An Article

Not saying I advise "ruthlessness," but I do like things that link entrepreneurialism to an artistic life.

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/news/shakespeare-the-hardheaded-businessman-uncovered-8555996.html

Closure

While the class may have been called “English,” Mrs. Metzger used its curriculum of great literature to teach us how to write, how to understand and engage in abstraction, and how to think for ourselves. In honor of the life of Margaret Metzger, one of my most influential teachers, I am posting a Closure ritual she taught students at the end of senior year at Brookline High. She focused the ritual on mining the depths of our transition out of high school, a major coming of age moment, but she also emphasized the need for healthy closure throughout our lives. From breakups to cast parties to New Years Eve, I’ve found these steps beautifully helpful, but for those of us who are always moving into and out of creative projects, it also feels like an important career skill, necessary for smoothing out the highs and lows of our transition between gigs. No, you can't always run the ritual literally in a professional environment – though in theater you often can! – but you can find ways to process it yourself.

Notes from Senior Year English, 5/12/94

The steps are:

• Think About It
• Plan ahead for the closure ritual. Invite the participants. Make sure proper time is set aside by all. Plan a location that allows for honesty. Put someone in charge of moderating.
• Deal with Red Tape
• Get logistics out of the way. Does anyone owe money? Anyone have something they need to return? Deal with all of that and get it done.
• Ask about Unfinished Business
• Is there anything this group wanted to achieve but did not? Can it be done? If so, do it, or make a concrete plan to do so. Or, as is often the case, should it be let go? Make the choice, don’t just let it fade away.
• Ask the Unasked Questions
• Give everyone the opportunity to ask the things they’ve wanted to ask of each other and of the group, including the tough stuff. Key: this is not a time for discussion, argument, or iteration. Each person gets the questions off their chest. Nobody is obligated to answer, and if an answer is given, the person asking has to accept that answer, not kick off a debate. (This is why you need a moderator.)
• Share Your Experience
• Everyone shares how they felt about the experience and what it brought them. Give a sense of the future: what can you hold on to from the experience?
• Celebrate
• !
• Say Goodbye and Let Other People Say Goodbye to You
• Let Go & Consciously Make Room in Your Life/Heart
• Walk Out, Close the Door, & Be Sad
• Give Thanks for Being Sad
• This is the most often forgotten, I’ve found. It’s a gift to have had an experience worthy of missing it. Be thankful for that.

Obligation

A year since the last post. That’s getting married for you – an amazing, deep, whirlwind of a life change. And then the holidays and the busy start of 2013, Unscreened, etc. But, really, also wondering if this blog matters enough. When I think of taking it down, just acquiescing to “I am not a blogger,” I feel proud of some of my writings and the times they’ve been a useful reference for students or fellow travelers (hello, John Russo). But often, when I think of writing – an experiment that began at the advice of a publicist and social media consultant – it feels like BS. “If I’m not honestly driven to write, then I shouldn’t write.” And then I think about Obligation.

I’ve been thinking a lot about obligation this year. In many ways, the thread began during the High Holy Days last year, when our powerfully insightful Rabbi introduced Yom Kippur with a question about why we begin that evening’s service with a freeing of all obligations. At a time when we’re trying to focus on becoming better, on taking an honest moral inventory of our faults, why would we release ourselves of a sense of obligation, the one thing that seems necessary to force ourselves to change? Among numerous other profundities, Rabbi Finley spoke of how, if we look closely, we run our personalities on a kind of software coded with/of obligations. We obligate ourselves to things constantly, and many of those choices – and they are all choices – are irrational. In those, we enslave ourselves.

And then, being married – or, really, getting ready to be married – has either coincided with or, I suspect, generated a calm reexamination of all my feelings of obligation. Being married involves a strong conscious choice to obligate oneself in duty to another. I was also pulled to make that choice because this person and our relationship, of its own accord, took on a position of priority in my life. In comparison to my marriage, so many old obligations evaporate.

