[The Dinky Pipe and Drape theme plays.]
I just repaired another hole in my backpack. In this Dinky episode, I’m tracing my packing, living, and consumer tendencies back to my formative years performing theatre for young audiences. Thank you for listening today!
I have had two backpacks in my adult life, and you could find the following things in them at all times: Old Spice, a retainer, my audition book, gym clothes, juggling balls, two stuffed animals, my laptop, medication, and three types of charging cables. I’m equipped with enough sewing skills to fix ripped seems and hole, but when my first backpack required an industrial sewing machine to repair it, I had to take it to a cobbler who offered bag repair services. It was only after it was damaged again beyond repair after years of ware that I had to buy a new bag. My current Swiss Army bag has traveled with me to every state I’ve seen, and it’s been through it: it’s hiked mountains, survived all sorts of liquid damage, and carried many many pounds of outfits, technology, snacks, and groceries. It’s gone through more than backpacks were built for, but I still have it. And something about me is that I would rather invest my money in repairs on old things than in new flimsier products that will not last common wear and tear. My backpacks have kept my most valuable and irreplaceable items safe and with me for years.
My friend/Episode 17 guest Stephen Gordon and I were discussing travel, apartments, and organization, and I shared that some of my essentials and most expensive possessions have lived in a beat up backpack for over a decade, even when I am not traveling. He asked, “Do you care to unpack that?”
[Guitar strum.]
In my last episode of Pipe and Drape, I shared many of my personal traditions, most of them revolved around my early training years at Hedgerow Theatre in Philadelphia and my first few contracts after college. So much of who I am is informed by the circumstances surrounding the work I’ve done as an actor in the theatre for young audiences field. And in this line of work, actors and members of the creative team often have to ask, ‘What is the absolute minimum we can use to effectively share a story?’ To unpack this bag, I want to examine that question through the lens of the TYA performance experiences I mentioned earlier.
I first performed in a theatre for young audiences show nearly twenty five years ago. It was an hour-long version of Winnie-The-Pooh that was presented on the weekends over the course of a few months on the sets of Dancing at Lughnasa then Don’t Dress for Dinner. In addition to learning how to adapt to environmental changes halfway through a run, eight-year-old me learned that fantastical stories can be shared with minimal spectacle. Check out “Dinky Episode 6: Elements of Drama” to hear more of my thoughts on spectacle in TYA. My cast used just a few recycled set pieces, costumes, and soundscape to take us out of the interior settings that were fixed to the theatre’s floor. The staircases of Brian Friel’s Lughnasa set became A.A. Milne’s character Owl’s means of flying, and the doors of Don’t Dress for Dinner became trees for Woozels to hide behind. Finding ways to make a home in borrowed space was a fun task for me. Wonderful creative minimalism supported by strong playwriting, directing, and acting created excellent theatre. I was fortunate to have the opportunity to work on a number of shows as a Hedgerow kid, and I watched as scenery and props were re-purposed show after show with years and years of wear and tear and fixes on them for both the Children’s Series and the mainstage.
My first job out of college was another hour-long forest-set play, but this time in the form of a state-wide van tour. When I showed up to my first rehearsal I saw a very wide set with multiple prosceniums, rolling platforms, speakers, and thick fur costumes. After our final dress run it came time to pack the van and take the show on the road, and I thought, ‘There is absolutely no way this is going to fit in a van.’ But it did. Many of our set pieces doubled as storage containers, padding, and rolling dollies for transportation. Other pieces all collapsed, folded, and bundled together, and like a giant three-dimensional game of Tetris, my team of four stacked it all into every nook of the back of the van. Once we finished that first pack I was wiped, and I thought, ‘There is absolutely no way I can do this twice a day for three months.’ But I got very strong very quickly, and I began to race myself to see how fast and efficient I could get everything loaded in (knowing that the faster we loaded out the faster we got lunch or arrived home.)
When I got back to my studio apartment I’d walk into a very decorated space filled with posters, photos, crafts, and memorabilia from my college apartment in Philadelphia that I had all crammed into my dad’s car to bring with me. My apartment looked like a place I had settled in for life, but I was only contracted to be in it for eight months. I collected more clothes, a bike, and other things over that eight-month period, and when it came time for me to move on to the next gig I was able to fit all of it into my dad’s car because of the packing skills I picked up from my months of van Tetris.
As soon as I unpacked my dad’s Subaru I had to repack my suitcases to fly down south for a three month summer contract. My luggage was packed to the brim with all of my summer clothes and opening night looks, and I filled the non-existent leftover space with a few picture frames to make my new space feel like my own. By the end of the summer I realized I did not need half the clothes I brought. The times I spent out of costume required me to be in rehearsal/gym clothes. My boating shoes and most of my casual summer oxford shirts were untouched.
