20 August 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: Work

 


 

When asked about work, for some reason, my mind takes a sharp turn to childhood jobs:  hanging newly washed laundry on the line, hemming skirts and dresses, babysitting, turning over the earth in our early spring gardens, planting seeds, weeding beds, harvesting vegetables and berries, peeling fruits and vegetables for canning—the apples and tomatoes most of all—and raking the autumn leaves that pile up on the lawns.   I’d add high school and college jobs here as well, short order cook and server in an inner city corner store, dishwasher, library aid, proofreader, and envelope stuffer.   

I’m surprised my thoughts take such a turn, because my life calling was to be a teacher, and I spent my entire life teaching—whether high school English, college freshman writing, Quaker Sunday school, or my main love, theatre. In fact, the thing I most appreciate about being a resident at Simpson House is being in the company of so many teachers.

So what do the earlier, childhood jobs have to do with teaching?  I think they have to do with being useful and finding the link between the earth and its people.  Even the college dishwashing, hands gloved and feet standing on wet floors, taking the used dishes from a window that only showed the midriff of each person helped with this learning.  I remember the time I feared I would be fired.  I had dropped a bowl into the garbage disposal, and the entire line ground to a halt.  I picked out the pieces I could see, but couldn’t restart the machine.  My boss came over and switched the breaker on and off, threw up his hands and made a phone call.  By then I was sitting on a wooden chair and crying.  He stood close to me and asked, “Do you think you’ll do that again?”  I doubted I would make the same mistake again.  But I did.  I don’t remember how the line came back on.  I don’t remember cleaning up the mess and leaving a clean kitchen, but I remember walking away thinking that could survive mistakes. I know this was a lesson I learned over and over.

It's awesome and humbling to be human and to work with other humans who, like me, are not perfect but are again and again picking up something they don’t know and attempting it.  Whether to error or to a break through, we carry that spark of liveliness which occasionally rises to the sublime.

Each task is a sea / raging and pulling at me / I love being on earth.

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© 2024 Susan L. Chast

Please respect my copyright. 


03 August 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: A Car Equals Freedom

 
1971 Mercury Capris


I was 24 and in the middle of a tough divorce. My husband had taught me to drive in his deep-green 1973 Karmen Gia, a neat 4-on-the-floor. But I didn’t earn my license until a year later, with my father’s help. That's when I bought my first car for almost nothing--a turquoise VW bug with a black bonnet and green trunk and beautiful magenta pinstriping. The year was 1975, but I don’t remember the year of the car and I don't have a photograph. As soon as I was legal, I packed the VW and moved from Upstate NY to Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut where I was working on a master’s degree. As my parents would say, I didn’t look back.

To me, right from the get-go, the VW bug stood for independence. I used it between work and school until I had to jump start it, and until I had to manually lift the break pedal to release the brake. And when it died in Middletown a year later, I gave it to people who used it in its two working gears—first gear and reverse— to bring deliveries from the bottom of their hill to the top. Last I saw it, it sat at the bottom of that hill as a container for armloads of chrysanthemums. By then I had bought a dream of a used car—a brown mercury capri with almost 100,000 miles on it.

Those were lean years.  I was a workshop leader of theatre games and improvisation and a beginning director.  Both jobs were volunteer in the evenings and on weekends around the real work which brought in money—at times waitressing, at times substitute teaching.   My first full-time job was as a speed reading and study skills itinerant instructor which brought me to Connecticut and Pennsylvania—all in the safety of the brown Mercury Capri.  I tied a broomstick across the back seat to use as a clothes rack, and lived out of the car.

Freedom.  

When I landed in Philadelphia in 1977, I would often drive around the city and suburbs to become familiar with my new home.  I enjoyed getting lost and then finding myself again.  Once, the capri died at a city stop sign when I was on one of those escapes—or escapades.  I was somewhere in Center City or South Philadelphia, and there was at least 6 inches of snow on the ground.   A man on the far side of age 50 asked me if I needed help.  I asked if he knew where I could use a phone, and he walked me a few blocks to what I remember as a warehouse to use one.