So then there’s “being an artist” – the thing I thought nobody in my life would ever supplant in priority – which is something baked into my psyche but which has also included obligation. When I was 9 and I knew, on my first day of rehearsal of my first professional production, that I was destined to become an actor and storyteller, I both received something and generated it. What I generated eventually hardened, as I grew up, into a kind of obligation to myself that’s expressed in the title of this blog. I will do it “come hell or high water.” And that’s been brilliant; it’s gotten me through a lot and further than I often thought I’d come. It’s made many specific dreams come true. But I’m also just not sure I want to operate quite that way anymore. I want to do things out of something deeper than an obligation to my own 9-year-old or adolescent self and his sense of what is good or right in the world. So I’m shifting a bit, and the blog is included in that.

But, for now, I’m going to proceed with it as a tool to help build the artist’s part of this new, expansive phase of my life. And to the other artists out there: keep on obligating yourself to our tribe; we need to stick together. Also, there is no tribe; don’t.

How Size Matters

When fresh out of school, I had no access to projects that would pay me. I was, however, perfectly willing to work for free, to come home from waiting tables only to stay up ‘til the wee hours rehearsing and building a set. This passion to make opportunities for myself – yes, “come hell or high water” – led to years of regular small theater work and the creation of anearly digital short film collective. It got me started on the road to paying work. On the way, I made a decision that was helpful then but which I am reconsidering now.

In late 2006 and early 2007, I was so busy making “small projects” of short films – by that point 35mm and 16mm shorts with folks like Ron Perlman (No. 6) 

 

Now available on iTunes!

and Eric Stoltz (The Grand Design)

Now available on iTunes!

– and 99-seat LA theater, not to mention working the day job, that I had no time to works towards a “big project,” like my first feature. (I had started traveling for regional theater work in Philly and off-B’way, so it did/does seem the small theater started to pay off, but that doesn’t really pay bills, and the travel time, while thrilling, made it even harder to put together a larger project.)

So I made a decision: I swore off small projects. I said “no more short films” and “no more small LA theater.” The idea was to take all that time and energy and pump it into fewer, larger projects.

In part from that decision, I cleared the space to make Make Believe in 2009 and 2010. It was a wonderful and fulfilling ride. It also opened doors, allowed me to set up a film idea at a studio, and led to more and larger theater and indie film projects in the pipeline. But by the end of last year, as the Make Believe hubbub quieted, I found myself in a tough position: many projects in the pipeline, but nothing that would exit the pipeline and become real any time soon. And to not be working, to not be actively engaged in creating is both painful and bad for my craft, especially as an actor.

So I started to realize: the nice thing about small projects is that you can make them happen entirely on your own or with only a small crew of collaborators. Big things, by definition, require the market and a bunch of other people to respond. In so harshly cutting off small projects, I cut off my independence, something I prized and had worked for.

Now I’m feeling it’s time to reconnect with that passion. It’s time to find small projects I know I can make regardless of the market, so that I am doing in a way that only requires my will and the dedication of collaborators. Thus: I’m off to scheme.

The Five Cs

My manager, Aaron Kogan, came up with “The Three Cs” to clarify some things one must weigh when beginning project. These are handy things to keep in mind as an entrepreneurial artist, for we must always compare priorities and choices and must fight for some and give up other aspects of our vision to make things happen.

(Somehow I have no photo of just us two, so here we are with the brilliant Roya Weiner,
 me on the left and Aaron on the right.)

The Three Cs are:

• Credit,

• Compensation, and

• Creative Involvement.

Credit: Varying levels of “official” credit – are you a producer, co-producer, associate producer, no credit at all?, do you fight for a “story by” credit for your idea or no, etc. – can be valuable in and of themselves, as they often correlate to levels of compensation and can help establish your position on the project.

Compensation: How much will you be getting paid? In cash? In revenue or profit participation?

Creative Involvement: How much do you contractually obligate your partners to involve you in – or have you lead – the creative development?

Each of these things must be weighed. (This is also true for small projects you’re doing with friends – you could be doing a different small project with friends, so why choose a given one? Assuming small projects have little Compensation, can they give you Credit for real leadership and a true chance to express your voice through Creative Involvement?) If a company is pushing down your money, can you push up the other Cs….?

