Thursday, February 7, 2008
What I learned at Ecole Philippe Gaulier
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A good old-fashioned trashing
The bouffon workshop ended.
I decided not to continue with the melodrama workshop. I made the decision the morning of the workshop with little hesitation..
For over a week during the Bouffon workshorp I did not want to go to class. I felt sick to my stomach starting when I woke up. It was like a little animal was running in frantic circles through my intestines.
Close to lunchtime the feeling would get more intense. I tried eating a lot and drinking alcohol to make the feeling go away. Eating didn't help. Alcohol helped a little bit. I would sit on the train stare out the window. I couldn't concentrate on reading a book, a paper, listening to language lessons on my ipod. My mind wandered aimlessly.
At school the creature in my stomach grew increasingly aggressive during movement class. Two or three times during movement class, a voice in my head reminded me of what was coming next, and I felt little ball of acid pop open in my gut.
As I put on my costume, my makeup before class I focused only on the steps I needed to take. Fastening my hunchback or blackening my teeth. It was only when I would walk into the studio that a sensation of mild helplesness washed over me. I would sit on a bench around the stage and wait for it to begin.
The way I measured the class was on a scale of
1) I escaped humiliation today
2) I was humiliated today as a member of a group and therefore it was not all my fault.
3) I was humiliated today by myself, but so were many others
4) Many people were very highly praised today and I was humiliating.
5) Today almost everyone was praised as brilliant on the stage; I on the other hand was told that I was one of the worst things that had ever been seen on the stage. After the class, other students shot me sideways glances, ignored me as they made plans for the evening, and/or made nasty comments to me during the train ride back to central Paris.
#5 happened a bit more than I would have liked. In the dressing room, after class each day, I felt like a shit stain on the wall. And I resent the students (and there were quite a few of them) who treated me with less respect because I was struggling with the course. To quote another girl who had I similar experience, "I felt like the fat kid in gym class."
Of course, there was one day that I did something wonderful onstage with two other girls. The three of us had been the class flops for weeks, and then we went onstage and made something wonderful happen. That same day, all of the class prodigies went onstage and flopped. Afterwards, one of the class prodigies was kind enough to pay me a complement:
"Good work Harlan. Sometimes when you have been failing so long you just need a success to be more confident."
I think that this large, jolly (un petit peu connard?) fellow actually thought he was paying me a complement. I never did get around to slapping him...
__________
So my last month with the Gaulier school was not a Sunday afternoon picnic with the women's rotary club in northwest Alabama. I learned a lot. I don't want towrite about what I learned. I want to write about all of the nasty, egomaniacal students who showed up for this workshop. The narcissistic prick with his head ten miles up his ass, for example. I am not feeling so nice about what happened during that workshop, and I want to do some good old fashioned trashing.
_____________
Of course, thisis all a bit sentimental and indulgent. Because I dropped any pretense of writing an orderly, academic blog about this school a long time ago I don't think it matters much at this point. I should write about what I learned.
I decided not to continue with the melodrama workshop. I made the decision the morning of the workshop with little hesitation..
For over a week during the Bouffon workshorp I did not want to go to class. I felt sick to my stomach starting when I woke up. It was like a little animal was running in frantic circles through my intestines.
Close to lunchtime the feeling would get more intense. I tried eating a lot and drinking alcohol to make the feeling go away. Eating didn't help. Alcohol helped a little bit. I would sit on the train stare out the window. I couldn't concentrate on reading a book, a paper, listening to language lessons on my ipod. My mind wandered aimlessly.
At school the creature in my stomach grew increasingly aggressive during movement class. Two or three times during movement class, a voice in my head reminded me of what was coming next, and I felt little ball of acid pop open in my gut.
As I put on my costume, my makeup before class I focused only on the steps I needed to take. Fastening my hunchback or blackening my teeth. It was only when I would walk into the studio that a sensation of mild helplesness washed over me. I would sit on a bench around the stage and wait for it to begin.
The way I measured the class was on a scale of
1) I escaped humiliation today
2) I was humiliated today as a member of a group and therefore it was not all my fault.
3) I was humiliated today by myself, but so were many others
4) Many people were very highly praised today and I was humiliating.
5) Today almost everyone was praised as brilliant on the stage; I on the other hand was told that I was one of the worst things that had ever been seen on the stage. After the class, other students shot me sideways glances, ignored me as they made plans for the evening, and/or made nasty comments to me during the train ride back to central Paris.
#5 happened a bit more than I would have liked. In the dressing room, after class each day, I felt like a shit stain on the wall. And I resent the students (and there were quite a few of them) who treated me with less respect because I was struggling with the course. To quote another girl who had I similar experience, "I felt like the fat kid in gym class."
Of course, there was one day that I did something wonderful onstage with two other girls. The three of us had been the class flops for weeks, and then we went onstage and made something wonderful happen. That same day, all of the class prodigies went onstage and flopped. Afterwards, one of the class prodigies was kind enough to pay me a complement:
"Good work Harlan. Sometimes when you have been failing so long you just need a success to be more confident."
I think that this large, jolly (un petit peu connard?) fellow actually thought he was paying me a complement. I never did get around to slapping him...
__________
So my last month with the Gaulier school was not a Sunday afternoon picnic with the women's rotary club in northwest Alabama. I learned a lot. I don't want towrite about what I learned. I want to write about all of the nasty, egomaniacal students who showed up for this workshop. The narcissistic prick with his head ten miles up his ass, for example. I am not feeling so nice about what happened during that workshop, and I want to do some good old fashioned trashing.
_____________
Of course, thisis all a bit sentimental and indulgent. Because I dropped any pretense of writing an orderly, academic blog about this school a long time ago I don't think it matters much at this point. I should write about what I learned.
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