The large room was filling with musicians shedding winter coats and warming up their instruments.  Two of the musicians went with me to push my car to the side of the road.  They explained that they were part of an opera company—or was it a music society?  I no longer remember.  One of them gave me the name of a garage to call—and everyone made me welcome as a visitor.  I think I stayed for 10 or 15 minutes before I felt I should be outside near the car.  The rescue went smoothly, and the garage fixed my car.  

Later when I started thinking through the sequence of events, I realized how dangerous the situation might have been.  My friends were quite concerned that I didn't call them instead of walking into a strange part of the city with a strange man. I suppose I was lucky. But I had felt kindness and honesty throughout my emergency.  I wished I had written down names and addresses, because when I tried to get back to the music hall to thank the men who had helped me, I couldn't find it again.  Now the experience and the disappearance has a magical quality like in the story of Rip Van Winkle, without the intervening 20 years. 

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For an old poem to the VW, see Flagship from 2012.😊


© 2024 Susan L. Chast
Please respect my copyright. 


16 July 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: A life of Independence

 



 I remember my first glimpse of independence, which was when Mom and Dad drove me to freshman year at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts.  I don’t remember a word they said, as Polonius-like, they cautioned me on how to behave in my first independent setting.  They said I looked at everything wide-eyed, and I was lost to them.  It may have been so.  I had sisters for the first time—in roommates and lunch lines, study, and play. 

And then there was dating and marriage and divorce—all of which depended on freedom to be and to chose.  All choices of which were radical departures from the paths my parents had chosen for me. 

But the next major event in independence that was a revelation to me was getting my driver’s license and buying my first car.  To move from passenger seat into the driver’s seat was indescribable independence, containing both freedom and control.  I was in control of a private space for the first time, and I could go wherever I wanted to go. 

And, as it turned out, that private space on wheels was a step toward what I really needed in order to feel independent and to pursue the career I wanted to excel in.  Though I had relationships and friendships enough, I moved alone into a room of my own for the first time.  And that is how I lived the rest of my life, in control of my own place and space.  These days I find I hold a little envy for those who have children and grandchildren, but despite a certain amount of loneliness, the freedom—the complete independence—is what nurtured my soul.  It’s as if my brain and spirit expanded into domestic space, leaving my heart free to love freely, and especially let the love of God pour through me toward others.  I think of this when I think of my mother’s motto, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

When my father died and Mom lived alone for the first time ever, lived alone after 72 years of marriage, I offered to help her with the things that come up for a woman alone.  But she took to it like a hummingbird to sugar water.  Her mourning continued in the evenings especially, in the hours after dinner when she missed the companionship of her husband.  During the day, she thrived in her art.  She rearranged the furniture and made a studio space in every room.  She had guests for lunch, she tutored and led small classes in drawing, etching, pastel, and acrylic.  And she lived alone—with aides for mornings and late evenings—up until  three weeks before her death.

 A year before she died, in July 2023, I was staying at my mother’s house during one of Mom's hospital visits.  When she returned home she accepted about 5 days of round-the-clock-care before asking us to leave, by 10 days of round-the-clock care, she demanded that we leave.  Her freedom and independence had become that important to her.  On reflection, I wrote this poem:

I watched her house and she
reach for each other, I felt her cat’s cold
shoulder, and heard sharper questions about
who moved what and why.  I returned home,
humbled, sure again that her nest was hers
and my nest was mine.  At what age do we
stop wanting independence?  In my own
home, cat leaning on my legs, repainting
them with her scent, I know the answer is
never.  Someday, I may have to insist
on assisting, or help her to move.  Someday
I will need someone to do that for me.
Until those days come, I’ll love the nests
we build for our adult selves, neither nestling 

nor child, but ones at home within ourselves.

