Charlotte Purser

Well, universe, I have finished the first draft of my play.

Which started as a screenplay. Which turned into a play. Which turned into a one-woman play. Which ended up with some lovely, puppets. Which ended up being about Alzheimer’s. And memory. And the power of love.

I love it. It still needs some (maybe a lot of) work, but the frame is there, the characters are real, and it means something to me, personally. I am drawn to rehearse it, perform it, eventually, to turn this play back into a weird little screenplay.

It is nice to finally have a result for my efforts. So often, as an actor, my time is given to marketing and mailings and auditions that produce no results whatsoever. Or, at least, none that I can see. Yet. And, let me tell you, seeing no results for your hard work is a tough thing to do day in and day out.

But this project, a year in the making, has finally produced something tangible. That I can grab hold of and defend and carry with me. That I can create and make real. That I can play with and mold and reshape and mess with. That I can share and give and restore my artistic self with. It’s a good thing.

A very good thing.

landscapelifescape:

Versailles Gardens, Paradise Island, The Bahamas

How To Stick Out In A Crowd by mastermayhem

(Source: cageofdiamondsandgold)

The sun is shining. The world doesn’t stop. Spring arrives before you know it.

He was my brother too.

But the world moves ahead. We have to find our optimism in the face of great tragedy. And we owe it to ourselves to keep moving ahead. To notice the subtle smell of the tulips. To feel the sunshine hot on our skin. To keep afloat on the dark waters. Somehow.

It’s not fair, none of it. But maybe it’s not about fair or unfair. It makes no sense. But maybe it’s not for me to understand. Maybe it’s for me to pray, to mourn, to grieve, to, eventually, comprehend.

My brother in law died a year ago today. He was a tall man, 6’6”, but a gentle giant. He was funny and generous and kind. He accepted me into the family and started making fun of me right away- just like a real brother would. We may not have grown up together, but for the last eight years, he was my brother, too.

We miss you DJ.

landscapelifescape:

Grob Drienhausen, Wuuppertal, Germany

dream field (by Dyrk.Wyst)

I’m cultivating a 1940’s style for the creation of this webseries or monologue series I am writing. One of my inspirational images is this brilliant picture above by Marta Corcho. It’s the red lipstick, I think, that really transports one’s imagination back to another era…

For this project, I’ve been reading and rereading The War Letters. Hundreds of letters written between my grandparents during World War Two. They tried to write two a day and mostly succeeded. Some of them are mundane-about getting a new dress or the state of the barracks in Texas and Europe- but some of them are lovely and sweet and funny and charming. The more I read of them, the more I learn about the world of that day. It is fascinating to read their love and sense of humor in those antique letters. It’s hard to imagine my formidable matriarch of a grandmother as a college girl and a newlywed, but I am getting a better idea.

Working on this is both empowering and inspiring and I can’t wait to start filming! I’ll keep you posted…

darksilenceinsuburbia:

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Marta Corcho

The last time I saw him was in Surfside Beach, South Carolina. Many of my happiest memories were from those times at the beach with my Granddad and the rest of our family. He was standing on the deck, looking out at our whole family- aunts, uncles, cousins, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren playing in the idyllic orange light of the setting summer sun as the surf rolled in- and he said to me, “There it is. There is my contribution to humanity… My contribution to humanity.”

Monday was Veteran’s Day Observed. It was also the day the world lost a great veteran airplane pilot from World War Two. Today I honor the contribution to humanity that was my grandfather. The man who inspired me to grow tomatoes, find peace with the world around me, and remain calm in the center of a storm.

A man who was raised on a farm in rural North Carolina, whose own father was a preacher, Granddad never lost faith. Even when he was ill and facing a recent surgery. He was always brave, kind, strong, and thoughtful. He loved a good football game and long discussions about the stock market. He loved to grow tomatoes and cucumbers in his backyard. He never killed bugs because, as he told me, “They didn’t want to live any less than I do.” He seemed to find many of the truths early on that the rest of us search our entire lives for.

