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.

My Brother's Show

Before boyfriends and husbands came to watch my shows and helped me pick out what to wear for auditions there was my brother. Who came to watch my shows and help me pick out what to wear for auditions. He also brought forgotten hairclips and shoes to theatre back doors. Brought home made macaroni and cheese to late night rehearsals and made many late night cups of tea and coffee as either he or I or both of us sat and worked. Last year he started coming into his own right as a performer.

I started going to his shows, arranging flowers for his accompanists and making sure that there was infused water after his exam performance. Last weekend I watched him perform what will be his last performance in his home town before he heads off to America to start his Master’s Degree in Vocal Performance at Missouri State University.

The concerts he held over two weekends were to raise funds for his studies across the ocean and on another continent. We always knew that he would relocate to the Northern hemisphere eventually. He’s wanted to be an opera singer for many years and has dedicated seven years of tertiary education to studying music and the voice. It has always been on the cards, but watching him perform and knowing that he is leaving soon made it so very real.

Theunis Botha will be hitting the American shores in July and I can’t wait to see the first video/live stream/youtube clip of whatever I can get my digitally inclined hands on of him performing there!

It was an honour being a stage-hand, video-coordinator and general gopher for my little brother. It was an honour to be the one sitting in the audience watching him do his thing. And a big thank you to my poor long-suffering husband for doing technical work for another Botha on the stage.

30 Minutes Played 3 Ways.

I’m always about 30 minutes early for an audition. It’s about one third a matter of etiquette, one third fear of traffic and one third trying to control how long I will wait. So I always arrive about 30 minutes early so that I am one of the first few ladies arriving for an audition, and I get to audition and be on my way. Just in case there are a 100 or so other ladies who want to the role. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been to castings where more than 100 hopefuls pitch up for a handful of roles.

In the space of a week I had three auditions. All of which I arrived my usual 30 minutes early for. In the space of a week I went from vintage vixen to exercise girl to young unspecified professional. I also went from waiting an hour and a half  to start auditioning, to being done before the slot was set to start and being number 30 despite being 30 minutes early. You just never know.

Audition One: Vintage Vixen.

After arriving early I was fourth in the queue. I also had a headache which made seeing out of my left eye rather difficult. As I sat waiting with an ever growing number of ladies arriving we inevitably started chatting. It turned out that Number One and I were from the same agency. Number One also offered me a painkiller before my eye started watering. Maurtiz messaged me as I waited, asking me how it was going:

“We are still waiting to start, but I have a headache that’s making me spin.”

“Do I need to pick you up after your audition? Will you be able to drive?”

“I’ll be fine. One of the girls just gave me a pain killer”

“And you’re sure it’s not a roofie?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

After being at the audition venue for two hours Number One went in. I followed shortly. Of course the day that I looked my best I had to crawl around on the floor to audition. As I left the queue of girls still waiting to audition kept on growing.

Audition Two: Exercise Girl.

30 minutes early I was number 30. The venue was crawling with girls in crop tops, hot pants and other over the top exercise gear. Despite the audition brief insisting on shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers. I was huddled into the first group of performers to audition. Thankfully we started early and despite being number 30 I was finished within an hour of the auditions starting.

I had to do an aerobics routine hitting specific emotions as I went. I left sweating. 

Audition Three: Young Unspecified Professional.

Upon arrival I was Number Three of four. The casting director is a lot of fun at this particular casting venue and was showing us clips of what he was watching while we waited to start. The audition didn’t require me to roll around on the floor, or run around the room. I left the casting at 12:10. As I left only 4 more girls had arrived. I called Mauritz as I walked out.

I look nice, I’m not sweaty or dirty and I’m finished for the day. Let’s do lunch.

Finding the Fun!

As actors we get our get our highs and lows. Part of the job is the quiet periods in between the jobs. And when you are an actor auditioning is part of the job. And it does become work sometimes. Like when you receive a full page monologue at five in the afternoon for an audition at nine the next morning and you spend half the night pacing up and down your living room learning technical jargon. Finding the fun can be hard sometimes.

“You need to stop taking it so seriously.”

My mother’s advice while we were on holiday.

“When was the last time you enjoyed an audition?”

Admittedly it had been a while.

“Just have fun with it.”

When I saw Mauritz for lunch after an audition last week he asked me how it went:

“Uhm. I think I blew it, but I actually enjoyed auditioning this time. Which is good.”

During the audition the casting director had asked me if I’d ever seen a kid throw a tantrum in public sphere. The youngest kid in my family is currently in his second year at varsity and only one of my friends has a daughter. She has yet to reach the terrible twos. I froze a little:

“No.”

The guy auditioning with me had. I kicked myself a little for not just saying that I had. But despite this, I had fun. I had auditioned with someone comfortable and professional and we had made the casting director laugh.

A few days after the audition my agent called.

I was first option for the shoot. The audition I thought I had botched apparently hadn't gone as terribly as I thought it had. And the director saw something he wanted to work with in me.

This week I’m waiting for the phone to ring. And for the next audition I’ll focus on acting and finding the joy in what I do.