Body, Mind and Bikini

Weird things happen. I think even more so when you work with people, and it’s even weirder when you work with actors and models. And bikini castings are never average.

I had to do a bikini casting a few weeks ago. They are not my favourite type of casting, but years of swimming galas and performing competitively in leotards where pulling out your wedgie meant losing a medal means that I’m not particularly shy of my body. I work really hard, and I try to eat healthy food most of the time, so I’m proud of what I’ve built. It is, however, still not great to be herded into a room with a usually even mix of gorgeous over-confident models twice my height and half my weight, and girls almost dying to have to stand there in a bikini.

The casting happened late in the afternoon on a weekday. I waited outside with the rest of girls next to a notice board clearly stating that if you were not wearing a bikini you were not welcome to audition. Of course it was the coldest day of the week as we all sat outside, bikini strings creeping mischievously out of beachy-looking cover ups, dresses and tank tops.

As soon as the casting before us was finished, we were all taken into the usual waiting room. But this time. The usually open room with multiple entry points had all the doors closed tight. If you've been doing auditions for a few years, you get to know the casting agents. He informed a few of us that the reason we were all locked up tight was was because a man had walked in from the street at the last casting and tried to secretly film the girls in their bikinis. Fortunately some from the agency realised what was happening, and managed to pry his phone from his hands to delete the footage before returning it.

Secure in our safe-space while we waited, I sat making awkward small talk about costume styles with a nervous 20-something year old model while putting on my high heels. 

It was a horrible casting. I sat between two models, who dwarfed me even when sitting and all that was required of me was to have a pretend phone call. I was out a few seconds later. My husband wanted to know how it went as I informed him I would be bracing the five o’clock traffic home.

“Not great.”

It’s difficult not to take it personally when someone looks at your bikini-clad body and goes ‘No’. But you can’t take it that way. Personally, that is. Because it is what it is. In that moment you are a billboard to advertise a specific product. No more, no less, and no less human. 

I realised this when I had to do a costume fitting for an advert a few years ago. I was standing in front of a group of people in a skimpy, skimpy bright pink outfit. As I stood there the group discussed the fit of the costume, my body, how I would work on camera. I was discussed in terms of lights, angles, makeup, hair and everything else necessary for a shoot. For the first while I was hyper aware of all my perceived flaws. But somewhere in that high stress moment I had an important mind-shift: It’s not about me or my body. It’s work, and lights and camera angles, and for them I was part of the equipment of their trade that needed to be adjusted and setup for the job at hand. They had a final product in mind that I knew nothing about and they were busy getting the product there. I would be a ‘me’ again in the lunch que on set, or afterward when I was back in my clothes. It’s not personal.

Heading Hence To The Conference Of Shakespeare

Cinema and gender studies has always been my thing. Well at least academically, and at least from my honours year. Even though I’ve always enjoyed my work I tended to feel that it was unimportant in the greater scheme of things. After all, my friends were working in applied theatre and educational theatre to help and uplift people and communities. Or working on actual productions. And there I was, discussing hypotheticals and analysing film scenes. I kind of felt that my work lacked the gravitas to actually be of any practical to use to someone. In the academic sense anyway.

And then on the off-chance someone read my dissertation, and it meant something to them. It helped them understand one of their children better. After working on it for almost four years I told my mom that it was all worth it as my work had, in the smallest way, helped one person. A great achievement when I know only my father and study supervisor would actually read the whole thing. I felt that my research had achieved what it was going to achieve. Expect for maybe being a reference in some other student's undergraduate paper if they happened upon my dissertation in the library.

About a year after handing it in, my study supervisor sent me an email about a Shakespeare conference happening in Durban and focusing on issues of Shakespeare in South Africa. The conference intersected beautifully with my research and he encouraged me to send in an abstract to present a research paper based on my work.

The thought of speaking in front of other people about my research terrified me. I’m completely comfortable on stage. I can walk/dance/sing/act confidently in nothing but my underwear on stage if the role calls for it without batting an eyelash. But ‘public speaking’. No. Give me a few hours of rehearsal and character and I’m fine, but being myself in front of people who get to respond to my work other than a to review it or give a snide comment in passing? No thank you. To add to this, I was going through one of my existential crises, as we actors often do when heightened emotions are our bread and butter. On the cut-off day I threw together and abstract for a paper and emailed it to the appropriate address. I then happily forgot about it, having done my part and being rather sure that I wouldn’t be selected to present at the conference.

