Romance and Periaktoi

Rehearsing Pirates of Penzance brings to mind the first time I ever got involved in theatre, back in 1972, at Tamalpais High School.

I was a junior and infatuated with a celestial beauty who went by the earthly name of Julie Stafford. She often walked by our little clique that hung around the big oak tree in front of Kaiser Hall, usually on her way from drama class to points unknown. She had long wavy dark hair, fair skin and was an actress, which made her a Practically Unobtainable Object of Desire. I suppose I could have simply asked her out, but that never occurred to my addled adolescent brain. From lack of confidence, or just having a romantic screw loose, I decided that the best way to get close to her was to get involved in theatre, too.

At the time, I was part of the on-campus TV production class (KTAM) along with Chuck Cutting, who also built sets for the drama department. That seemed like the best place to start. Thanks to my indulgent father, I knew my way around wood tools, so it was not a stretch for me to offer my help with whatever scenery he was building for the current show. He eagerly agreed and I found myself that afternoon after school in Ruby Scott Auditorium, nailing flats together and stretching muslin for a fall production of Bertolt Brecht’s The Good Woman of Szechuan.

I took to it like a fish to water and, after a couple of set-building sessions, Chuck asked if I would like to be part of the running crew. At the time, I assumed it was an honor. It wasn’t until many years later that I understood how hard it was to find backstage staff for plays. A few days later, the Set Manager dropped out and I suddenly found myself in charge of scene changes.

This was no small show. It featured two periaktoi (large revolving pieces of three-sided scenery) flanking six doors center-stage that each turned on centrally-located pins. Different flats representing different scenes could be then added to or taken off of each of eighteen surfaces. In addition to the scenery itself, there were synchronized slide projectors that showed images on three floating screens above the stage. It was non-stop action for the running crew as flats were added and subtracted. It was also hot backstage, so I took to wearing a purple mesh tank top and cut-off jeans. I’m sure I thought I was pretty cool, but I hope that no photographs exist of me in that questionable outfit. I might have to enter the Witness Protection Program.

During the final scene change, all the set pieces were flipped simultaneously, revealing a beautifully-drawn Chinese dragon that stretched the breadth of the stage, Above that final tableau, a single projection showed a Viet Cong woman aiming an AK-47 directly at the audience (this was, after all, during the Vietnam War). Even with everything I’ve seen in the theatre since then, I’m still blown away by the brilliance and complexity of that set, which was designed by Michael Gough.

Meanwhile, it finally dawned on me that not everyone in the drama department was in every play. Alas, Julie, the object of my teenage affections, was not in this one, so my romantic efforts were wasted. But I didn’t mind, I had a new love, and that was the theatre.

There was also one notable incident during the run of the show that probably sealed the deal. Backstage during performance one night, I finished a scene change and was about to take a breather when I caught sight of one of the actresses making a quick costume change out in the open. It was so unexpected that it took a moment for me to realize that she was al fresco from the waist up. I quickly went back to my set, but the image stuck. Not of a half-naked woman, but of someone so focused on the need to quickly get back on stage that nothing else mattered.

So here it is 38 years later and I’m still at it. Fortunately, the pursuit of art and entertainment has replaced my more prurient interests (mostly), but the draw is the same. I love theatre folk. I love their commitment. I love their lack of inhibitions. Most of all, I love that I’m one of them.