The 3 am walk!

After a 1 day of travel, 2 days of rehearsals and 7 solid days of shooting in Cape Town the upcoming day off was something we were all looking forward to. And the chance for me to let down my hair, kick off my dancing shoes and wipe off my makeup. We wrapped for the day quite late that evening, and took the usual half hour trip back to our hotel. I had actually climbed out the combi when one of my co-actors asked our driver what he would be doing that night. He said that he was going to a local hangout, about two blocks from our hotel for a beer. My co-actor asked if I wanted to join them for a cold one:

“I don’t know, I’m really tired, and dirty and I have half of my makeup still on”

“I promise, the moment you want to go back to the hotel I’ll walk you”

I reiterate, and was already out of the vehicle when this exchange took place

“OK”

So off we went, well after midnight already, for our after-work drink.
When we walked into the bar we were greeted with a cheer. Myself and the other Gauteng-er naturally assumed that our local driver was well known in this local drinking hole, assuming that the others still in the bar at 1:30 on Wednesday morning we also dedicated patrons. Our party of three seated ourselves and asked our driver who the people were, he greeted back: “No idea”



On the street where I lived

Naturally by the time we had had our first drink at the local watering hole we were informed that the bar would be closing and that we should kindly vacate the premises. Our party of three, now only starting to relax and enjoy ourselves decided we should move on to a bar that would be open at this ‘early’ hour. So off we headed, from bar 1, two blocks and a doable walking distance from our hotel, to bar 2, a few kilometres from our hotel.

We had an interesting evening, as I suppose as all nights are when they start at 1:30am in the middle of the week. We were exposed to rather odd people. Two of which introduced themselves to me. Being my friendly self I answered back, which was followed by:

“So what do you do?”

“I’m in actress, I’m actually from Gauteng, but I’m in Cape Town for a shoot”

“What are you shooting?

“I’m not allowed to say, I signed a non-disclosure agreement.”

“How old are you?”


I stupidly answered and the two ‘gentleman’ exchanged a knowing look. I eventually caught on:

“I’m not a porn star! I promise”

Shortly after this incident, and another valuable learning lesson I decided to write off to experience, my fellow Johannesburger and I decided that it was time for our night to reach an end. We then realised that we hadn’t seen our driver for some time. We went outside to look for him after a brief scan of the bar yielded nothing. The car was gone.

After some phrases I will not quote on this blog, my fellow actor climbed on the phone to call our transport home. Who didn’t pick up. A few more unquotable phrases and attempted to phone calls later I was graced with the verdict:

“He left us here!”

“So what do we do?”

“I suppose we walk.”

“I don’t even know which direction the hotel is in”

Cold panic was relieved by my companion’s good internal compass and the fact that he had grown up in Cape Town. We headed into a direction which would take us home.

At one stage, walking home in the dark early morning, my bank card and drivers licence removed from my purse and tucked into my bra, so that my actual purse would be a decoy in the case of a mugging, we found ourselves walking past a long…long row of sleeping hobos. I elbowed my companions in the ribs and pointed. He mouthed back “Bergies” which is colloquial Cape Tonian for hobos and we, two soft targets, sprinted up the hill out of sight of the sleeping homeless.

After this potential dual with unconscious beggers I informed my companion that it was time for food if I was going to be walking any further. It had been hours since I had last eaten on set and we still had quite a walk ahead of us. We literally reached a fork in the road, and had to decide between a Caltex and an Engen. Spotting the Woolworths Food sign made up my mind, and we headed off for Engen. Upon reaching the garage’s court I spotted our driver, drunkenly slumped over the steering wheel of his car. I ran up and jerked the door open, which was unsurprising unlocked:
“Not cool dude” was the only response I could muster in my anger and simultaneous relief as my hotel key was in his car. I then grabbed the keys out of the ignition, locked him in his car and went off to buy myself some food. Upon return to the car, with our Woolies midnight meals, we found party member number three missing:
“I’m a better person than he is, so I won’t leave him here” my Joburg companion claimed, and stomped off to the bathroom, which produced number 3. His explanation for leaving us in a club without transport in Cape Town kilometres from our hotel

“Dude, I was hungry”

Throwing the hungry man in the back of the car, we drove him to our hotel, locked him and his keys in the car and headed off to our respective rooms. It had been a long day.

 

When a cookie will do...