As the weather changed and I took on national tours, I learned how to pack clothes for multiple seasons into just one suitcase. I learned that layers were my friend. And it was ok to be an outfit repeater. Someone tell Lizzie McGuire. And I didn’t miss having decorations because I was spending my free time exploring and taking in the beautiful and festive surroundings of North America. I found ways to make home in borrowed spaces like shared hotel rooms, guest rooms with host families, and cruise ship decks. I routinely slept on the same side of every hotel room, I organized and unloaded my toiletries the same way, I’d find quiet activities I loved. If you want to hear more about my hotel living habits, check out “Dinky Episode 2: Hotel Hopping.” With each contract I packed less and less, and I let go of the things I no longer needed. I became aware of how much waste exists as a result of consumerism, and thought deeply about my every purchase moving forward. When I had the time to unpack a suitcase into a chest of drawers at actor housing for regional gigs I became reluctant to do it because I was so used to keeping all of my clothes in a suitcase. By the time I was in a space long enough to warrant decorations, the only thing I ended up bringing was a print of “Bold and Brash” by Squidward Tentacles. This was for my private cabin on a ship between 2019 and 2020.
Actor cabins on cruise ships can be beautifully extravagant—filled with dozens of artificial remote controlled candles, lights, wax succulents, tapestries, prints, and throw pillows. Because of my touring experience, I was accustomed to spending my off time in the sun, exploring, or working out. My cabin was for sleeping and post-show stretching. During the COVID-19 shutdown, my cast on board was given 48 hours to either leave the ship or change contracts and work as a crew member for an indefinite amount of time. If there is anything I know how to do, it’s pack and fast.
[Guitar strum.]
My other cast members were forced to find a way to ship their decorations and gadgets home or toss them into the ship’s incinerator. This would not be the last time I would have to up and move with very little notice. In “Dinky Episode 7: 48 Hours Notice” I talk about the recent last-minute contract that required me to pack and get my life in New York together so I could leave for two months within two days. A year after that, because the sublet game is a dangerous game, I had 48 hours to pack up and move two and a half years of my life in my apartment into storage and find another living situation while also working two jobs. With the help of a few extra storage tubs from Target and my friend/Pipe and Drape Episode 20 guest Tyler B. Quick, I was able to accomplish this.
My decades of experience sharing stories with the bare necessities and touring with Tetrised elements informed my decisions as a consumer and decorator, and I had found creative ways to exist in a small space that was not technically mine. I didn’t have much, I am never quick to purchase anything other than experiences, which is something I learned on tours. I had surrounded myself with just a few art pieces that made me feel at home. I had invested in a few sturdy, classic pieces of clothing that I knew I could repair if needed rather than piles of fast fashion. I had let go of possessions that no longer served me. The furniture I collected easily collapses and folds and doubles as storage containers just like the sets I assembled in hundreds of elementary schools and performing arts centers. I knew how to pack everything into a van. I knew how to drive a van (through New York City no less) because of the work I did in theatre for young audiences. I moved out and moved on.
[Guitar strum.]
This fall, for the first time in over a decade, I signed a lease. I have the freedom to fill it with things to the brim until I choose to leave. I can spread out and claim space as my own, no longer needing borrowing corners that are in someone else’s name. But my retainer still lives in my backpack, my minimal toiletries are consolidated into small corners, I retreat to quiet activities in my room, and my walls are still very bare. I’ve become so used to all the constraints of living minimally, in borrowed spaces, ready to leave at a moment’s notice that I don’t know what it feels like to take up space that is my own. ‘What is the absolute minimum I can use to effectively live my story?’ It turns out that this is the question I had been asking myself without realizing it. And I found out I can be small. But I don’t have to be.
Something I propose for the theatre for young audiences community is the possibility of space. What if instead of squeezing in, folding up, and borrowing space, we created work that takes up lots of space on stage and in the world? What if we ask for the maximum? What kinds of stories would we create? What would they look like? What would they sound like? What are the ways we can change the industry to support this? I don’t know the answers to any of these things, but if wonderfully creative directing, acting, and designing came out asking for the minimum, I wonder what would happen if the norm was to ask for it all.
[Pipe and Drape theme plays.]
This dinky episode of Pipe and Drape was written by me, Stephen Fala and distributed by Spotify for Podcasters. The Pipe and Drape logo was created by Stephen Gordon and music was composed by Stephen Fala. This episode also featured selections from the song “Backpack, Backpack!” from the Dora the Explorer Soundtrack album produced by Nickelodeon Records.
If you would like to unpack your bag and share your pipe and drape story, send me an email at PipeAndDrapeStories@gmail.com or message me @PipeAndDrapeStories Instagram. And before you put down your device, please rate and review Pipe and Drape wherever you listen to your podcasts! Each star given or review submitted helps future listeners find the show. Be sure to tune in every other Tuesday between the first Tuesday of the summer through November to hear theatre for young audiences creatives share their pipe and drape stories. Thank you for listening today.
[The end of the Dinky Pipe and Drape theme plays.]
Music from this episode: “Backpack, Backpack!” - Dora the Explorer (Nickelodeon Records)
Connect with Pipe and Drape:
INSTAGRAM: @PipeAndDrapeStories
EMAIL: PipeAndDrapeStories@gmail.com
Host: Stephen Fala
Show Logo: Stephen Gordon