Until I was selected to speak at the conference.

Between all the fabulous September castings, adjudicating eisteddfods I was doing my best to write an article.Somewhere, between the student protests my ever-patient study supervisor co-wrote the article with me, and with no time to spear I put together a power point presentation and edited the article down to something I could hopefully read in front of people while nervous. And did I mention we are also in the process of buying property? So between running to the banks, furiously searching for marriage licenses, anti-nuptial agreements, vat numbers and bank certified documents I managed to get everything done. And book my flights and care hire for the conference.

It all became a bit much for me, and as I was throwing clothes into a suitcase on Wednesday evening the anxiety of everything happening at the same time overwhelmed me:

“I wish I wasn’t this nervous person” I said to Mauritz, tears of anxiety and nerves clearly threatening and starting to spill. My husband looked back at me with nothing but love in his eyes, took my hand and said:

“Which nervous person do you want to be?”

With seven words he broke through all my tension and made me laugh. So with a heavily edited and marked speech, and power point presentation on my laptop and far too many pdfs to confirm all my booking  that my OCD requires I flew down to Durban on Thursday later afternoon to start my conference on Friday morning.

The third paper for Friday I started, in all seriousness:

“The first time I had to speak about my research I told my now co-writer who was then my study supervisor that I would rather do walk-overs in my underwear in front of everybody than talk about my research”

Their laughter and the general positive atmosphere of the day relaxed me, and I got through my paper. I could even answer all the questions the Shakespeare academics flung at me.

As the group headed towards their cars after day 1 one of the day’s earlier speaker came up to me:

“I must admit, I’ve never seen you dance in your underwear, but you spoke really well today. And I really enjoyed your paper.”

In closing, I just want to give a big thank you to everyone in my life for all the support and messages of encouragement as I tackled this presentation. I've had unwavering support from my husband, parents, brother and study supervisor without whom I probably never would have left the front door.

Wordy Words That *#$%!

I consider myself rather bilingual. I speak English to my mom and Afrikaans to my father. And despite going to school in English, and thinking in English, I speak Afrikaans to my husband and I dream in both languages. Despite discovering a year or so ago when watching old home movies that I actually started speaking Afrikaans before I started speaking English, I am definitely more comfortable in English. This was confirmed this past week.

I received two scripts in two different languages late in the afternoon. As per usual, they were for the next morning. I started with the Afrikaans one first. It felt as if it was translated using google translate. The script was unnecessarily wordy, and the language quite archaic for something that is supposed to be used for television. As Afrikaans is a consonant heavy language, with hard sounds that makes it even worse. I spent about an hour and a half memorizing the Afrikaans scripts. The cursing really helped to get my muscles of articulation going. I couldn't help but wonder of the neighbour we share a wall with could hear me. Saying a few lines, ruffle pages and then curse. In both langues, I might add. 

It took me about 15 minutes to memorise the English scripts.

It happens so often when you receive scripts in two languages. The English script is written, and then someone tries to translate into another language. But you can’t always translate something exactly, word for word. That’s when you end up with messy sentences, that don’t flow naturally, and frustrated actors who pace up and down their homes swearing every few minutes with copy in their hands. At eleven at night. When a script it well written its easy to memorise. It's the badly written pieces of copy that are difficult to memorise. Or when the writer isn't comfortable with the jargon.

The next morning I recited my scripts in the shower. I recited them as I was doing my makeup. I did all my exercises to make sure that my voice was warmed and all my muscles of articulation were ready for this job they had to do. They were going to work hard. I had memorised my scripts. I knew what I was doing. I wasn't swearing so much anymore. 

When I walked into the casting director’s offices I was wired for sound. I was white balanced, and informed that I looked good, and not blue on camera. In the back of my mind I wandered how often I looked blue on camera.

“Ok sweetheart” the American accent informed me “Just give me the first paragraph.” I wasn’t sure if I was insulted or relieved. I knew the whole thing. 

It was good though, as the first take didn’t go particularly well.