My first day on set I was astounded by the enormity of the project. All the people involved, all the equipment, all the security, all the catering. The 2 days before I spent rehearsing and fitting I had only met a section of our cast, and almost none of the crew, some of which were American. As South Africans, working with some American crew members, it seemed we felt the need whenever repeating something that was told to us by an American, to do so in their accent. I think my American accent sounds rather authentic now, thanks to all the practice.

You can usually identity crew members and stunt people by their damaged iPhones. Usually with cracked screens where I crane fell on it, or they dropped it down something or other they were shooting, or as falling on something with the phone still in their pockets. I can say, however, that most of these iPhones with cracked screens work regardless of the various states of disrepair which they are found in. Chatting to the stunt men, in particular was quite interesting. Hearing the politics about how badly South African crews are treated in the international cinema circles (I heard this same sentiment repeated by the Makeup Ladies, who are always good for a gossip, and who all know the models, the photographers and their business). One of the older stunt men thought it was his responsibility to inform myself and one of the younger Johannesburg actresses about things such as when we get Premium days, how much Per Diem we should expect. How to make sure your agent isn’t cheating you out of money and how overtime works. He always had some useful tip about what to look out for. Another the very large (6,8 foot or over 2 meters) stunt men, who is a martial arts expert, would always eat breakfast with his glasses while reading newspaper. It somehow didn’t really fit. I also saw him surreptitiously remove his glasses from some inner lining of his costume during a break while shooting to read a SMS! When I say the stunt people napping on the first morning I realised that in this industry, sleeping on the job is a requirement!

I had always read in various different textbooks, acting tip books and manuals that a required skill for an actor was being able to sleep in almost in position. When you are working on set between 14 and 17 hours a day this comes quite easily. You are so tired that the moment you have the time you pass out quite easily, but not without telling somebody with a radio attached to their belt and an ear piece in their ear where you will be doing exactly that. The studio we were sleeping in had a long, rather dusty bar. Two of my comrades had set up a laptop on the bar to watch series, and we were close enough to the set to see what was happening, but also far enough away to make a little noise. The bar was slightly wider than my hips, and I had been informed that I probably wouldn’t be needed for the next hour or so. This was also subject to immediate change most of the time. As one of the Makeup Ladies put it, the shot lists were ‘Toilet paper money’. Now on set you have these wonderful things called warmers, which are essentially a gown with fleece on the inside, plastic on the outside, a hood and a pocket. We wore these over our costumes to stay warm, as you can imagine. I found a rag somewhere, wiped of the worst of the dust from the bar, tightly wrapped my warmer around me and flipped the hood over my head to protect my costume and hair. I lay down on my back with my arms folded over my chest, like a mummy or a corpse and slept for an hour and half without moving. The Makeup Ladies loved me because I slept so statically that I required no touch-ups after my nap.

Most of my days on set were good days. Even when I was tired, of my costume was hurting me, or I had so stand in heels for hours. Essentially, I was excited all the time, and became more hilarious as I got tired. The second morning, however was perhaps my worst, as we were shooting outside, and the weather conditions were that far from ideal that that they were hindering the shoot. On top of this, shooting had been stopped for about ten minutes while the head of wardrobe fiddled around my but with some costume problem: “We have a rear-carriage problem here” she yelled to roughly 30 male crew members, who were all watching intently as she attempt to remedy the but-problem. After this the paramedic refused to give me a codine based pain killer for a really bad headache that was developing:

“If I give you codine you will become drowsy”

“I know my body, I promise you if I become drowsy you can harvest a kidney”

I received two panados and was required to make do.

The highlight of my morning that day had been lying on the warm tar wrapped tightly in my warmer while someone passed me an oats cookie. I immediately felt better.

As actors, we are quite easily satiated. Give us some tea, give us a cookie and tell us we are doing a good job. Every now and then one of the ‘grown ups’ would descend from behind their laptops to our level, tell us we were looking really pretty, that we were doing a good job, and offer us a cookie. We knew exactly what they were doing, but it worked!

Finding a fit.

I had received confirmation that I would be flying down to Cape Town to shoot an advertisement for an undisclosed client, at an undisclosed location for an undisclosed product (I signed a non-disclosure agreement before I had even left the airport grounds). All I knew was that I had to be ready to leave at short notice. Saturday evening I got a phone call from the production company doing the shoot. The needed my ID number to book a flight for me for Monday morning. Early Monday morning, and I was to pack for “more than a week”. So I did, and Sunday afternoon I received an email with my flight details, for seven am Monday morning.

