The Fifth of October

Today is my brother Frank’s birthday. He would have been thirty-five years old today.

My heart breaks. Without him, my heart breaks. It leaks a river of sorrow, salt and mucus and regret, to a melody of late-night lawnchairs against pavement patios, glowing in the inhale of our cigarettes, shivering under layers of sweatshirts and the smoky smell of old knit caps. My heart breaks and sends up photographs of my nieces like moths against the moon, delicate silhouettes already departing, ephemeral, growing up. A hundred moments my brother dreamt of; he slipped away before he could see them.

Or maybe he sees. I’d like to think so. I know he continues, that he’s gone on but not away, to a place with a brighter access to wisdom, deep philosophies, the kind of divine truths that he adored. I believe he’s moved closer to those planes where time and space and love are the same — the page and the book and the reader and what’s read. But I like to think that the imprint of who he was here continues to where he is now, and that he remains somehow connected to how we knew each other. That his Eternal recognizes and continues to love and share my Eternal. I fear that is, in the end, too convenient and perhaps too small to contain what he has gone on to. But hope is holy and faith is the most courageous of the spiritual strengths, I think, only after humility, perhaps. And I feel that too, humbled, in the wake of all that I’ve lost and everything I’ve been given. It is as though I have only been a receiver, ever, though I have fancied myself so many more things. But when I am humble, I know that I’ve been gifted my brothers, my family, my loves and also my capacity to love them. I’ve been gifted my heart and my mind and this aging body. I’ve been gifted some talent and a deep but selective empathy. And then, I’ve been gifted all these days to practice and cultivate these blessings and to make so many mistakes, the most brutal with the ones I love the most dear.

This is how this human life has been for me. Full of gifts and lessons and more love than it seems my heart can contain. And so it breaks. On days like today, my heart breaks wide open still.

 

Kaminskis. Seattle, Christmas 2007.

Kaminskis. Seattle, Christmas 2007.

The Listen of the Play: Backstage at ANGELS IN AMERICA

I always mourn not being able to watch, to see the beast grown, the vision realized. Especially a play like this one, Angels in America, when I spend the rehearsal process grappling with rich, difficult challenges among super-talented actors whom I gradually fall in love with. I am. In love. With these people and their strange and wonderful humors and the joyful tenacity and rigor they’ve practiced throughout this arduous process. I love them. I want to watch them. But I can’t.

I get to listen instead. Backstage, sitting quietly in the dark, still in the frenzy of crew and stagehands making the magic go. I wait for my cue. And I listen. To the play. The rhythm. The audience. It’s a profound unfolding, deceptively simple. The same words every night, but different laughs, new gasps, sometimes awkward silences from the audience. We learn them new every single night. We hear where the audience catches on and shatters the first laugh, and where they fidget and get bored or confused. Sometimes I can hear the audience lean in. It’s like eating my favorite dinner at the same restaurant every night, but always with a new date. Some dates are smarter than others. Some have intoxicating laughs. Some dates are frustrating. But they are all interesting and deliciously unique.

Listening to Part One: Millennium Approaches has become a distinct practice, mostly because I don’t come onstage until well in to the second act, after most of the exposition has unfolded and the rhythm of the play has found its cadence. And then I only have a handful of lines to establish my character and jump on to the evening’s train at its own speed. It is really challenging for me. Some actors have better instincts maybe, or more confidence, and can enter and land in the play without much prep. I’m not like that. I’ve learned to listen.

Once I tried to step off a slow-moving trolley. I didn’t compensate for how fast we were traveling and, even slow, I missed my step and almost rolled under the wheels. That is how I feel when I try to jump into the play, like I might roll under its wheels and get crushed by the momentum.

Not tonight though. Tonight we are groping our way through our first preview of Part Two, and we are all here, backstage, vacillating between frenzy and stillness. Listening.

In the Air: The Actor’s Contribution and the Return of Repertory

In the last few weeks, I’ve encountered several arguments for the return of repertory acting companies in the regional theater system (namely, Howlround’s Repertory is the Answer by Brian Bell and On Artists Making a Living and Artistic Directors who could Make a Difference but Don’t by Diane Ragsdale in Arts Journal) .

These articles caught my eye because I’ve been reflecting on my last decade of hobbling together a day-job and an acting career. The repertory model has always seemed like a mirage of the ‘good ole days,’ a shangri-la of yesteryear. The idea seems idyllic not because of the financial stability or job security, that is actually the least reason for me personally. Rather, a company seems like it would be wonderful because I covet artistic homes, places where I can work and play with other performers and artists and build vocabularies, debate ideas, participate in a conversation. Become a better artist.