But on the second take I nailed it. I knew I nailed, because the casting director told me so. I did two paragraphs, in a fun and energetic, yet classy and charismatic way. Acting is a world of adjectives.

Oh the Afrikaans. The Afrikaans that I had spent so much time on, didn’t go that well. I managed to get through my paragraph, but the end of the second paragraph it got a bit muddled. I spoke with charisma and energy, in a classy and fun way, but the words became more my own and less of the script toward the end. The American didn’t know.

I knew.

She told me it went great.

I said thank you and left.

I messaged my husband from my car, after smiling, thanking the casting director and leaving.

“The English went well. The casting director said I did it really well.”

“The Afrikaans?”

“Not so much”

“There’s always the next audition.”

As per usual, this exchange happened in Afrikaans.

No sick days for the wicked. Or for adjudicators.

“When are you supposed to leave for Witbank?”

The doctor asked at quarter to nine on a Monday morning while sticking a digital thermometer in my ear.

 “An hour ago”

Mauritz had forced me to see my doctor before making the 160km, almost 2 hour drive to Witbank where I would spend the week adjudicating a speech and drama eisteddfod. I had tried not to let him see how sick I was feeling as I got ready to leave, but he knows me too well.

“You have a temperature of 40degrees. You are not driving anywhere”

“I don’t really have a choice. Literally 100s of kids and parents will be put out if I don’t go.”

“I’m worried that you could get delusional from your temperature. You can’t be driving. The people you are working for will just have to understand.”

I stopped arguing with the doctor, fetched my medication and got into the car to drive to Witbank. When you’re an actor there are no sick days. There’s no rescheduling the 100+ kids I had to see that day. And no one who was able to drive me to Witbank. And I had to go. I called my mom:

“Please call me ever 20 minutes or so. Just make sure I still know that I’m on the road.”

My mom wasn’t too worried.

“Even as a child you never convulsed from fever. You’re a fighter. We raised you that way.”

But she called every 20 minutes none the less to make sure that I was ok. To motivate me again for the next stretch and to tell me that I was stronger than I thought I was. Mauritz called as soon as he was out of his morning meeting. My left hand searched blindly for the call button on the steering wheel while my right hand held on to the door as I stuck my head out of the car where I had pulled off to rid myself of the berroca and oats Mauritz had tried to get me to eat before I left. About 15 minutes into my trip and I knew it was going to be a long drive. One of the longest.

As timing would have it, Mauritz phoned for the second time as I as pulled off on a traffic island or an of- ramp and was again throwing up. Clutching the car door so that it didn’t swing open with the passing traffic and desperately trying to keep the remainder of my hair clean. I could hear the concern as he listened to me heave over the blue-tooth speakers. The fever just had to break. But it didn’t.

I was half an hour late for the start of my session that afternoon. But I had booked into my guesthouse, I had fumbled through a shower and I had managed to drive myself all the way there. It was entirely prayer that got me there.

I was there, and I was somewhat ready to work.

The hall was silent as I walked from the back doors past parents and scholars to my table in the front. Everybody had been told that the adjudicator was very ill, but that she was on her way. The ladies in charge of the English speech and drama were visibly relieved at my presence, and just as visibly disconcerted by my pallor.

They had tried to arrange a stand in adjudicator so that I wouldn’t have to work that day. They hadn’t been able to find one, hence their relief when I actually showed up. They had been able to arrange a scribe and someone had run off to the pharmacy to get me every tablet that would break a fever and keep my food and the medication down. I wrapped myself in my blanket and worked until after 8 that evening.

By the time I got back to my room in the guest house, my fever had broken.

The Hootchie-Pants Are Go!

Hot cop look is what the casting director wanted to see, according to the email. I mentally started building up the look in my head. Tight leather pants, a bomber jacket perhaps a pair of aviators. And then I saw the reference image. It was more Lara Croft that hot-cop. Maybe hot-stripper cop. The single reference image for wardrobe I, the discerning thespian, was supposed to wear was a girl in hot pants with boots and the single line “hot cop look”.

It’s still winter. It’s still cold here. I put on skin tight long pants with my boots. I figured most of the women at the audition would go the same way. Just before I left the house I threw a pair of my shortest denim shorts into my bag. Just in case. Just in case the other girls were also in tiny, tiny pants. In the winter.