So at 5:30am Monday morning I was in the check-in queue at Johannesburg International Airport. Two people were standing in front of me, and I heard mention of the product the advertisement would be for, so I assumed they were also flying down for the shoot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my brother and a friend who had come with to drop me off trying to get my attention. Whispering and pointing at the two people ahead of me in that restrained way which was supposed to get solely my attention, but not the people ahead of me. I shrugged.

When I moved to check-in my luggage my friend came up to me. “Did you recognise them?” My friend had placed them, since the original bout of whispering and gesturing, that the pair are both known faces on South Africa and TV and film.

A view from the top

On the flight I met another blonde of (roughly) a similar age sitting next to me, and halfway through we figured out we were going down to work on the same shoot. A trip to bathroom after we landed and we followed the flow of passengers out of the bathroom to the luggage carousel. In our deffence, we had been sitting right at the back end of the plane and were therefore some of the last to get off. We are also both blonde. And after waiting ten minutes, and there being hardly any luggage left on the carousel we realised there might be a problem. As we walked to the office that dealt with luggage queries a large came looked at the both of us:

“Botha and Wasserman?”

“Yes”

“We have your luggage inside. Can I see your tickets”

The only two blondes flying in from Johannesburg had been waiting at the wrong luggage carousel. When we left to find the person picking us up, we were met with three other artists from Johannesburg. Our driver had been rather concerned when we had not exited roughly 15minutes after the other three artists from Johannesburg, who had been sitting closer to the front of the plane.

It didn’t matter however, because I was in Cape Town, being picked up by a driver, and on my way to get booked into the hotel before my costume fitting later that day.

 

Booking into a four-star hotel, a walk up Kloof street and phone call to my mother later I was picked up again to go to my fitting. While in the elevator at the appropriate venue my agent called me:

 

“The production company needs your ID number so that they can book you a flight to Cape Town”

“I’m in Cape Town already, about to go to a fitting”

“Well when they said you had to be ready to travel at short notice they weren’t kidding”

 The costume fitting was interesting.  I was forced into a too-small costume, which wasn’t quite symmetrical. I was assured that another, better fitting costume would be created for me, as they wanted me to feel comfortable. I nearly kissed the wardrobe lady. I also met some of the other girls that would be working with me. I was the only girl from Johannesburg in our group. I was also, as I put it, the curviest of the girls, some of them being full-time models, and such. When the client and director came to view us I at first felt very uncomfortable. About ten people walked into what had originally been a safe space, with all of us feeling uncomfortable in the costumes. And all ten people were looking at each of us rather intensely. And then I decidedly made a mind shift. When these people are scrutinizing every part of you and they aren’t scrutinizing you. They are looking at how you look in the outfit, trying to place the entire look into the context of what they are shooting. It’s not about you per say. It’s about the package, and the moment I told myself this I started to relax, and felt a little less like a cow at auction.

I think the biggest thing I learned during this shoot, besides actually working on something which was, in my opinion, rather high budget, was the changes in attitude I need to take. And this, on my first day in Cape Town, was the first one I needed to make if I’m going to survive this path that I’m on.

Prayer and Waiting

In my limited experience, so far, I seem to get the telephone, the call back, or the part only once I have given up hope of not actually getting the role. I work through my five stages of grief, I, decide I will try again next time, and the moment I find peace and strength renewed my cell phone rings and I am filled with disbelief all over again.

My mom had a feeling when this specific process had started for me. She had prayed for something for me, something to help with the start of my production company, and a few days later I had phoned with the news of a call back for a potentially large and important job. She got every prayer chain and Bible study group that she knew of praying for me. I prayed for this work. Each time I prayed to make it through the next round.

I did the second call back, and my agent called to ask about my measurements. I sent them. I waited. She emailed me again, claiming that they wanted headshots. I sent them, and waited. Then my agent emailed me and said that final decisions for casting would be made either Wednesday afternoon or Thursday morning. Wednesday afternoon came. I walked out of the buildings of the tertiary institutions were I am lecturing temporarily to find my car stolen and for a few moments all thoughts of impending phone calls and would-be trips to Cape Town were expunged with a surprising sense of loss, frustration and a feeling of absolute powerlessness. Even the consolation of a celebrity who happened upon my crying in the buildings foyer didn’t bring my career to mind. It was only when a friend asked me later the day if I had gotten the job that it returned unbidden to my mind and the sense of loss was stilled slightly with the add-on of “or Thursday morning”.

