Master of the Universe: Garlia Cornelia Jones
Did you ever happen to look at the bio of Garlia Cornelia Jones? She has more degrees than a thermometer! If that wasn’t impressive enough, she has now earned her Masters in Fine Arts. Gar, enough already! We know you are brilliant, beautiful, talented, skilled and courageous. Definitely courageous. Aside from pioneering the cell’s bountiful BlackBoard series, your creative output of plays, photos, videos, and web design (to name just a few) makes us proud to have such an accomplished woman as a part of our team. We commend you for many jobs well done and congratulate you on your most recently earned degree from The New School of Drama. But mostly, Garlia Cornelia Jones, M.A., M.A., M.A., etc., I would like to say we love you for just being Garlia, the incredibly warm, loving, sensitive, sentient being we have come to know. Thank you.
The Real L Word
the L word...Love? Lust? er, uh, Lesbian? With the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival upon us, the cell will once again open our doors as the lounge for the festival attendees. Since we are a company run by women who enthusiastically support the LGBT film festival, you may be wondering about us. Are we, or aren't we? Who cares? We certainly love the NewFest folks!
As a not-for-profit organization, we’re not allowed to take a political position. I can't say that we support gay marriage. I can't tell you 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' is nonsensical. I can't even extol the glory of gay adoption, though with four kids (and a husband) you can bet I’m a family woman. As for bisexuality and transgender issues, well, we are simply not allowed to state a politically questionable choice.
However, I can tell you that we LOVE what we do and we LUST for art in all its permutations. I can also tell you we love all people in their various permutations. Regardless of ours or your politics and sex preferences, no one will want to miss this film festival, and the honest to goodness new reality show, The Real L Word.
As for the women of the cell, we don’t beat around the bush. I always say it is not who you love, but that you love. And, well, who doesn't love women?
http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/chicagos-sappho/2010/04/-the-real-l-word-its-finally-happening.html
http://popwatch.ew.com/2010/04/05/the-real-l-word-teaser-whos-excited-besides-me/
Inspiration is Contagious - Monday, June 7, 2010 7:30pm
photo credit: "ANGEL" by Barbara Silverman
Uptown to downtown, glossy to gritty, our idea of cool is moving south for the summer… if you haven’t yet caught 7 ELEVEN Gallery’s “MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME” extraordinary installations, or even if you have, you won’t want to miss our tribute to the muse of chic schlock (as in ‘useless beauty’)!
Thanks to the inspiration of Steve Starosta and the beautiful trio of women that put the show up, we’ve got an amazing opportunity to make ourselves at home in the cell’s mounting tradition of collaborative art. We love a challenge…so, as fast as one can say gesamtkunstwerk we are cranking out a one-time-only performance that will transport us through the unbelievably believable “sets” in the warehouse space. B.Y.O.B. (that’s booze, not bong) and see what we’ve imagined into being. It’s free!!!
http://according2g.com/2010/05/make-yourself-at-home-at-the-7eleven-gallery/
Speaking of gesamtkunstwerk , did I mention the cell has a ghost? Yup! Lila Smalls. Although she remains unseen, we know her name and sense her vivid presence in all things creative; she is our muse.
History reveals West 23rd Street as a long-standing cultural and literary hub. Along with the (now extinct) Grand Opera House at 23rd and 8th Avenue, the Chelsea Hotel always drew many intriguing personalities to the area. Edith Wharton, Tennessee Williams, William S. Burroughs, and Arthur Miller are some legends of Chelsea. Even Santa Claus, from the imagination of Clement Clarke Moore, was born on 23rd Street. No wonder we believe in the power of imagination!
Who is Lila Smalls? What is an apparition? Who can dispute the power of spirit? I believe Lila Smalls is a remnant of flesh and bones; a phantom in search of a lost identity. She may be dead, but her essence refuses to yield to the genericism of a culture gone awry. I like to think of her as the force that lives in Chelsea, fighting for light where shadow prevails.
So much of the cell’s programming is about poetry, words and music. What we do is brought forth from the mysterious depths of creative energy. What is art if not an energy? If Lila Smalls is but a name, let us wallow in our fantasy of a guiding force. We like the inspiration.
Of Guppies III
III. Loving KindnessBack on planet Big Apple, I had an Indian epiphany. My dear friend (from Delhi) invited us to her home for an afternoon celebration of no occasion in particular. That would have been enough, but the day was spectacularly lovely after weeks of monsoon rains, and her Hudson Valley home enhanced the glow of the sparkling sun.
Almost everyone there was from India. Most were doctors or in the medical community. How would my husband and I fit in with this crowd, I wondered? We love Indian food, which was served in abundance, and Indian culture, but was that enough to fit in among the flowing saris and medical shoptalk? Were sex, politics and religion taboo in this crowd?
Conversation was surprisingly facile, despite the ubiquitous Hindi. Since most guests were immigrants and Health Care was making headlines, everyone was interested in discussing Obama and his policies. Immigration. Health care. So far, so good. Satisfied bellies and ears make for a contented crowd. My friend sensed the time was right.