We work in the medium of humanity, us actors. We do not grow in a vacuum.

Both these articles cite Mike Daisey’s excellent piece of performance/interrogation, How Theatre Failed America, where he deconstructs, blow by blow, the events and mechanisms that made the regional theater actor’s job among the loneliest on the planet. I specifically remember the section where he spoke about the demands of a ‘successful’ regional acting career, moving from show to show, from city to city, with little sense of home, no bandwidth to grow or maintain meaningful relationships, not even with a pet. These sacrifices rang out to me; Daisey articulates these facts like swift blows, knocking down any romanticized ideas one might have about the glamorous life of a stage actor. It resonated for me because that is not the life I’ve chosen or pursued; rather, I’ve carefully maintained a sweet day-job teaching 20 hours a week at an arts college and have turned down more acting work than I’ve accepted in the last five years. I choose carefully, cautious not to take acting “jobs” that will lack camaraderie, challenge or heart. Something inside of me has gone a little numb every time I’ve shown up for some filler, flip rehearsal process, where everyone runs home or to the gym after the day is done and the deeper self is not called upon. I’d rather teach, honest, open and with passion, than take an acting job for the money.

Before I was working as a freelance actor/part-time professor, I founded and ran an ensemble theater company with ten of my closest friends for five years. That is where I learned how good it can get, when everyone is 100% committed and bringing more than talent and experience, bringing love and relentless imagination to a project. Ultimately, running this company was unsustainable for any of us, and though the company still exists and thrives (washingtonensemble.org), there is a regular turn-over of artists/staff every few years. It doesn’t pay. And you can’t pay rent with love, no matter how rich it feels.

Recently I have been feeling an impulse to return to artistic leadership. The time I’ve clocked as a professional actor inhabiting great scripts, complex characters, visceral worlds has filled me up and demanded enormous courage and stamina. In the end, though, I want to make a bigger contribution to the conversation. Actors are expert, specialized, amazing hired-hands. But they’re jobbed-in and though there are exceptions, actors generally don’t get to choose, curate or discern the plays we produce and the conversations we develop in the American Theatre. We contribute in other ways, breathing life into the ideas, holding down the frontline of the fight. Perhaps, if we had a network of acting companies directly associated with the regional theaters in their cities, actors could take a more active role in what gets made. This possibility alone makes the Repertory Company Argument pertinent. How can we make the artists who inhabit these scripts bigger players in selecting and developing them?

I think sometimes folks are scared that actors are self-serving. Looking for a role for themselves rather than taking in and debating the bigger picture of a play. In my experience, that is true of a lot of actors. But not the great ones. Most actors who are fiercely intelligent and sharply skilled possess a well of passion for the power of this form. They are experts at playing action and showcasing their skills, but they’re actually more voracious for a great play with a big idea.

At any rate, I’m coming to a place in my career where I want to be a bigger part of the conversation. I am lucky enough to be working on beautiful and seemingly blessed productions of Angels in America: Parts I & II right now and in Millennium Approaches, I wait backstage and listen to Roy Cohn try to convince Joe to go to Washington. At least find out what you’re capable of, he tells him.

As despicable as that character is, he has some salient moments in these plays. That’s one of them. I want to find out what I’m truly capable of – as an artist and as a citizen. And it feels like that sort of big, visionary work is happening in leadership and administration. So I am turning my sights in that direction in hopes of conversation, challenge and, if I’m really lucky, an artistic home nestled into a strong community, where we find out, collectively, what we are capable of.

Beautiful Women Slipping on Banana Peels: The Heroism of Actresses

Let’s begin by acknowledging that all actors, especially stage actors, are brave. It takes guts as well as vanity to unpack your heart in front of a live audience.

Cate Blanchett devouring Hedda Gabler.

Cate Blanchett devouring Hedda Gabler.

But within that courageous profession, there are those who stand out as particularly fearless. They’re the tightrope walkers, the performers who straddle voids without nets or harnesses, who make you hold your breath in terror and release it in an ecstasy of relief.

Of course with actors, it takes more than guts to command our admiration. In the theater, feats of derring-do don’t count for much without a big emotional payoff or a lightning flash of insight. When an actor goes out on a limb, you need to feel that you’ve been taken there as well and allowed to glimpse a gasp-worthy view you might never otherwise have seen.