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Please respect my copyright. 

© 2024 Susan L. Chast


27 May 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: My spiritual journey

          

Source

          I am restless these days, and less able to create the sustained attention in silence that we liberal Quakers enter for worship--that is, waiting on God in a silent meeting, drawing close in community focus.  Occasionally there is a message for me or through me to others, and faithfully, I stand to deliver it.

          I am restless these days, and find it easier to focus in small groups than in the large weekly meetings.  I'm in two small groups: Experiment with Light and Building Beloved Community.  Experiment with Light was created by Rex Ambler, a British Quaker.  In the experiment, worship is guided so that we each isolate a concern to focus on amid the many we carry; we focus on it and interrogate it in stages; then find a phrase or image that helps us each move forward with solutions or with more clarity.  Those of us who wish to, share what came to us during the guided worship.  

          Building Beloved Community was first a group called Dismantling Systemic Racism.  We function as a support group rather than a worship group, though silence is one of our tools.  Early on we realized that all our verbs and terms were negative, and so we changed our name from Dismantling to Building, Building Beloved Community.  We want to see how positive framing adds to our understanding and ability to change.  We come with our stories and experiences of moments when we are racist or witness racism (with or without intervening).  We discuss both to understand and to find appropriate and positive follow up if any is possible.  

          I am a Jewish Pagan Christian Quaker, a fluid identity that grew over time. As a child I was at home in the woods of the Northeastern USA where I felt the friendship of trees, plants and small animals.  In the woods, I felt protected, and I made sense of many nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and myths.  Next, I lived my father's Judaism for a while, in love with the language and the holidays.  My family celebrated Easter, Passover, Channukah, and Christmas, and I absorbed the stories. Eco-feminist circles of belonging to Gaia and planet earth followed.  I participated in circles of drumming and ritual that some call Wicca. 

          When one day I felt the guidance of God through Jesus, it grew in these rich fields of experience.  I experienced it first at the Women's Encampment for a Future of Peace and Justice back in the early 1980s.  I had met Quakers there for the first time, and came to admire their steadiness  in the face of controversy.  Controversies included whether or not, and how, to accommodate men and boys, whether to hang the American flag of military fame, and how to stop the erasure of each others' beliefs when it came to pentacles and crosses.  The challenge was to learn how to accept each others beliefs.  I started attending Quaker Meeting and took workshops in Alternatives to Violence.   It became clear to me that the Quaker peace testimony comes from the belief that God is in every human being, a truth implied in all the religions I've experienced. I recognized that my studies and life work were based on true leadings from God, and I began to seek this clarity in decision making and meeting for worship.

           Since the Women's Encampment for a Future of Peace and Justice, my vision of Beloved Community has grown to include most peoples of the earth.  I often ask myself "What would Jesus do?"  This practice helps to stop my racing brain from impulsive responses stemming from old learned patterns.  To me, the church is not a place, but a people.  The doors are open. 


Open Door Vignettes

Love Thyself
Love Thy Neighbor
Shells, the sand, the sea
Gifts of the earth
Butterflies and birds
4-leaf clovers
Nectar of purple-flowered clover
Dogwood trees and flowers
Pine pitch on the climbing tree
Stories
Bible
Fairy tales
Animal tales
Novels
Teenage love poetry
The feel of a hand on skin
The feel of heart beats together
Ram Das and Be Here Now
Gurdjieff and the Fourth Way
Shalom Aleichem
Civil rights
Respect and Rehabilitation

The eyes of a dog
The eyes of a cow
Wicca
Candles, fires, and sweet grass
Gods and Goddesses
Justice
Peace
Love
Jesus says:
"Do not be jealous.  We're all made of the same material, all children of God and earth.  We're made differently so we'll live our own callings in the world.  As I do."