Now, in managing me – yes, Aaron, I’m taking some credit for this – Aaron has had to expand The Three Cs to, count ‘em, The Five Cs. For the Actor-Producers among us, we can add:

Casting, and

Communications.

Casting: Are you cast? If so, how large a role? Is it the right size and type of role – getting you what you need as an actor while also being smart strategically for the scope of the project?

Communications: Poor guy, it's the only C with a slightly awkward name. When public announcements, interviews, etc. about a project occur, are you mentioned, included, interviewed? Is this contractual? Are you allowed to make mentions or announcements on your own? Like credit, this is a “soft” or indirect value, but it is always better to be conscious of these potentialities than to let them unfold without clarity.

Now go make something. (I say also to myself.)

O, the Shame

First: anyone reading this should probably be listening to John Russo’s Up Next podcast, which explores the challenges, processes, and lives of artists who are “up next” as they/we build our careers. You’ll note in my episode that I mention the shame I feel about having a “day job,” despite my love of and pride for the business I’ve built, a business that frees me as an artist every day.

I’m not sure what to write about this phenomenon, but I know it needs addressing. In a way not dissimilar to the blurring of Good and Popular, I think we too often blur, when measuring artists, Good and Making Lots of Money. We blur when measuring each other, evaluating opportunities, and  assessing ourselves. Making Good art is a core goal, yes, but Making Lots of Money is entirely worthy, too. Just don't blur the two or their metrics.

To continue honing my practice of blogging briefly, I’ll stick with this: as an artist, you need to build a life in which you can provide for yourself financially as you see fit. You also need to make your art (or you're hardly being an artist). So long as the total money coming in and the total art “going out” are working for you, care a lot less about what comes from where. And: keep that wisdom even as the art starts to make real money; don’t let that morph into believing that a creative project that pays more is always better than one that pays less. 

And speaking of John Russo, here's a picture I took last Tuesday evening while walking along the Hudson river and talking shop with John and fellow Up Next alum David Ingber.

Good v Popular, a Theory of Selling Out

When I left theater school and years of working on stage to head to LA, I had fears of “selling out.” Artistic integrity – I vaguely remember – was something we young folk talked and thought a lot about, and I feared LA’s business focus, as opposed to NY’s more womb-like creative community, might be a threat to mine.

Flash to six or seven years ago, when I was given the opportunity to have breakfast with a big Hollywood director. (Read: a guy with multiple films that have made more than $100M along with multiple TV series.) At the time, just having access for a chat was an exciting opportunity.

During the breakfast, the film CONGO came up. “That was terrible,” I said. The bigwig sternly corrected me: “It made a hundred million dollars.”

And there it was: Selling Out. In the brief exchange that followed, it was crystal clear. This man thought that making a lot of money is the definition of being good.

Very quickly after that breakfast, I started to arrive at this: Good and Popular are two very different, entirely worthy goals for a creative project.

Contrary to what is often implied in our schools and artsy communities, artists should feel no guilt or shame about working hard, explicitly, to make something Popular. Doing so is a challenging, fascinating puzzle. It requires great skill and a rare ability to either listen well to audiences or, even rarer, to intuitively resonate, like a tuning fork, with what audiences will enjoy.

We are told over and over, of course, that artists should feel no guilt or shame about pursuing something Good. And this, too, is a wonderful and deep goal, requiring honing your craft, knowing your personal voice and its strengths, and, in the end, finding and having something powerful to say.

Selling Out is thinking that something Popular = something Good. (And, by the way, Being Pretentious is thinking that something you find Good should inherently = something Popular.) 

The greatest dream is striking both Goodness and Popularity in a single project, of course. But don’t be afraid of working on both Goodness and Popularity as key jobs of the professional artist in the marketplace. Shakespeare alive today would not be some avant-garde off-off-Broadway director, no matter how Good. He would be creating massively appealing, successful stories across the biggest stages and screens of our day.