This is the beginning of Ben Brantley’s gorgeous response to Cate Blanchett’s work in Uncle Vanya in the 2012 Lincoln Center Festival, her Hedda Gabler in 2006 and then her Blanche DuBois in 2009. In this review, Brantley summons his great skill to articulate what we see masterful women like Blanchett and Redgrave do on the stage. A word for it is humanity. Another is tragedy. Another is courage.

Every day for the last four weeks, I’ve walked into a rehearsal room to grapple with Tony Kushner’s extraordinary epic, Angels in America: Parts I & II. It has felt like wrestling with an angel and, despite the toil and failure, even gripping onto this play makes me feel like I am in contact with a blessed thing. And through the course of seven hours traffic upon the stage, I get to slip on a few banana peels and have a lightning flash of insight or two. It feels wonderful. To grapple. To fail. To be part of this great work and in the company of the brave actresses that have gone before.

Ellen McLaughlin as The Angel in Kushner's ANGELS IN AMERICA.

Ellen McLaughlin as The Angel in Kushner’s ANGELS IN AMERICA.

McLaughlin and I have happened upon similar gestures, absolutely unwittingly. It makes me feel like I am unearthing the truth in this script.
McLaughlin and I have happened upon similar gestures, absolutely unwittingly. It makes me feel like I am unearthing the truth in this script.

 

The Chicago Home Theater Festival: Challenging Theater from the People in Your Neighborhood

This sounds terrific, and like something Seattle could appreciate as we gaze upon the relentless development of our neighborhoods.

Community Building with the Chicago Home Theater Festival by Dani Snyder-Young via howlround.com

The Chicago Home Theater Festival, now in its second year, creates participatory performance events in private homes with the goal of crossing borders, creating opportunities for artists to get paid work outside of institutions, and engendering dialogue around issues of community, identity, and the segregated nature of Chicago’s neighborhoods. Co-producer Irina Zadov explains, “We’ve been organizing [the festival] with a real focus on moving audiences to address some of the issues of segregation and the ways in which the arts like so many other things tend to perpetuate these inequalities…

It ran May 1-25 in twenty one sites across the city of Chicago. Produced by Irina Zadov, Blake Russell, and Laley Lippard, the festival is part of the International Home Theater Festival, founded five years ago by Philip Huang in Berkeley, and featured the work of 200 artists. Each event is hosted by an individual or family (using an expansive definition of “family”) who works with the producers to curate an evening of work responsive to their physical home and particular neighborhood. Evenings begin with a guided tour from the closest train stop, contextualizing the performance event for audience members who are new to the neighborhood, many include food and/or drink, and all include post-performance discussions. These events are intentionally polyvocal, bringing together people who might not otherwise find themselves in the same room… “

Really, at its my truest core, this is what I want theater to ALWAYS do. Collect us and cause connection, perhaps provoke, definitely entertain, but bring us together in a way we might not otherwise find ourselves.

Something Special is Brewing in Roanoke: Three Days with the Hollins MFAs

 

The guest responders (aka "peripatetic ajudicators") for the 2014 Hollins University New Play Festival. Photo by Chad Runyon.

The guest responders (aka “peripatetic ajudicators”) for the 2014 Hollins University New Play Festival. Photo by Chad Runyon.

The first time I folded into the Hollins Playwrights Lab was in 2009 when I traveled down to Roanoke to do a reading of Elizabeth Heffron’s salty and hilarious one-woman play Bo-Nita. This past weekend, I traveled back to that tiny, vibrant city cradled inside of the Blue Ridge Mountains to be a Guest Responder at the annual Hollins New Play Festival along with a host of savvy, articulate artist/educators including Gwydion Suilebhan, Mark Charney, Shannon Robert, Neil David Seibel, and almost two dozen more. We were gathered by Program Director Todd Ristau, who has built an ambitious, lively community of playwrights and artists in that tiny valley and is churning out some masterful works by the MFA playwrights in summer residence there.

Over three days, we saw/heard/experienced ten new plays written, directed and performed by Hollins graduate students with cameos by local Roanoke talent. The quality bell curve leaned toward excellent as we witnessed a diversity of writers’ voices grapple with the complexities of cancer, ptsd, mortality and, of course, love.