What happened next was a shock to my system. Now, I’ve been to parties where people bring out instruments and spontaneously start singing and dancing, but this was so different. “It’s time to sing,” our hostess announced. The guests arranged themselves on chairs and sofas around the living room. I felt like a tsetse on the wall. One by one the doctors took turns singing folk tunes in their native language. No instruments, no accompanist. Just individual grown-up people singing from the heart to the group. They looked like happy children. I imagined they grew up with this wonderful tradition. No judgement, no shame. No competition. No Grammys. No Tonys. Just songs. It was so intimate. So simple. So from the heart.
I remember a teacher who repeatedly asked our class, “Why do we sing?”
Why, indeed.
Of Guppies, Big Fish and Ponds, Large and Small II
Of Guppies, Big Fish and Ponds, Large and Small II. Compassion
A couple of guppies I know from the Big Apple won a landslide victory when they moved to Park City. They, quite literally, moved mountains that were presumed by the locals to be immutable, thereby securing a new status. The Big Apple, you see, feeds a variety of guppies that grow to Big Fish when placed in situations conducive to assured victory. Let me explain.
There is a phenomenon we, in this fair city, fondly refer to as gentrification and generally agree that this process is a good thing. Right? When this process goes beyond the realm of reasonable transformation from poverty to prosperity and enters the territory of, say, creating homelessness and unmitigated greed, maybe it’s time to reconsider. All I’m saying…
Witness the state of housing in the city in this moment. Do you look at the real estate ads? There is a glut of unaffordable housing here and a dearth of affordable housing; shiny new empty structures of glass stand alongside overcrowded tenements. Gluttony and dearth. I see young adults and immigrants doubling, tripling and piling up; squeezing, like canned sardines, into shared space just to stay in a city that relies on them to serve, clean and do the myriad tasks that keep us going. The class divide so pronounced, some of us don’t know which way to run. But I digress. I am not here to argue in favor of social reform. Not today.
I just want to tell a story. A couple of years ago, before this country teetered on the brink of financial calamity, my family visited our friends in Park City, Utah, for our annual ski vacation and reunion with said guppy friends. Ten years ago, after their business tanked, they left New York dragging their tails and fins behind them.
“We’re gonna ski in the winter, golf in the summer, and throw it in your face!” (They really didn’t say that last part audibly, but we got the message.)
They did exactly as they said. They skied, golfed and grew, well, kind of restless. They started a business. They grew restless. They expanded their business. They grew restless. They got into real estate. They grew rich. They built a ski resort. They grew richer. The locals didn’t much like it. They didn’t much give a damn. (You must wonder, as I do, why I have such friends. Is it possible to be bourgeois and a Socialist?)
So, there we were, riding a chair lift together, admiring the landscape and all the booming construction. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were trying to impress or humiliate us as they pointed out the fabulous new McSkiLodge that was on the market for some ridiculous sum, maybe 10 or 15 million.
“Wanna buy it?” our pal (did I mention he’s a Republican?) inquired with a shit-eating grin.
“Sure,” I quipped, “It’d make a great homeless shelter, don’cha think?”
His thoughtful response, “Why would you want to throw that in their faces?” gave me pause.
After a moment I had to ask, “Who, the rich or the homeless?”
Of Guppies, Big Fish & Ponds, Large & Small I
India was a trip. Oh, what a trip. We met up in Delhi with my friend of thirty-some-odd years, after thirty-some-odd years of threatening to meet up...
As Providence
As providence would have it… I got a book in the mail today, sent to me by my genius musician cousin, John Gruntfest (you can google him). He called me last week, weeping (we are sentimental types), to say he was sending me a book that belonged to my father. That book is called " The Theory of the Leisure Class" by Thorstein Veblen, copyright, 1899, 1912. Veblen was a Westerner of Scandinavian stock, Yale PhD., university professor. His specialty was "shedding light upon difficult economic complexities" (you can google him). I was quite delighted by this gift, as it is exactly the kind of reading my wise old pal, another genius musician, Michael Sahl (you can google him, too) recommended to me just yesterday!!!
I am a member of the leisure class who comes from working-class stock; a worker bee trapped in the body of a queen, or queen bee trapped in the body of a worker? I also suffer from reductionist tendencies, thereby in a perpetual search for ways to untangle my confusing life. I have a deep belief in providence, and trust that where I am is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Too many fortuitous things in my world have collided in a manner that I cannot merely accept as random. But why? I also believe that, as they say, with great gifts come great responsibility. Thus, in the tradition of a responsible, modern reductionist, I googled “reductionism.” Google-ability is such a great convenience.
As providence would have it, here is what I found:
“There is a certain degree of reductionism in the social sciences, which often try to explain whole areas of social activity as mere subfields of their own field. As an example, Marxist economists often try to explain politics as subordinated to economy, and sociologists sometimes see economy and politics as mere sub-spheres of society.”
If you are like me, you are laughing and re-reading the above. If that doesn’t say it all, or anything…
I am neither an economist nor a sociologist, but I am most definitely interested in the social sciences. As the creator of the cell, I am deeply committed to promoting artists and art in a city whose economy is as difficult to understand as its politics.