That night, crying, I prayed for confirmation. For work.

By 12 on Thursday my faith in myself started to waver. I started consoling myself, preparing myself for the blow, as did a friend of mine. By 14:30 my self control caved into a sea of disappointment and I emailed my agent to hear if anything had been heard, confirmed or denied.

She forwarded and email to me apologising and claiming that she had been out of the office and without my details:

“Please hold a HOT first pencil on Chandré Bo”

I still don’t know exactly what that means, but it gave me hope. The email continued to explain shoot dates, as well as inquiring about the status of my driver’s licence.

I had hope again. I had a lot of hope.

Friday morning came and went. The hope started fading again. And I realised that even if I didn’t get the job I would OK. I would go to the next audition knowing that I nearly made it. And maybe this time I would actually make it. Maybe this time…

I had spoken to my mom earlier that morning and she had started consoling. Started laying the ground work in case I didn’t get the job. I case I didn’t get to go to Cape Town and get some perspective on my theft. In case she found her daughter in a puddle of tears and drowned dreams.

And then, at 1:30 my cell phone rang.

Confirmation. My agent had my at congratulations and I was skipping around the campus’s court yard with my cell phone plastered to my ears as my agent gave through more details, names of people who would contact me and flight plans.

I called my mom. I was still going to tease her, pretend that I had got a rejection and then let her know the good news. When the answered the phone I could hear the trepidation in her voice, as well, as well as the disappointment for me.

“Is it good or bad news”

I didn’t have the heart. She was completely joined with my in this one:

“I got it. I’m going to Cape Town!”

Oh Hat! Measure me!

Every time my cell phone made a sound this week I hoped it was an email, or call or a sms from my director. Every time I felt the vibration in my pocket, or heard my cell phone I rang I hoped I would be receiving the confirmation that I will be leaving for Cape Town next week. My hopes were ignited when I received a phone call eatly Monday morning from my agent’s wife. I didn’t recognize the number on my screen as my cell rang, so I answered slightly apprehensively. She told me that she couldn’t confirm anything, but that the wardrobe department wanted my sizes. I told her the sizesI knew, and asked if she wanted anything more specific? It's really hard giving people sizes, because they tend to be different from store to store. I tend be one size in Woolies, and a larger size in Mr Price (which is rather bad for my self esteem!). She said she would email me if there was anything else. The next day I received another email. They were rather specific in the measurements that they wanted from me: My hate size, my glove size, my inseam, my waist, my sleeve, my suite size, my neck, my height and my weight.

I panicked. I do not own a measuring tape, and who knows what sizes and hat gloves work in. And don’t think my inseam has ever been measured. My friend decided that I would be measured with a piece of string and a ruler. We asked around and found a colleague with a ruler. Now we were left with the conundrum of finding a piece of string that would be long enough to go around my waist. And something that didn’t stretch so that my measurements would be accurate. My friend and I stopped the telephone cord lying across the office floor. “Isn’t there a spare telephone cord around here somewhere?”

I had found the said cord while cleaning out the cupboard of the lecturer whose position I would temporarily be filling in for while she was on leave. I fished it out of a box of odds and ends, and we started the process. After measuring my waist we were slightly stumped. I googled: “How to measure glove sizes”. Google quickly provided me with a site, complete with a table and diagram, showing me how to measure my hands across the knuckle, and which size corresponded to the circumference of your knuckles. My 15cm knuckles meant I was a size Small. Then we did the hat size. “How to measure hat size”. I was again provided with instruction, around the head, three quarters of an inch above the ear. I still do not know how much an inch is, as I grew up using the metric system. I used the converter on my cell phone to figure out roughly how many centimetres that would be. My friend measure my head, we looked up the appropriate size on the table, and we documented it (I am still not sure exactly how hat sizes work). This system of google and measure was used to measure my neck, inseam and sleeve as well. The sleeve was interesting, due to the email not exactly being specific as to what part of the sleeve they needed, so with thanks to google we measured from the middle of my back to my shoulder, my shoulder to my wrist and around my shoulder its self. I filled in my height, and my…uhm… weight. Let’s be honest, all of us ladies type in what we hope to be by the specific date, not what we are at the moment.