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My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2024 Susan L. Chast






12 May 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: Who is not our neighbor?

I might have learned this language from Valarie Kaur's See No Stranger (2021), but the foundation was set in my mother's home where we grew up with her practices and her hooked rug.  This is a tribute poem I wrote for my mother in 2019, and revised in 2024 after her death:




My mom spelled this out in her large hooked rug that hung over our couch for four decades: Love thy neighbor as thyself.

We drank in this faith while waiting for her to finish conversations with passersby, while watching her draw animals, trees, and buildings.

We watched love emerge in landscapes and still lifes, and hung them on the walls until what was white space became much like a forest.

Who is not our neighbor?  Her smiles and kindness created neighbors along with homemade cookies and recycled and repurposed clothing.

We were surrounded by piles of what could not be simply tossed--magazines, egg cartons, coffee grounds, eggshells, and glass bottles.

Who is not our neighbor? Mom asked by cutting plastics before disposing of them, by thinking into the future of her children's children.

She and dad shared the faith of birds, providing food until their safety depended on guarding nests and feeders from rescued kitties.

Mom has never had much use for distant gods or  godhead except for how it shows up in trees, neighbors, and neighborhoods she loves.

And she draws, gathers and assembles this vision into art--images whose humility surpasses that of altars in some churches I've known.  

These are the sermons I attend to. We were surrounded by the faith of our mother.  Her art surrounds us still.  Who is not our neighbor?

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My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2019 Susan L. Chast
Published in Grieving Into Love (2020), p. 65.
Revised 2024 as a tribute poem.

08 May 2024

Mom Died 1 May 2024

 



          I cried in the hospital when the nurse said she was “concerned that Dot might not last the night.”  With our consent, she removed Mom’s intravenous bags and brought me a comfortable recliner to stay by Mom’s side. 
          Tears softened me into sleep before the moment Mom took her last breath. I remember seeing her sleeping gently with small gasps, then I woke to her silence, her not breathing, her peacefully passed to another world.  
          I cried again for a hot minute of sudden loneliness.  But how calm she looked with the stress and pain gone from her face, how youthful and free. She “wanted to live like a normal person,” she told me only a week before, frustrated at being bed-ridden and all the indignities that accompanied it.  Only 2 weeks ago, she had been walking and independent. The turn around had been swift, but she was prepared.

          A few months before Mom had drawn me into "the talk," trying to prepare me for her death.  "I'm not going to live forever," she said, "though I'd like to see 100.  I love you--always have and always will.  And I know you love me, too.  It's good.  I want you to know I know, so there will be no regrets."  
          I cried then, too, but didn't let her see the tears.  "I'm expecting you'll live 'til 108," I replied.  She smiled, I smiled, and there were some more words but those were the important ones.  

          Mom would have been 100 years old in two months, on July 7, 2024.

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Obituary

Dorothy Anna Berner Chast “Dot Chast”, 99 of West Coxsackie died May 1, 2024.


Born in Queens, Dot Chast lived in Coxsackie and Athens, NY for most of her 99 years. Since her High School years as an art major, she had a sketchbook in hand. Her artwork crosses all media, especially oil and acrylic painting, pastel, pen, and ink, watercolor and printmaking. In addition, she has been a sculptor, a fabric artist, and a wood carver.


She was a member of Greene County Council of the Arts, Columbia County Council of the Arts, The Woodstock Art Association and Museum (WAAM), Tivoli Artists Gallery, and the Athens Cultural Center. She was a member of the Greene County Arts and Crafts Guild, Inc. for almost 40 years. She frequently exhibited in juried shows throughout the Hudson valley and was honored to have fifteen different solo shows through the Greene County Council on the Arts, Prattsville Museum, Columbia Greene Community College, Congregation Anshe Emeth, Tivoli Artists Gallery, and the Cornell Cooperative Extension Center. She facilitated drawing classes at Columbia Greene Community College (Yes, You Can Draw) and many classes for Senior Citizens in Pencil, Pastel, and Oils.  