And they were. I arrived to the audition in long pants, over the knee boots and a tank top underneath my jacket and thick knitted woolen scarf. The other girls were already in their hot pants. One had long pants on and was looking rather skeptically at her legs. I trotted off to the bathroom and put on my tiny shorts.

I grew up in leotards and swimming suits. I spent every afternoon of my childhood in lycra. That means that I really don’t care all that much about wearing skin tight clothing, or exposing some skin when it’s for the purposes of my work. So I’m not shy about wearing the tiny pants. But I also know I don’t have the stereotypical model body, and I would be standing next to models. Who were also wearing tiny shorts. So without bothering to look into the mirror, I had them on and I was out into the waiting area.

I didn’t have to wait long. We were herded in to start the audition.

“Now, I want to see hard-ass, then I want to see fun ass.”

It was a fun audition. More so than most. Especially since I went through to the next round of taped auditions which means I actually stand a chance of getting the role. But a small on the voice in my head had quite a laugh at my master’s degree in drama, when I was only required to shake my booty in hotpants and then look really tough.

Sing Through the Sniffles.

I haven’t had a good run with doctors in general this year. I’ve been MRI’d, gone back for results only to hear the doctor has no results for me, had a huge needle stuck into my knee and then had my knee operated. That was January to February. My physio was basically my closest friend for the first half of the year, and the last time I went to the doctor about a pain in my chest just wanting some anti-inflammatorys I was sent in for emergency blood tests, lung tests and an EKG.

The only thing that feels less like going to the doctor then me right now, is my medical aid. So when I started with a snivel, I decided to dose myself, get some rest and let my body fight it off. This weekend, I think my body stopped fighting. And I went down. As in, closed off half of our flat to keep me warm, wrapped in a blanket with a role of toilet paper down.

Which is all good and well, except for the fact that I have a huge audition next week. A singing audition, for which I need to prep two songs. On the piano. With no voice. Well, a cackling, crackling, toneless kind of voice. Fantastic if I was auditioning to be the cookie monster.

What my piano looks like right now.

I’ve performed sick before. It’s part of the job. I’ve performed on broken toes (I kid you not) and with sinuses so bad the doctor wanted to hospitalize me. You get your cortisone shot, or whatever you need to keep you going for the next few hours and off you go. And no one has more home remedies on how to get over a sore throat, flu, bronchitis, depression or a near death experience than a troupe of actors and a vocal coach. You can worry about recovering the next day. But when I desperately need the time to prepare to actually get the job? Well, that’s an entirely different story.

So the sheet music is spread on the piano, and I’m memorizing words and melodies. I'm marking pauses, ritardandos and working on dynamics. I’m drinking every effervescent tablet I can find in our house, mixing it with honey and apple cider vinegar and hoping that by Wednesday I can get the notes out. If those notes are pitched correctly, that would be a big win!

Spooned

The intimidating “industry” has entered the quiet season. I’ve been quiet. I’ve also been away. I’ve been away to hot weather, humidity, swimming in the ocean at night and walking around at 2 and still feeling hot. I thought we had escaped the heart of winter back in South Africa.

Alas, the week that we arrived home Johannesburg was hit with winter rain (which we never get) and hailstorms (usually exclusively a December/January thing). It was cold. Colder for myself and Mauritz as we covered up our tans. And then the email for an audition comes.

I walked out of my house on Friday at 8:30 for my 9:30 audition. Now when you audition you want to look good. And by good I mean sleek. As sleek as possible. The camera is really an unforgiving friend. and casting directors usually only need seconds to decide, based solely on what you look like, if they want you for a callback or not. So I can’t wear tights under my jeans, or something under my shirt. I don't want extra bumps or lines. The casting director needs to see what I look like. What I do do though, is put on the thickest, warmest coat I can find which simultaneously won’t cause my hair to become static. I forage for a scarf preferably not made of wool (see jacket annotation) and anything that has a zip in the front that won’t ruin my hair or makeup. This means I left my house in a jacket that would protect against the cold and the rain (an unusual combination in Johannesburg) and a scarf around my neck that I could put around my feet while I’m waiting. 