The very specific email was sent off. My measurements as accurate as a telephone cord and a ruler could do it. My agent was quite sure I’d get the job. Now I’m praying I’ll get the call!

Linking to Los Angeles Baby!

I survived the first call backs. I choreographed two sets of eight as I was told… and arrived more than on time for my timeslot. I danced, in frame with another girl, who danced her own choreography and nearly removed my head with a fan kick, but I kept my pose. I went out feeling that I had done well, glad that I had made the call backs, but not necessarily expecting anything more.

And then my cellphone ringed with my agents name across the screen…

“They are having second call backs this Friday evening. I’ll send you an email with your time slot”

Another round and I was still going strong.

According to the email I received We would be working with an American choreographer, and the apologetic email asked me to take specific notice of the change of venue, as the auditions would be held at a video conference centre so that the director in Los Angeles would be able to see us live…

It was Tuesday, video-linked call back would be on Friday. The diet was on. And I started to pray. I prayed constantly, and asked anyone who would listen to pray. I watched the Fosse based videos which were linked to me via email, I memorised the poses. I read up on Fosse. I watched Cabaret…again. I was an expert on the style, because the email told us we should be. I arrived at the audition on Friday evening and the tall American choreographer told us that they had ditched the Fosse idea and would go more typically Show Girl. Hmmmmmmm.

Matt was our American choreographer in South Africa teaching us the steps that we would be performing for the director. We 13 dancers assembled with all the glory we could muster in hot pants and fish net stockings, over the top make up and push up bras. We were ready. We also learned that there were 18 other hopeful Show Girls in Cape Town the day before. The odds doubled for getting one of the 7 shows, and the audition was on.

 The choreographer, who I am assuming is from ‘The South’  due to his excessive, and simultaneously sweet, use of the word ‘you’ll’. He punctuated his sentences with this word, and had all of us in the palm of his hand the moment he did the first step-cross-step (starting on the right leg you’ll). He even answered us with an Afrikaans phrase, and told us with grate glee how he had been stopped in a grocery shop in South Africa and women had a roughly 5 minute long conversation with him in Afrikaans: “She didn’t give me the opportunity to interject”.  He said all he did was smile when she smiled, and frown when she frowned and she moved on, none the wiser. Another phrase I picked up, and which I will forever repeat in a Southern American accent is “Wrong and strong you’ll”.

After he said it the first time, he felt the need to explain:

“If you make a mistake, just keep on going. Do it like everybody else is making a mistake. Wrong and strong. That’s what my dance teacher used to say”.  

I had often heard a similar sentiment from my mother, and had a warm, if somewhat theoretically incorrect feeling of universality and comradery with the tall tattooed American dancer.

 When we had an opportunity for break myself, and two other girls who were desperate for some of the powder in my car’s boot so as not to shine like glitter on the camera quickly ran to my car. One of their boyfriends also followed “Oh my gosh, the choreographer is so hot” the attached girl said. Her boyfriend was not impressed, but she quickly reassured him that the said choreographer was gay. When we returned to the room we were practicing in the tension was practically tangible. We all wanted this. Badly.

I repeated the steps ad nauseum over and over. In my head, doing it small, doing it big. All the while waiting for my turn in front of the camera. And before I knew it we were going in in groups of threes.

I was with two other dancers, whose faces were now familiar, and who I knew, in a weird sort of way although I didn’t specifically know their names, or had been introduced. We ran in the same circles, we were all feeling the same thing. We all hoped we would get and we all knew that not everybody could. We had bonded further than knowledge of first names, and we were in. Three very large TV screens were in the front of the room. On the centre screen sat a man in his late twenties, with long unruly hair and a cap on his head. This was the director, in Los Angeles. On the other two screen we could see ourselves. We introduced ourselves, we said what we did for a living and then we danced. For a second, just before the music started I felt sick. For a split second before I ripped myself out of it, put on my show girl smile and did the routine the best way I could. The worst mistake one could have made was to look at yourself on the screen. The moment I did, and I saw myself on a different side to what I felt I was I didn’t know which side was left or right, so I looked the director straight in his digital eye and did my best show girl smile. The audition was on.

 I phoned my mom during the hour ride back home from Pretoria. If nothing else, I had auditioned for an American director that day. I was in the second round of call backs.  I was considered. I was there.

And then my cell ringed today, and my agent told me nothing is confirmed yet, but they want my sizes for wardrobe…

When Divas don't call it.