In addition to participating in arts organizations, Dot was a member of the West Athens Lime Street Fire Auxiliary for decades. The volunteer fire company was very important to her, as was mutual assistance neighbor to neighbor.


Her husband Joseph died May 11, 2019. Mother of George Chast (Sheila), Peter Chast, and Susan Chast, grandmother of Stephen (Tina), Mark (Jennifer), Eric (Tricia), and Craig (Noelle), great grandmother of Abigail, Natalie, and Cohn, aunt of Donald (Sheila) and Michael (Laura) and their families.


Calling hours will be held on Sunday, May 5th from 12:00 – 2:00 pm at Millspaugh Camerato Funeral Home, 139 Jefferson Hgts., Catskill. The burial will be private.


In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to a local art or service organization.


Messages of condolence may be made to www.MillspaughCamerato.com.


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Please respect my copyright.
© 2024 Susan L. Chast


25 March 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: Forgiveness/Spring/Change*

 


Note: *I cut the financial considerations out of this essay for a reading in the Simpson House writing group.

 

As spring gallops forward with green bursting forth full tilt, I note again the change this winter wrought in my life, and ask myself for forgiveness, gratitude, and joy.

Moving into Simpson House this winter was a good choice, (but a choice that brought with it a great deal of change.)  The first change has to do with money.  I used to donate to a variety of causes, but now I have to divert my earnings to pay the monthly fee.  The second, and in many ways larger, change is how I spend my time.  Moving itself was essential as my house needed multiple repairs, and my tenant gave notice that she was moving to LA on March 4th.   I am not a landlord.  Trying to find a single new tenant who was both a reliable friend and a cat sitter seemed daunting to me.  My body could no longer take the challenges of a second floor and taking out the garbage and caring for the yard.   I didn’t have the money to move to the first floor, and renovate the second so it could take a new tenant—even if I wanted to search for a new tenant.

And so I moved.  I had been exploring the choices for retirement communities for two years, but still, I knew I could get a modern apartment for half the cost--$1800 a month.  I could save over $1000 a month and be ready for a move, say, in ten years’ time.  That would have been a savings of $120,000.  But what would be the cost of retirement housing in 10 years, I asked myself?  And the effort to shop for food and cook meals weighed on me.  I have a book to write, I told myself.  What if my care for housing and for myself was minimized?  

I thought I could bring everything I do to Simpson House: I could remain a hermit in an apartment of my own, work on my unfinished book undisturbed, and venture out to socialize at dinner time.  The last time I made progress on my book, in 2016, I had room and board as Artist in Residence at Pendle Hill Quaker Retreat and Study Center.   I have yet to make closure on the promise of those days.  I thought taking up residence in a retirement community would help me with that.  And maybe someday it will.  But right now what has been happening instead is that I have read the books of the Reading Group, attended and written to the prompts of the Writing Group, joined the card making and neighbors group, attended art classes of Zen tangle for fun and of acrylic painting to try to capture the strength of the two trees I loved from the backyard I have left behind.   Also, I’m playing scrabble on Saturday mornings, and checking out music and documentaries in early evening.  All of this is in addition to continuing physical therapy, on-going engagement with my Quaker meeting, and participating in my previous book group in Yeadon, PA.  I've been enjoying the activities, but mostly the people of Simpson House.

I think: This is the curse of my horoscope.  I’m a cancer, and find it hard to focus on my own work when other activities are going on.  I am reminded of moving to a college campus back in 1969, when I discovered theatre and anti-war work, and earned 2 incompletes every semester.