Ever anxious despite my efforts to be cool, I found myself nervous on the first day of this festival, at a new place surrounded by impressive strangers with a strong but slippery sense of purpose, but we all folded into the work and play of this three-day event with ease. A few hours in I remembered that I’ve been attending Theater Camp for almost thirty years. I know how to do this: show up to a new place, crack smiles, make jokes, sip beverages through straws and walk in big groups until we filter down into duos and trios according to preference and convenience. Talk art. Debate ideas. Articulate observations and probe intention. Laugh. Take the work seriously and myself lightly. Offer what I had to share – my point of view.

And the weekend felt so fruitful, not only as all of the guests leaned into serve the individual plays and promising playwrights, but as we mingled among ourselves. How refreshing to meet an expert set designer from New Orleans with a penchant for mojitos and a cunning visual sense, and a fellow teacher who grapples with integrating the Viewpoints into realism on stage and has devised his own strategies for teaching personalization to young actors, and to sit down with Bob Moss, the founder of Playwrights Horizons and a personal hero of mine, to discuss the subtleties of good casting and the merits of regional theater. I left this experience feeling inspired and useful and I hope it isn’t too long before I am back in Roanoke, in the midst of this community of ambitious playwrights and committed artists. It always feels so good to find another home.

From A to B to Beyond, Innovating Indie Screenwriting from Jennine Larouette

I have been toiling over a feature-length screenplay for over a year, having declared it finished twice. It is not finished and has some deep grooves and fissures that seem to suck up all the good-idea-filler I pour into them. I am leaning into another edit and happened upon this article while I was not writing, On Finding New Screenplay Structures for Independent Films by Jennine Lanouette. A friend sent it some time ago and it’s a meaty, informative and ultimately really inspiring argument for learning the rules and then bending them to create a more beautiful outcome. Highlights below:

The Heirarchy of Character, Action and Theme by Jennine Lanouette

The Heirarchy of Character, Action and Theme by Jennine Lanouette

“There’s no avoiding Three-Act Structure. It is the One-Point Perspective of screenwriting. Just as in drawing, you have two points on a horizon line and then a third vanishing point to create a sense of space, in filmed drama, you have a beginning, middle and end to orient the viewer in time… 


However, within that three-part structure, there are infinite possibilities for what can be achieved. This is the Advanced Screenwriting class, where a healthy respect for the model handed down to us by centuries of dramatic innovators is combined with an acknowledgement that artistic evolution depends on continually seeking new ways to apply the old models. Hollywood used to be open to cultivating, or perhaps simply tolerating, such ambitious endeavors. But, considering that today’s Hollywood has sunk into a comic-book-franchise/based-on-a-true-story rut at the expense of original adult drama, I would like to suggest that the evolution of the art form is now the sole responsibility of independent filmmakers…

…for me, story structure starts to get really interesting when you find that there is also a theme with its own A-to-B progression. The place at which we arrive at the end of the theme story is a new understanding of human nature, society or the world. To find this progression in a film, you want to ask the questions, “What is the nature of the world we are in at the beginning of the story?” and, “What is the nature of this world at the end?”

Conscious thought has its place in tweaking and refining. But, most often, the deeper elements of a story come from an unconscious, intuitive place of pure imagination, sometimes to the point where not even the writer is entirely conscious of all the layers in their script.”

Lanouette writes regularly on her website, screentakes.com.

RIP Lady Stritch

Do Not Think. Dream. (A Letter to a Young Writer by Richard Bausch)

I found this tasty bit of insight on the National Endowment for the Arts website. A quick, excellent read for those of us grasping the pen and leaning over the keyboard…

Richard Bausch, c/o NYTimes

 Letter to a Young Writer

 by Richard Bausch

  While there are, of course, thousands of reasons that people begin to write — some of them rather shabby ones, too – there usually is only one reason they continue and that is that the work has become necessary. We are habit-forming creatures and this work is very habit forming if one has any talent at all. Of course you don’t know when you begin if you really have any talent and you hope you do. Perhaps you even suspect that you do. Sometimes you go back and forth, believing on some days and disbelieving on others. Mostly you believe the last thing you read or heard concerning the work, and you probably tend to listen to the negative things more. The last negative thing you heard has sunk deeper into you and has lasted a longer time than any positive comment. Painful as this is, it is also perfectly normal. My best advice has nothing to do with technique or aesthetics or craft itself, really. It has more to do with training oneself to be shrewd, to live intelligently where the work is concerned. As I have said many times in classes, “Writing is not an indulgence. The indulgences are what you give up in order to write.” You don’t go to as many parties, you don’t watch as much television, you don’t listen to as much music. You make decisions in light of what you have to do in a given day and everything except the life you lead with your family is subordinated to the hours you must work. How much you get done depends in large part not on your talent, which is whatever it is and it’s mostly constant, but on your attitude about what you are doing. So I’ve devised a sort of Ten Commandments that are the result of some of my own struggles with this blessed occupation and what I have been able to learn from reading or being around writers who are better than I. Here they are:

