How to Create an Actress, Part 1 - by Nan Brooks

Continuing with memories of West 43^rd 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.