I need to release myself from the guilt I feel for spending almost all my earnings on myself, and for playing almost full time! I am spending my income on myself and planning for my own future instead of continuing to fund anti-war slash humanitarian work.  I am not participating in reparations.  Yes, I feel guilty for cutting back on my donations to causes I believe in.  That’s the money part.  I often feel full of light and blessing instead of struggle these days.  This seems a luxury.  Have I done enough in life to have earned such lightness of spirit and lengths of time that I forget what is going on in the world?  That I forget the work I've been led to do?  My cause has always been about children’s lives, education, and release from trauma.  My writing is fiction about aging, creativity, and feminist theatre, a lost history of the 1980s and a semi-autobiography.  Is this truly time to cut back on that?

Maybe it is.  I am finding it easier and easier to feel joy, and when I stop paying attention to war news, forgiveness does not even come up as a question.  This writing itself is doing a lot to acknowledge loss and to relieve guilt.  I, too, have a traumatized child inside who wants attention.  How many people in the world rue their good fortune when a burden has been lifted?  I think only those of us who have tried to convince others that they have a part to play in making this a world where children can have both a present and a future.

As a partial solution, I have lately turned the guilt I carry into meditation and prayer, mostly centered on gratitude.  Gratitude for the challenges I’ve faced in my own life that have made me strong, aware, creative, and friendly.  Gratitude for the lessons I still learn.  Gratitude for the time to write and the blessing of groups to share writing with.  Gratitude for family and friends.  Gratitude that I have gifted this time to myself, time when stress slides away and creativity, as a result, soars.

Gratitude outweighs the guilt.  The practice of forgiveness—the practice of loving and supporting myselfis healing.  I can’t believe I wrote that sentence.  Healing.  I am grateful that it is true.  Imagine that!  As spring continues to awaken the world around me, I surround myself with it.  I am emerging from a long winter in my life, and if, at this point, aging feels like spring instead of winter, I am blessed.  To forgiveness and joy and gratitude, I say yes. 

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Please respect my copyright.
© 2024 Susan L. Chast



14 March 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: In my new home at Simpson House

 

source

In my new home at Simpson House by Susan Chast


The apartment floor holds reds and browns right by the entrance,
which then blend with blue and tan in the carpet, and lead back
to hues of brown, navy, and turquoise in bedroom and bathroom.
The walls hold landscapes and still lifes in living space,
trees and flowers in bedroom, and waves in bathroom.

It's quiet, relaxing.
 I wake with wildlife, then float up to the coffee maker and cat food.
Panther kitty greets me with purrs and headbutts. She tilts her head
questioning me, “What’s taking so long?” and then weaves between my legs.
I cannot move without hurting her, and so push back at her with the pressure
of a headbutt while opening a can of wet food, a language she speaks.

I am happy.  But
In a space that represents down-sizing, my home is stuffed to the ceiling
with books, knickknacks, plants, art supplies, dishes and pot holders.
I rarely open the stuffed files or China or kitchen cabinets,
and hardly know what’s in them.  The objects I kept illustrate neither
rhyme nor reason—just love and the thought “I may need this someday.”

I rest in the air of too much, then
 I imagine leaving it all, leaving home, a reality in Haiti, Ukraine, Gaza,
Afghanistan, etc., and a reality at closed borders everywhere.  Could I downsize 
to the clothes on my back?  Downsize with an escape sack by the door,
light enough to carry.  Downsize keeping only what I touched this year.
Then let go of electronics, art, and mementos. All are possible.

 Yet, let me add instead of subtracting.  What objects would make anywhere home?  the space would have a bed and blanket, books, a phone, writing supplies, bread, a knife, apples, 
and hunks of sharp cheddar cheese.  Walls and roof for shelter.
Home objects would build warmth, wisdom, writing, outreach, and food.
Add a few glasses and chairs for guests and fresh water.  I would be content, rested.

I am content and rested, surrounded by a good life.
 So what about the excess stuff in my new home?  I'll use the things, if possible,
in the way of found objects and improvisation, welcoming a life of collage
and surprise—until I can recycle them, every last piece.  My new home
provides space for conversation, comradery, and transformation—a haven 
for me in my journey toward wholeness, 'til death do us part.