I ended the previous blog entry on a meaningful ellipse...  As I was going on holiday that very Monday morning for a week I was assuming that I wouldn’t have much to post about this Monday . I assumed that I would just blog about the second audition I had had that week. I assumed incorrectly.

To get back to what I was intending to blog about today, the auditions I had attended now a week and a half ago were spread over two days. On the Thursday I did the cowgirl audition. On the Friday I auditioned to be a showgirl for the same advert. At least here they were choosing seven girls, and not just one. Any amount more than one usually gives one a lot of hope. So I headed off to the shows girls audition with a lot of optimism. Which was later dashed on on a diva's ego.

I found the venue for this audition, which was different to the first due to the nature of the audition, and the need for the appropriate floor which was not carpeted. When we had arrived we were told to get ourselves into groups of four. They started playing “And all that jazz” from the musical Chicago and we were told to create choreography in our groups of four. I stumbled into a group of three, and another dancer I didn’t know, named Tanya, made us four. Now, Tanya seemed very sure of herself, and in control. In short, rather dictating in this process of creating choreography for an audition all of us wanted. And wanted badly considering the percentage we would be getting for royalties. Now, to look good, one usually supports each other so that the entire group looks good. That’s what dancers do. Apparantly. 

When the groups started performing for the camera the casting agent suddenly announced to all that she required high kicks in our routine. It would have been quite useful to know this before the time so we could have choreographed them in. We quickly talked within the group and a hasty decision was made to work in the kicks at the end. We listened to the music to see how this might fit. Tanya had a problem with the timing. Tanya also had a problem with how long we should wait to start and where we should all be standing. It was handled. We listened as the next group performed to make sure everything would fit in with the music. We weren’t told precisely how many bars to choreograph, so we finished when our time to choreograph was finished. Tanya wanted to add more choreography. The other three of our quartet all put our T-barred feet down firmly. “Let’s rather to what we have well, then do a long piece which is ineffective and gets sloppy toward the end”.

Tanya agreed. Verbally.

We took our turn in front of the camera. The smiles and showmanship which were drilled into me from years of performing and experience came through, although the spacing was off I kept up with the decided routine, and then we hit the final pose, which I kept for a moment as is customary. I was on the end, looking away from the group, when I recovered Miss Tanya was soloing away, the other two were hitting poses, I was still standing still.

“Oh heck” was all I thought before I my body took over automatically and started hitting poses until the casting director finished the music. It felt like forever, but couldn’t have been more than 3 counts of 8. Miss Tanya finished her solo in the centre of the group striking a pose on the floor. I contained my rage, as invisibly as I could. Picked up my things with the rest of the quartet and headed for the exit. I was furious. I felt like an idiot.

As I walked out Tanya greeted, rather cheerfully and obviously chuffed with herself, having shown herself off as she did and headed out. The other two girls of our quartet looked at meaningfully, and one released a comment: “I can’t believe she did that. She literally pushed me out of the way”

The first thing I think I felt was relief. Relief that I hadn’t missed something, and relief that I wasn’t the only one who thought that the diva moment was fiercely inappropriate. And as usually happened, once an emotion is shared somewhere the logic kicks in.

“They won’t pick her. The casting agent will realise that we were supposed to finish and that she just carried on to upstage us. They won’t pick. She’s acting like a diva and she doesn’t even have the role yet. There’s no way they will take her” I said firmly, and hoped even harder. The other two laughed and we melted into conversation about how stupid we felt when we realised what was happening, how we all switched to auto pilot and how we all regretted it, and that next time we would walk off and let that person look like the idiot they were being.

Despite my own words, and the change in mood I was needless to say not exactly over-confident in my performance or my chances after the misadventure with Tanya. Hence my surprise when I say my agent’s name flashing on my phone as it wringed on Tuesday afternoon as I sat next to the pool at Sun City. My agent usually only calls when there’s big news. I dared to hope slightly.

“You have a call back. Its tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the email with specific information now. You need to choreograph two sets of eight”

I didn’t even need to wonder. I was definitely not receiving a call back for the damsel cowboy if I had to choreograph two sets of eight. I scoured the email with all the other names of the girls who had received call backs for the audition. There was no 'Tanya' on the list.

Heeeeeeeeeeeee Haaaaaaaa!!!!!