He didn’t hear very well in the last few years of his life, but I know he understood that I loved and admired him very much. I felt an unspoken kinship with him and his generous, quiet heart. He helped my own father to become who he is and, in doing so, shaped who I am. I am part of his contribution to humanity. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins are, too.

What a contribution it was. Thank you, Granddad, for giving us all so much.

With love.

fleeckr:

summersong by Ragnarly

Edinburgh.

I have just seen one of the most incredible pieces of circus. Or was it dance? Or was it theatre? It was amazing whatever it was.

Knee Deep, by Casus, an Australian circus troupe, blew me away with their bravery, creativity, artistry, and power. It was beautiful to see just what the human body can do/hold/balance upon. It was inspirational. The performers were so amazingly strong and flexible.

I was a child. Open mouthed and in awe. Laughing and clapping with every stunt. But they weren’t just stunts. They were artistic challenges. Physical challenges of the highest merit. I wondered if they had trained as gymnasts before creating this acrobatic dance form which incorporated silks, straps, acrobalance, and tumbling- all with simple yet illustrative lighting and phenomenal soundtrack in an ornate Spiegeltent.

It was beautiful. It made me want to get up and move, too. It made me want to learn, to try, to invent, too. It showed us our potential, physically, which lit me up inside. I imagine that I am still glowing at this moment.

There is nothing more inspirational than a trip to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

I think this David Fleck illustration captures that thought perfectly.

darksilenceinsuburbia:

David Fleck. Voyages over Edinburgh.

In the middle of the crowd and the heat and the noise and the lights from just beyond the bridge. A breeze rolls in. For a moment we are sated.

But even with the breeze, we still couldn’t see them. The police barricades kept us just at 23rd street and 10th ave. With the normally much appreciated High Line Park above- now woefully underappreciated- because it meant that the fireworks we had come so far to see were still just out of reach.

Like a 1950’s censor over the girlie parts of the explosions- our vantage of the high line bridge meant we could only see the extremities. It made no sense why we were being kept without a view of the works but with a lovely view of an empty street- at the end of which was the promise of a yearly fulfillment of national pride and the wonder of exploding artistry in the night sky.

The fireworks went on. The breeze stopped. We tried to find a way past the barricades. So did everyone else. So none of us were let through. We craned our necks. We shifted our feet. We stood on the tiptop of tiptoes and still could only see the truly highest up fireworks. The rest obscured by bridge.

Then one person made it through. A rumor shuddered through the crowd “They are cuffing someone over there!” Then more people began marching through the gap the first created. No one was being handcuffed or arrested.

The police quietly and gently opened the barricade.

And we ran. The entire crowd ran. Skipped. Walked. Cavorted toward the pyrotechnics of our wildest imaginings. Fireworks exploding over head. Laughing. The pure joy of children. Running on a city street on one of the hottest nights of the year. Running to the end of the block. The promised land. 11th avenue.

And what a reward when we got there! There was not only one firework barge shooting off flaming stars and planets into the sky, there were THREE that we could see! All lined up like Rockettes shooting off high kicks in complete unison on the Hudson.

Haha! What a coup! What a view! What a rush! I loved it! Every second was magic.

For a moment we were wild patriots running free toward the fires. Toward the explosions and the noise. Toward denser crowds and sonic booms. Toward that which, by all common wisdom, should be a bit frightening. Running. With a sense of joy and purpose. There was the answer at the end of the street.

And so, for a few minutes, victory was ours. The world belonged to us. And we reveled in it. Drips of revelry slid down our temples. Cameraphones on ‘record’. Capturing for all of youtube and eternity the glory of such a feat. I have never appreciated fireworks so much.

Thank you New York City. What a sweet ease on a Summer’s night.

Happy Fourth of July.

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Lily Greenwood. Summer Butterflies.

This is a really beautiful image. I can imagine the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet taking place under this canopy.

Magic. That’s what it would be.

That’s what I search for in theatre. That is the sense of unrest that keeps my imagination up at night. Beauty. Wonder. And a sense of magic.