I am content.

Please respect my copyright.
© 2024 Susan L. Chast


And a word from Mary Oliver:

Storage
When I moved from
one house to another,
there were many things
I had no room for.
What does one do?
I rented a storage space
and filled it.
Years passed.
Occasionally,
I went there
and looked in,
but nothing happened,
not a single twinge
of the heart.
As I grew older
the things I cared about
grew fewer but were
more important,
so one day I undid the lock
and called the trash man.
He took everything.
I felt like the little donkey
when his burden is finally
lifted.
Things! Burn them, burn them!
Make a beautiful fire!
More room in your heart
for Love, for the trees.
For the birds who own
nothing;
the reason they
can fly.

09 March 2024

Writers Circle Prompt: Women who move me in the field of theatre, 2024 version



    One of the spunky women I like to perform is Helen of Troy, Helene of Sparta, the Helene who Euripides wrote about, the one who when cornered by circumstance and by men who wanted to use her, literally rose above them.  She didn't bow down, and never let her supposed beauty be an excuse for war. In performance, I may exaggerate her defiance, but I see it in her.  She never went to Troy with Paris.  The gods lifted her up to a place in the clouds where she lived out the war.  From up above, Helene watched an image of herself interacting in Troy.  While her husband tried to return home to Sparta after 10 years of war, she went to Egypt to make new friends and a new life.  The public image of Helen had nothing to do with the real Helene.  If her face launched a thousand ships, it was because she was the figurehead on their bows.

Helen

    Contemporary drama is populated with women who defy stereotypes and depart from the paths expected of them.  In a sense, Lady Macbeth is one of them.  She's deliciously wicked, duplicitous, strong, and then piteous to play.  But all of Shakespeare's women are complicated by being written for men in drag.  Whether they are obedient or independent, they are male fantasies. 

Lady Macbeth

    One of the fun parts of the feminist theatre of the 1970s and 1980s was that women played these characters.  While some feminist troupes deconstructed the narrative by changing male parts into female ones, I enjoyed watching women inhabiting the male parts from their ideas of males.  I would love to play Prospero in The Tempest both ways: trying to understand the maleness of the character AND transforming the character into a woman.  I'd like to see the royal Prospero as containing the beast Caliban and vice versa, as if they are two halves of the same character.  I'd like to play Hamlet with the same double analysis.  Even the great Sara Bernhardt played Hamlet.  Jean Arthur and Mary Martin both played Peter Pan on Broadway.

Sara Bernhardt as Hamlet

    Truth be told, however much I might wish to play these parts, I have incredible stage fright when I’m not holding a script in front of me.   The only way I can perform is by multiple-choice acting, a technique introduced to me by the feminist troupe Split Britches.  I’m mainly a stage director, one greatly influenced by theatre artist Ellen Stewart. 


Ellen Stewart

    I was the stage director for the feminist theatre company This River of Women when I met Ellen Stewart, the woman who taught me how to use the stage and the place of performance in a whole new way.  She was both a producer and a theatre artist.  I saw the tall, elegant, African-American Ellen Stewart speak at 2 separate conferences on Women in Theatre before I dared to ask her if I could write her biography as my doctoral dissertation.  She had spoken about the importance of expanding space, about “filling the need of artists to grow within their craft.”  A larger space, she said, “was an increase of the imagination for the musician, for the actor, for the designer, in what each can give, and writers, in what they can write.”  She said, “You have to make a space, see?  Like the venders’ carts on Delancy Street.  You move the pushcart along and invite persons in—and they all take you to where you want to go.”  Her ideas of and uses of space fascinated me.  They seemed an application of Peter Brooks’ The Empty Space.

She said no to a biography, said that she only talks about her theatre, without which she would be a zero.  She invited me to capture what La MaMa is and does, but warned that I’d never be able to explain La MaMa, because as soon as you say it is one thing, it changes.  But she opened the doors of La MaMa to me, and I moved in for parts of 1988 and 1989, including accompanying a production to Italy. 