I received one of those late night emails from my agent. I had audition coming up for a major brand. I read through the audition brief attached to the email. It was to be in Rosebank, at three in the afternoon. There appeared to be two roles which I would be suited to, over two afternoons. The first was for a role entitled “Damsel cowboy”. The role required the actress to be able to ride a horse. Check. The other role which would suite for me was for a group of showgirls. The actresses for this role required dancing experience. Check.

So I did my usual pre-audition preparation, but this time would be the first time that I would be taking the Gautrain to an audition. I left my flat in the rain (trying my best to stop my hair from getting wet), dressed in appropriate cowboy attire and hat, and hopped on a train to Rosebank. When I arrived the wind all but blew me off my feet, nearly taking my dress with it. When the hail starting pelting my umbrella I was even more grateful for the train and that I had not been driving in the torrential rain, thunder and hail. After leaving the station my curls were blown into a near afro, and any thoughts of control which I might have had over my hair was fiction. But there was no time for taming, or turning back.

I eventually found where I had to be and got my now very usual form and number sticker. My photo was taken and I waited for my turn to go into the camera room. As per usual, I headed in with an always changing number of other hopefuls, and told what to do. We all did the usual name, age, etc. But what made this one different was that I was asked, on camera about firstly my acting experience, and secondly my horse riding experience. We were also told quite explicitly not to lie about our horse riding experience. This made complete sense to me, as we had to ride a horse in the advert.

I was then told, to pretend I was on a horse, being chased down by various other groups, and I was trying to get my horse to faster and faster. I comited to the rolethat I had to play. It was worth definitly worth the paycheck. Cowboy hat, boots and all I did the 'Heeehaaas', I motivated that horse, and I chased down my imaginry goal on my imaginary horse! This, however, was nothing compared to the showgirl auditions I would be facing the very next day…

A dancer's worth: Horton!

This past weekend I attended a dance workshop, specifically on the work of a practitioner named Horton. A physical theatre director I had worked under had done Horton work with the facilitator of the course advertised on my facebook page, and we had some of these exercises in our rehearsals. I thought it would be good to learn more about the style so I decided it would attend. I also knew that doing Horton work is quite hectic on the body. I expected to be stiff today. I didn’t expect that getting myself out of bed would be a challenge.

As I entered the building on the first day I didn’t know anyone. Attending courses close to where I grew up I would always know some of the people from competing against them, or from attending courses together over a period of years. A friend who wanted to attend the course with me couldn’t anymore, so I dragged my 24 your old self to a class that incorporated sixteen year olds. A part of me was quite scared that I would be the only ‘adult’ in the workshop, and that the rest of the dancers would all be school going age and I would end up feeling like a granny in a jumping castle. I arrived, and a few minutes later another lady arrived, in dancing gear looking slightly sheepish walked in. She was definitely not sixteen. We struck up a conversation, and I was very thankful to learn that she was 30, and a friend of hers who was also above 25 would also be attending! I was also thankful to learn that she felt exactly the same way I did!

The course consisted of four sections over two days: Two sessions of Horton training and two session of contemporary dance using these principles. After the first session I noticed that I had danced the nail polish right off my newly painted toenails. After the second session I noticed I had danced the skin off parts of my feet. By the morning of the second session I had a few well developed bruises. As I walked in to start day two I smiled at the now familiar faces. Although not knowing any of the names of the other girls we all shared a common experience. The stiff muscles which we all tried to get moving before we started the morning session. And the knowledge that the worse was still to come!

Stiff muscles, bruises and grazes aside, I had a good time. And as with all sessions of hard work, the moments of release from the extreme focus required for the exercises was even greater due to the intensity of the work we were doing. One of the most memorable moments was during the last fifteen minutes of the last session on Sunday afternoon. We were doing a series of strenuous  jumps which required one to jump, lifting your legs into a double stag. That is, one leg bent and raised in front of your body and the other bent and raised behind you while in midair. As soon as you landed out of this jump you jumped again switching legs. Across the length of a school hall. Needless to say it’s not exactly easy, and the first round ended in mostly confusion and some laughter as we tried to get height in the jumps while getting the correct placing and to actually keep moving the entire length of the floor. The facilitator said we should all concentrate on raising the front leg and the back leg would get into the correct position naturally and we tried again. On round two one of the younger girls in the group gave up on this and skipped across the hall, raising her front leg beautifully none the less, but completely forgetting that the back leg also had to work. The fascilitator turned around, holding her stomach to laugh. When she could speak again through giggles: “She looked like a fairy!”