  1. Read. You must try to know everything that has ever been written that is worth remembering and you must keep up with what your contemporaries are doing. Fitzgerald’s advice to his daughter, Scotty, is as good as any there is on the subject. “You must try to absorb six good authors a year.” This means that you do not read books as an English major is trained to read them. You swallow them. You ingest them. You move on. You do not stop to analyze or think much. You just take them into yourself and go on to the next one. And you read obsessively, too. If you really like something, you read it over and over through the years. Come to know the world’s literature by heart. Every good writer I know or have known began with an insatiable appetite for books – for plundering what is in them, for the nourishment provided there that you can’t get from any other source.
  2. Imitate. While you’re doing this reading, you spend time trying to sound like the various authors, just as a painter learning to paint sets up his easel in a museum and copies the work of the masters. You learn by trying the sound and stance of other writers. You develop an ear, through your reading and imitating, for how good writing is supposed to sound.
  3. “Be regular and ordinary in your habits, like a petty bourgoise, so you may be violent and original in your work.” This comes from Flaubert and is quite good advice. It has to do with what I was talking about in the first paragraph and is, of course, better expressed. The thing that separates the amateur writer from the professional, often enough, is simple the amount of time spent working the craft. You know that if you really want to write, if you hope to produce something that will stand up to the winds of criticism and scrutiny of strangers, you’re going to have to work harder than you have ever worked on anything else in your life æ hour upon hour upon hour, with nothing in the way of encouragement, no good feeling, except the sense that you have been true to the silently admonishing examples of the writers who came before you – the ones whose company you would like to be in and of whose respect you would like to be worthy.
  4. Train yourself to be able to work anywhere. Once when our first child was a baby, my mother came to visit. And after the baby went to sleep, I began tiptoeing around trying to make no noise. My mother said, “What the hell are you doing?” I said, “The baby’s asleep.” She said, “Have some friends over, put some music on, rattle some dishes, make noise. You’re training that kid to be a bad sleeper.” That wise advice applies to this craft, too. (Incidentally, that kid could sleep through a battle.) If you set up a certain expectation about when and how you’ll be able to do the work, you train yourself to be silent. Shostokovich wrote his famous 7th Symphony, the Leningrad Symphony, during the siege of Leningrad. Bombs were falling all around him and he understood perfectly well that there was a very good chance he would die within the next few hours or days. Teach yourself to write in busy places under the barrage of noises the world makes. Work in rooms where kids are playing, with music on, even with the television on. Work in the faith that if something is really good, it will not escape back into oblivion if you get distracted from it. It will turn up again. There is no known excuse for not working when you are supposed to be working. Remember that it is an absurdity to put writing before the life you have to lead. I’m not talking about leisure. I’m talking about the responsibility you have to the people you love and who love you back. No arduousness in the craft or arts should ever occupy one second of the time you’re supposed to be spending that way. It has never been a question of the one or the other and writers who say it is are lying to themselves or providing an excuse for bad behavior. They think of writing as a pretext for it. It has never been anything of the sort.
  5. Be patient. You are trying to do something that is harder than just about anything there is to do, even when it feels easy. You will write many more failures than successes. Say to yourself, “I accept failure as the condition of this life, this work. I freely accept it as my destiny.” Then go on and do the work. Never ask yourself anything beyond “Did I work today?” If the answer to that question is “yes,” then no other question is allowed.
  6. Be willing. Accepting failure is a part of your destiny _ learning to be willing to fail, to take the chances that often lead to failure in the hope that one of them might lead to something good. Be open for business all the time. You must try to be that person on whom nothing is lost. This does not mean that you are taking notes while people around you suffer. You are not that kind of observer. It means in the workroom you are willing to follow whatever you are dreaming presents you with – openly, without judgment or attitude or even opinion.
