How Do You Get To Carnegie Hall?

Hello again! The last few weeks have been the busiest yet, and we've been putting the final touches on costuming, sets, and sound effects/music. Yesterday marked a milestone: the first ever dress rehearsal! Eagle-eyed readers will have noticed that I mention on Sunday that I planned to post again on Monday, which I didn't. Well, I lied. Sue me.

Originally I had intended to devote a Sunday "Making Of" post to the sets and costumes. However, I have been involved in very little of that process, so I don't feel as though I can do justice to those departments. I can say, however, that they're looking beautiful, and that they lie in good hands. So costume and set people, please don't think I've unfairly neglected you (which I have. I just don't want you to think that. Get it?)

So today, instead, I will talk about the next Weave in the Great Fabric of KATB: Practicing. Probably everyone, at some point in their life, has repeated something in the hopes of doing it better the second time. There is something particularly strange, though, about the nature of rehearsing art. The greatest art is spontaneous: The second time you hear or see it should feel just as fresh and new as the first time. At the same time, though, much is to be gained from experiencing it over and over. Knowing the work of art inside and out, being able to anticipate the unexpected, lends a flavor unlike any other to the spontaneous.

So the performer's dilemma is finding the extremely delicate balance between security and spontaneity. Play it too safe, and you find yourself becoming an automaton, a machine; live too dangerously, and imperfections begin to creep in. Sadly, there is only one way to discover that balance: Practice. And practice, as I'm sure we've all noticed, can be plain old HARD WORK. Rarely is there anything terribly glamourous about practicing. It can be boring or tiring, or boring and tiring.

Yet it can also be full of joy. As you memorize a script, work on a Beethoven sonata, or drill through a dance routine, you can discover hundreds of beautiful tiny details you never would have noticed otherwise. And behind each detail are hundreds more. It's this quality, unique to art, which can give dimension to a painting, words to wordless music, emotion to poetry. It is the job of the performer (or the artist, in painting's case) to bring these details to the audience. And if you've practiced (REALLY practiced), then there's no way you can't bring out all those details, or why it shouldn't be fun!

Thankfully, I can say that I have had fun practicing and rehearsing The King and the Bride. I hope you guys have too! Next week's topic (and next week is not too far away now!) is the biggest, most transcendental yet...performing. This will conclude the behind-the-scenes look at The King and the Bride.

So I'll see you then!

–William

P.S. In case you didn't know (or figured it out by now), the answer to the question "How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" is not "Practice, practice, practice," but rather, "Take the Queens Midtown Tunnel to E 34th St., then take a right at 6th Ave. Turn left at W 57th St. and then take the first left onto 7th Ave. It's the tall red brick building that says 'Carnegie Hall' on it."