In short, Ellen Stewart was the creator of LaMaMa Experimental Theatre Club at 74A East 4th Street in Manhattan’s East Village.  Over the years it expanded from the two theatres at 74A, to the Annex at 66 East 4th Street, to 9 floors of rehearsal halls on 3rd St., and an Art Gallery on 2nd.  As producer at La MaMa, Stewart is the mother of Off Off-Broadway experimental theatre just as Joseph Papp of the Publik Theatre is the father of OOB. Whereas Papp straddled a commercial and OO Broadway world, Stewart worked in poor theatre and international theatre.  Living space, for example, was part of the pay for theatre makers.

She was the first producer to create a space for international theatre in the USA.  Historians who label such things should note that the contributions of the Black Arts Movement included Ellen Stewart’s international theatre.  They don’t, partly because the Black Arts Movement didn’t accept that Ellen Stewart’s stages were not reserved for Black folks only.  According to Amiri Baraka, for example, Ellen Stewart was, quote, crazy.  She did the impossible, both in NY City and as a guest and UNESCO diplomat theatre maker that traveled the world.

In NY City, the first thing I noticed was the fore staging of the arts and the back staging of business.  In the lobby of 74 A, the walls were a collage of color from past productions.  The few captions were in more than one language and alphabet.  English was in the minority, which reflected what you were likely to see on the stages and in the rehearsal halls.  The theatre at La MaMa was small and intimate, a second theatre above it worked as a café, and the third, the annex stage two buildings away was a vast open space, a place to set up like a forest, a journey of many resting places, or a house with many rooms. Here sets were taken down completely between shows, and few set pieces remained, in keeping with Mama Ellen’s idea that once an item existed it tended to limit the imagination of the artist using the space. 

I had expected to see a great amount of cross-fertilization of the productions here, but LaMaMa was not a melting pot.  Each production team retained its own style and story, though curiosity compelled artists to visit each other’s work and come to know the artists involved.  La MaMa was a bee-hive of intensive activity.  Influences definitely occurred as did future collaborations, but like a United Nations of theatre, or vast quantum theatre, the shows over the years showed evidence of expanded artistry rather than a narrowing into zones of fashion.

Ellen Stewart’s own productions within the Great Jones Theatre Company were environmental, with the audience moving along with the actors.  In this company, artists such as Tom O’Horgan who worked with Hair, and Andre Serban and Elizabeth Swados who worked with ancient Greek texts established the environmental style and kinetic audience experience of each production.   Ellen Stewart took this further as a director.  In the Italian production of The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter which I documented, the action extended throughout an entire village and included a hanging and a suicide, both in full view of the traveling audience.  This staging invited the audience to move along with the emotions of the actors, a kinetic experience which differed greatly from seated audiences.  It was up to each audience member how close to the action they wanted to be.   In an earlier environmental production of Romeo and Juliet, at the Salzburg Seminar in American Studies on Reinhard's estate in Austria she cast the play with actors and musicians form 16 different nations.  With the assumption that everyone on stage and in the audience was familiar with the story, she had them keep their original languages, and cast without regard to race or gender.  Again, the audience moved with the actors and experienced what they experienced

I would love to bring this exceptional Woman to the stage herself in a visceral performance revealing how she expanded expectations and acted as if boundaries did not exist.  I would love to show what the United Nations saw in her work—the bringing together of diverse peoples in projects where true cooperation could begin.  I would love to show her ability to have multiple productions share space and resources without feeling the need to alter their individual arts.  I would make it clear that curiosity is a driving force of love which has the power to bring people together.  As Mama Ellen knew, this doesn’t happen through war or détente, but when people build a work of art together.

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Aside: I used the unseated audience techniques as often as I could in my classroom as a HS English teacher, and noted the same benefits.

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© 2024 Susan L. Chast