When I arrived at the audition I had one of those golden moments. I picked up a form and before I could start to fill it out I was ushered into the audition space to be briefed on what I had to do. I started taking off my layers as I walked in. Upon arrival I was given a spoon and told I had to pretend to eat something.

I’ve eaten things in auditions before. It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve had to do. But when I looked down at the spoon it was covered in lipstick. Needless to say it wasn’t my shade. I looked up at the casting director. I think there was slight panic in my eyes. And also, I was trying not to shiver.

“Please don't actually put that spoon in your mouth though. Just pretend”

Playing Husband and Wife

As a child Mauritz played in a few adverts. I would always joke that he’d done more TV adverts than I had. Despite being an introvert he’s not a shy person and he’s a lot more comfortable doing presentations in front of people than I am. We also have hours of footage we have yet to edit from his gopro he never leaves home without.

Mauritz was walking next to me when I opened the email attachment on my phone for an audition. They wanted ‘real’ couples for the audition. We actors were asked to bring along our partners for this one. They wanted people who knew each other and had chemistry on screen. A real connection and a sense of being comfortable with each and in each other’s presence. We also had to know the dialogue.

I opened up a second the attachment steeling myself for the memorization I would have to spend the night doing. I was expecting at least a page of dialogue, but was rewarded with two lines. One line for each of us.

I showed Mauritz our two lines.

“So they want to see all of that,” he tapped on the character description “in two lines. About food.”

“Yes. Welcome to my world.” 

So the next day at lunch time I pulled the child star out of retirement to audition with me. I went in early to make sure that we were some of the first couples to audition. I bumped into a friend at the audition who asked if my husband was coming.

“He’s on his way. I came early to make sure he doesn’t have to wait too long. And your husband?”

“Oh. He doesn’t perform. He would just sit motionless in front of the camera without saying a word. A friend of mine is helping me out.”

I suppose the casting directors didn't necessarily think  that actors might date and marry people who are very different to themselves. Opposites attracting and all that.

The casting director was fabulous with the spouses/boyfriends/partners. Or at least she was with mine. Having seen me regularly she patiently guided Mauritz through the ID on camera before we did our two lines, and then explained what improv was before asking us to improvise a conversation.

The most important thing about the audition was how much fun Mauritz had doing the audition with me. I got to do what I love doing with the love of my life. And he enjoyed it too!

Wright Right?

It’s the quiet season. At the very least I’m heading into the quiet season. After back to back auditions one week I suddenly had no auditions for two weeks. There will still be a few auditions in drips and drags but the stream of auditions will probably start up again in September. Which means its time for me to start writing my own work. My Masters is finished, so there are no excuses not to be writing. Creating. Making.

I’ve done a lot of writing in the past. Plays, songs, music for university shows, for shows I’ve written, or just for myself. It had always been rather simple. Either I, or my partner and I, would sit down and create and it would be wonderful. Or after 15 minutes we’d throw in the towel, have a glass of wine and regroup the next day. Usually we’d write what we needed within minutes. We had also learned if we tried to force a melody or a lyric on a bad day it usually wasn’t very good.

I’ve never really needed a creative process before. It was as simple as sitting down and writing what I needed to write. Now I’m a new space physically, emotionally and spouse-ally. My writing partner is an ocean and a continent away. I’ve been stripped down to bare essentials which leaves just me with my life as it is right now. Writing about that has its own unique set of complications.

“I know the storyline. I know what I want to write. The ideas are rattling around in my head but I can’t get them onto paper.”

My mom raised an eyebrow.

“Metaphoric paper. I can’t get it into my word document in a ready-to-export-to-pdf form.”

My mom knowingly waited for me to finish.

“I’m not in a space where I can write. I"m not feeling it.”

“Then write about that. Write about your life. Write about why you feel you can’t write.”

And it worked.

I sat behind my computer last weekend in my husband’s office for hours as he worked on a deadline. I started and stopped. I went on to facebook, twitter, pinterest. Instagram. I stared at the script I started writing months ago, the cursor flickering in anticipation of pressure on keys. I’d written the first scene over and over again. Somewhere between boredome and frustration I opened another document. I just started typing. About anything and everything. 

As those words spilled over the digital page my other stories started to shake loose.