How to Create an Actress, Part 1 - by Nan Brooks
Continuing with memories of West 43rd Street in the 40s and 50s, I keep going back to the bedroom I shared with my little brother in our small two-bedroom house. The room is dark, although I can see daylight around the window shades that are pulled all the way down to the sills. Grown ups are talking in the hallway and their voices fade as they move downstairs because they don’t want me to hear the news. I am not suspicious; I’m six years old and innocent as can be.
After the doctor leaves, my mother comes to tell me that I have been so sick for so long that I cannot go back to first grade. I love school, the scent of chalk and floor polish, the creaking of the wood floors in those long hallways, the rows and rows of books in the classroom, the clank of the radiators under the big tall windows, the long stick that stands in the corner with a hook so that Miss Gant can reach all the way up to catch the latch to open the windows and let in the autumn air. And most of all, the kind stern Miss Gant. “Actions speak louder than words,” she said again and again. She was right, eh?
The measles and pneumonia had taken a long time to heal and
only the new drug, the penicillin had helped. I had been a good girl, had not whined (a behavior
that often led to a slap across the face), had been obedient and quiet in that
dark room in quarantine. And now I could not go back to school, a blow.
My mother was gentle and clever. She promised me that I
could go to ballet classes at her friend Betty’s new dancing school. She knew how to point me toward possibility
instead of loss and she knew I would be excited to dance. Maybe she had seen me dancing to the classical
or big band music records, those heavy old 78s she played on the record player.
I didn’t dance in front of anyone, lest I be teased or laughed at, but somehow
she knew.
It was almost time for the first recital by Betty’s dancing
classes when I began lessons, so it was too late for me to learn what my class
would present. Betty and my mother often said that they should have switched
daughters. My mom understood Betty’s daughter, Jan, her rebellion and
feistiness and intelligence. Betty understood me and my fervent imagination, my
love of music and dance. So it was Betty
who encouraged me. She had a costume made for me, a beautiful pale green satin
bodice with a long green tarleton skirt. Tarleton was like tulle, but heavier
and much more scratchy. I didn’t care about the scratchiness one bit. From the
right shoulder of the bodice all the way diagonally down to the left hem of the
skirt there were pink rosebuds, each created of satin and sewn on by hand. It was a pretty confection. Which was good
because my job in the recital was to stand still and listen raptly as a boy of
about 8 or 10 sang to me.
It was readily apparent and frequently mentioned that I was
not a pretty girl. I had thin straight hair that would not “hold it’s curl”
despite the promises of Tony home permanents, kid curlers heated in the gas
flame of the kitchen stove, pin curls with sugar water and all other remedies
scientific and otherwise. My hair was a failure. My teeth were worse, crooked
and prominent. (I had the perfect teeth to play Eleanor Roosevelt, as it turned
out much later.) I was skinny and
scrawny and homely. Jan looked like Elizabeth
Taylor with brown eyes. I mention this because the song the boy was to sing to
me was, wait for it… “A Pretty Girls is Like a Melody” from the Ziegfield
Follies, I think. In that way kids know
things, I realized how ironic the whole idea was without knowing the word irony
at all. But I was an obedient girl (things changed later). My job was to stand straight
and tall in fifth position a little downstage of the singer and let him hold my
hand. He was to look past my face into the audience, and sing.
The big day came, my hair was a little curly, I was painted
up with rouge and lipstick, and ready. I decided to believe the boy was singing
about my beautiful costume so that I could look like I believed him. (Meisner
acting technique calls this creating a circumstance as I learned about 50 years
later.) The introduction played and the
boy simply froze. The lovely tenor voice we had all heard in rehearsal was
silenced. He was terrified. Well, I certainly could understand terrified. So I
squeezed his hand and whispered, “It’s OK”
He looked at me, wide-eyed and I can still see his sweet round face to
this day. I only knew to smile at him
and squeeze his hand. The intro played again and he sang, oh how he sang. He
was so happy that a sound actually emerged and his joy filled the room.
Later, after everyone had gone home, Betty praised me for
helping him. I relished the praise, goodness knows. But more than that, I relished
that little boy’s joy and his voice soaring. I understood that when we
encourage each other, wonders ensue, I realized that collaboration is magical
and rich with delights.
Collaboration, rouge and lipstick, a pretty costume, a
created circumstance and letting it all happen. How an actress is born.
Oh, and applause is important too, but that is a story for
next time. Meanwhile, I hope we can all
help each other sing out.
What a gorgeous story you've shared. I have a similar childheed experience with severe illness I may share soon. Lots of parellels. I hope you won't think I'm being a copycat. :-) You filled my heart with much joy.
ReplyDeleteI think you've squeezed my hand like that.
ReplyDeleteAnother wonderful recollection, complete with valuable life lessons I'd dearly like to send back through time to myself fifty-odd years ago. Not that I would have listened.
ReplyDelete