  7. Eschew politics. The person who has it in his mind that he will write to engineer better human beings is a despot before he writes the first line. If you have opinions, leave them out of the workplace. If you have anything worthwhile to say, let it surprise you. The writer John Gardner once told me, “If one of your characters makes a long speech filled with his deepest held beliefs, make sure you don’t believe one word of it.” I think that is very sound advice. You are in the business of portraying the personal life, the personal cost of events. So even if history is part of your story, it should only serve as backdrop. The writers who have gotten into trouble with despots over the shameful history of tyranny did so because they insisted on not paying attention to the politics except as they applied to the personal lives of the people they were creating. They told the truth, in other words, and refused to be political. The paradoxical truth of the matter is that a writer who pays attention to the personal life is subversive precisely because he refuses to pay attention to anything else. Bad politics hurts people on a personal level and good writers report from there about the damage. And the totalitarians are rightly afraid of those writers.
  8. Do not think. Dream. If you believe you are thinking when you write, make yourself stop thinking. You are trying to tap a part of yourself that is closest to the dreaming side, the side that is most active when you sleep. You are trying to recover the literal vision of a child. That is what Flannery O’Connor means when she says, “A good story is literal in the same sense that a child’s drawing is literal.” Dream the story up. Make it up. Be fanciful. Follow what comes to you to say and try not to worry about whether or not it’s smart or shows your sensitive nature in the best light or delivers the matters of living that you think you have learned. Just dream it up and let the thing play itself out as it seems to want to. And write it again, and still again, dreaming it though. And then, as you educate yourself each time through more as to what it is, try to be terribly smart about that. Read it with the cold detachment of a doctor looking at an x-ray for a lump. Which is to say, you must learn to re-read your own sentences as a stranger might. And say everything out loud. Listen to how it sounds.
  9. Don’t compare yourself to anyone and learn to keep from building expectations. People develop at different rates with different results and luck is also involved. Your only worry should be, again, “Did I work today?” Be happy for the successes of your friends because good fortune for one of us is good fortune for all of us. When a friend or acquaintance says “good luck,” you may feel envy because envy is a natural human reaction. But as George Garrett once put it, “When that stuff rises to your mind, you just train yourself to contend with it there.” That is what determines everything else about you as an artist and it really determines everything about you as a person. You will never write anything worth keeping if you allow yourself to give in to petty worries over whether you are treated as you think you deserve or your rewards are commensurate to the work you’ve done. That will almost never be the case and the artist who expects great rewards and complete understanding is a fool.
  10. By wary of all general advice. Destroy everything that precedes this commandment if, for you, it gets in the way of writing good stories. Because for every last assertion in this letter, there are several notable exceptions. Finally, try to remember that what you are aiming to do is a beautiful, even a noble, thing _ trying to write or make the trust as straightly and honestly and artfully as you can. It is also always an inherently optimistic act because it stems from the belief that there will be civilized others whose sensibilities you may affect if you are lucky and good enough and faithful to the task at hand. No matter how tragic the vision is, it is always a hopeful occupation. And, therefore, you have to cultivate your ability to balance things, to entertain high hopes without letting those hopes to become expectations. To do your work without worrying too much about what the workd will have to say about it or do to it. Mostly, of course, the world will ignore it. And so, you will have that in common with many very great writers, good men and women who came before you. By giving it everything you have and being faithful to the work, you honor their fidelity to it. You partake of it. You accept their silent admonition to write like all hell and be as good as they were.

© Richard Bausch

– See more at: http://arts.gov/operation-homecoming/essays-writing/letter-young-writer#sthash.8ZuG5gXn.dpuf

Ideas on How v. What We Teach when we Teach the Arts

Some practices for teaching the arts, taken from an article in The Guardian titled: How We Teach the Arts is as Important as the Fact We’re Doing It by Michael Rosen.

Children and young people involved in the arts should:

1) have a sense of ownership and control in the process;

2) have a sense of possibility, transformation and change – that the process is not closed with pre-planned outcomes;

3) feel safe in the process, and know that no matter what they do, they will not be exposed to ridicule, relentless testing, or the fear of being wrong;

4) feel the process can be individual, co-operative or both;

5) feel there is a flow between the arts, that they are not boxed off from each other;

6) feel they are working in an environment that welcomes their home cultures, backgrounds, heritages and languages;

7) feel that what they are making or doing matters – that the activity has status within the school and beyond;

8) be encouraged and enabled to find audiences for their work;

9) be exposed to the best practice and the best practitioners possible;

10) be encouraged to think of the arts as including or involving investigation, invention, discovery, play and co-operation and to think that these happen within the actual doing, but also in the talk, commentary and critical dialogue that goes on around the activity itself.