I suspect that those who perceive art as the result of an abundance of leisure time are inclined to diminish its significance. Given the abundance of ‘art’ that exists in this day and age, I would venture to agree. However, as an artist, I know that some art comes from a place much deeper. I could argue that when the basic survival needs are paramount, the art does not come or even matter. I would be lying. Before I was a member of the leisure class, I was driven by my gut to create. I struggled to earn a living through menial work while searching for the medium that would free me from my existential demons. Creation is as essential to my being as breathing. But enough about me!
Art matters. As I meet the many artists who present themselves to the cell, I am as interested their histories and drives as I am in their art. Life does weird things to people. So does commerce. Everyone deserves to make a living, especially in a city whose leisure class ensures the survival of everyone else. I am fairy certain I am here to represent artists for whom art is not a choice, but an imperative.
Anyway, I am going to set myself about the task of reading this little old book about American capitalism and see if I can reduce it to something relevant to my life.
April in Paris? Easter Sunday
April in Paris?
Easter Sunday
Today was perfect. A day like today can make anyone swoon. I was enjoying each moment when I swooned my way over to the cell and was blown away by 'Limonade Tous les Jours.' I mean I was transported to Paris and fell in love! The experience was so wonderful that I wondered why these precious little productions don’t happen all the time. It didn’t take long for me to figure it out. In a word: $
Warning: Rant ahead
Here’s what I know. This production cost well over $20, 000. Sadly, such a budget does not buy much. Sadly, marvelous actors, designers, and staff all work for a pittance. Sets are designed on a shoestring. Producers and directors invest their lives hoping to get noticed, which is virtually impossible, unless there is a big name attached to a project. Even with a generously discounted rent, if the show runs for three weeks, the limit set by Equity, even if it sells out every performance, in a 60 seat theater, like ours, it won’t break even. A Showcase, such as this, can’t even charge more than $18.00 per ticket because Equity won’t allow it.
All this leads me to believe that Equity, initially set up to protect the actors, essentially ensures the failure of small theaters, and non-Equity actors in this great city. It does, however, protect the interests of commercial theater. Whose fault is it anyway? Producers who are looking to score BIG $$? Or is it the audience that demands the high budget glitz that is Broadway now? I’m not knockin’ B’dwy because New York thrives on tourism, and B’dwy is certainly a big part of what makes New York New York. But, do we, the artists who live and work here, have to move south of the Mason-Dixon line to find a way to make ends meet?
In the two years we have been open, the cell has never spent that much $ on a production. It can’t afford to. So what’s a theater to do?
All I can say is hurry on over. An $18.00 ticket for a show with a stellar cast, a magnificent set, music, dance and real romance…IMPOSSIBLE!!!
Women on the Edge
Woman on the Edge on Women on the Edge One can be on the edge of many things. I know this first hand. I live on the edge. The edge of success. The edge of failure. The edge of Chelsea. Right now I’m on the edge of a steep learning curve. Our Woman on the Edge Series was what I would call a success. We had full houses for most nights of the month-long run. We had terrific responses from our audiences, and we even came in under budget! I would also say we have, to some degree, failed. Why? I, and my team, have not figured out what to do with the successful “readings.”
Most appear to fade into oblivion because they are overlooked or ignored by the “big producers” who will only gamble (yes, gamble) on what look like bankable projects. Like the movie industry, producers are only interested in the glamorous projects with big stars attached. Until indie films started making a significant dent, the offerings were big box or bust. It’s not so different in the theater “business.” Now there is indie theater, still a producer’s nightmare, and still not what I would consider our territory.
There is Theater, and there is Art. We want to make theater that is art, but seem to get stuck in the land of immobility. Outdated Equity guidelines and legal conflicts of interest make it next to impossible to devise fair agreements for simple productions. In a small space with a limited budget, it’s not so easy to make ends meet and it’s scary for us to take big risks with new plays no matter how amazing we think they are.
We would like to commit ourselves to developing two original readings into “playlets” each year, but we can’t seem to find the right formula to produce within stringent and unreasonable guidelines without taking unreasonable risks. Acting in accordance with the rules puts us in a vulnerable position. Some say we should be content just to be artists, lucky to toil at what we love; not to worry that projects or actors will be snapped up by the big boys. Easy for some to say. We have already introduced a number of actors and projects that have been “noticed” and moved on to bigger things. We love when that happens! While it is a goal of the cell to introduce new artists and incubate new works, a reputation alone is not enough to sustain these goals.
I am pleased and proud of all that we do at the cell. Always interested in trying out “edgy” projects, we do not limit ourselves to readings, but also love music, literature, films, and combinations of media resulting from collaborations by various artists. Now is the time for us to consider what the cell has accomplished and how it can move forward in the season to come. As we devote our energies to the incubation of works of all kinds, we will continue to explore new ways to turn our favorite readings into “playlets.” We are surely a team of women on the edge of something.
The Un-Blog
When the cell staff suggested a blog, my initial impulse was revulsion.