What else is there?

As I head to the drawing board for creating my own pieces, I am curious about finding a way to tell these stories in a timeless, universal way. Like a fairy tale- we can all identify with the characters. We know them. We love them. We root for them. They inspire our own searches for wonder. Our own vision quests.

How to do that? Now it is time to search out the real dramatic questions. What pins the story to a plot? What drives the characters? What connects us to them? What compels us to experience their stories?

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Spencer Finch. Moon Dust (Apollo 17), 2009. 150 light fixtures and 417 incandescent bulbs, dimensions variable.

Courtesy of Galerie Nordenhake, Berlin.

Photo: Wolfgang Träger.

Today, I find myself laid up on the couch, swollen ankle propped up on an old folded quilt and some small pillows. (Should be better in a day or two doc says, so, dear reader, don’t worry, I’ll be back to my old tricks in no time at all.)

Falling off a stepladder yesterday had oddly given me some much needed ‘time-off’ to work on the projects nearest to my heart. I’ve been catching up on the ‘War Letters’ that I am inspired to turn into a play. I have managed to narrow it down to my four favorites from each grandparent. Now to intersperse them into a bit of a script…

Since I can’t really walk or do much of anything, I am forced to be focused. This means: no cleaning to distract me, no exercise, no errands to run, no time off of working on this to go to work, only time, and space, to really work. I might even have a first draft by the end of the day…

I find myself surprised at how glad I am to have an opportunity to stay focused. In a world where there is never enough time or money or space, it is ever increasingly difficult to get done what needs to get done.

So, I have been reading their sweet and honest love letters. I am learning about the real people my grandparents were back in the 1940’s. I am falling in love with their slang, their sentimentality, and the fact that they poured their hearts out to each other with complete abandon. Sending their love thousands of miles on either side of an ocean. They wrote letters to each other every single day of the war. There are over five hundred that made it the half century since and I have only managed to read a quarter of that. But that is enough for inspiration. Enough for something beautiful. Something magical. Something uniquely human about this story.

The biggest thing I am learning from reading these letters, is something very, very small.

In life, the strongest memories are usually of an instance. The way an eye twinkled in the the sun as a sudden breeze tossed a lock of hair. The way a dimple would crop up telling us that a smile would follow. The smell of pipe smoke fading across time and a memory of a moment in a house. Saturday nights twirling in a tiny kitchen. The crackle of a radio on. These are the bits within the letters that capture my imagination. Not only because they draw a picture of a specific memory, but because there is something lovely and magical in their retelling of it to each other. As if, somehow, through the distance of space and time, they were able to share a unique and intimate perspective on a moment and how deeply personal and moving even the tiniest of memories could be. But why share that? There is something about finely crafting an intricately detailed story that pulls the reader or listener closer. Perhaps their detailed letters were serving as a link across the miles. A chain. Drawing them together even if they were battlefields, countries, half a world, and an ocean apart.

(Source: liznyc)

Today is the day I will finally plant my upside down tomatoes! I can’t wait! I bought some seedlings a few days ago and they are already growing taller.

My grandfather has had a vegetable garden for as long as I can remember. He’s always grown amazing cucumbers and sometimes tomatoes, too. It seems like his having a garden has cultivated a strong sense of balance, patience, and dedication in his life. Or maybe he’s always had that and the garden just showed it to me…

I have wanted to have my own vegetable garden my whole life. It seemed to me that growing things, making something out of simple dirt and water, would be such a lovely way to exist. Alas, as an adult, I have never had a yard. A lack of a yard will not be an issue today, though, as I will make do in true New York fashion and plant, in my new hanging planter, a wee tomato seedling-which I plan to cultivate into a brilliant red and green bounty of topsy turvy juicy summer goodness.

See? There is a way to achieve the dreams of childhood. One just has to be flexible with the parameters. No yard? No problem.

Wish me luck!

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Charles Ray. Untitled, 2009. Ink on paper, 47 x 31-1/2”.

Collection of the artist; courtesy Matthew Marks Gallery, New York.