theatre, both day and night.

So, in a circuitous way, I fell backwards into a stable career in arts management, leading me to my current position as Associate Manager of Center Theatre Group. At the same time, I have been able to direct and write, produce theatre and teach acting classes. At the same time, I was also able to get married, buy a house and have two children. And it is here, really, that the story starts, because although it may seem that, in the artistic world, I “had it all,” - a paycheck, a creative life, and a family - I decided recently to give my notice at CTG. (Right before the economy fell apart. Sigh.) But I had good reasons: chief among them, my head was hurting from bumping up against the ceiling every day. I don’t mean to imply the “glass ceiling” with the now supposedly 18 million or so cracks in it (that Sarah Palin is busy sealing up) - though that is a good subject for another blog. Rather, it’s the ceiling that many of us come to at the intersection of working life and creative life. It’s the point at which the creative life is moving forward with a speedy inevitability, and the working life is at a standstill. And I don’t stand still very well. And I don’t look pretty when I have a headache.

There are a lot of artists wearing the costumes of executives, managers, assistants, teachers, etc. CTG suffers the reputation of being “the big theatre on the hill,” but many of us working here are current or former performers, directors, playwrights, producers, designers, and certainly, dreamers. We spend our days in the big theatres and our nights in the small ones. Those of us who took this detour into stability dream about a time when, one day, the parallel paths we’re on will converge. Our working life will become one and the same with our creative life. And I know a very, very few people who have been able to make that happen. But for most of the rest of us, there comes a time to make this decision. You either take the leap, or you don’t. And I decided that my head hurt too much to not take the leap. “Really,” I reasoned with my husband, “you could have a tighter budget or an unhappy wife.” I won’t go into his response.

By the way, I’m not leaving CTG because I have issues with leadership or aesthetic or anything like that. I certainly have opinions, but so do we all. I’m actually pretty sad to be leaving. From my first day here I have felt included in a large and diverse family, and I will miss seeing the faces that have been part of my daily life for years. I’m not leaving because of the organization. I’m leaving because of my position, which has no growth potential, either forward or laterally. It’s middle management or bust. So I’m busting.

And in the twisty-turvy nature of life, I find myself on the precipice of the freelance life once again. A couple of decades after I semi-blindly wandered through the unstructured life of an artist, I am going to try it again, this time with my eyes wide open, and armed with a whole lot more wisdom and confidence. And I am thrilled and petrified and curious. It feels like the right decision in my gut, where we illogical, emotional, passionate artists often make our decisions. My brain, of course, is justifying it, because that’s my brain’s job. And everyone around me is offering congratulations, so something must be right.

Am I crazy? Maybe. But I’ve done the pragmatic thing and you can see where that’s gotten me. I could stay on this side of the chasm and become the subject of a Sinclair Lewis book, or I can take the leap and create some drama.

I’ll let you know how it goes. (And if you need a director, playwright, teacher, or producer anytime after November, let me know.)

Emilie Beck
LA Stage Blogger