PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

Too Much Light Is Dead: Long Live The Neo-Futurists, Part II.

posted in: Art, Chicago, Family, Paean, Rant 11
Ensemble photograph of the Neo-Futurists c. 2009. That's me in the scarf — and Greg in green.) Photo: Andrew Collings Photography, Inc.
Ensemble photograph of the Neo-Futurists c. 2009. That’s me in the scarf — and Greg in green.) Photo: Andrew Collings Photography, Inc.

 

If you didn’t read yesterday’s post, definitely catch up first.

Okay, you back? Good. Did you change your hair? You look great. Here’s a tray of light refreshments and a beverage. Where was I? Ah, yes. Hand me the pecans. Okay.

In 2011, the Neo-Futurists suspended Greg from the company. Put more simply: We kicked him out. Remember, this person’s behavior over the decades — decades! — had been destructive and poisonous, but it hit a crisis point that year (and if you want details, just google “neo-futurist greg allen tml closing” and you’ll get all the news stories and at least some of the awful details.) Calmly, firmly, the ensemble informed Greg that he was not allowed to be in Too Much Light for awhile and that if he wanted to play again, he would need to petition the ensemble to come back and then be a better person. He never petitioned.

The show went on. I went “inactive” in 2012 because of Quilty and Love of Quilting, a divorce, more health problems, a move downtown, etc. And while the show was going on and I was doing my thing, it appears that Greg was plotting revenge. This is my theory. This is only speculation. You come to your own conclusions when I tell you what happened next.

One month ago, the Neo-Futurists got a surprise. After being in negotiations with the company about how much they would pay him for the rights to perform Too Much Light, Greg went quiet — and then came a press release.

In the press release, Greg said that he was pulling the rights for the Neos to perform Too Much Light after 28 years running because of Donald Trump. If you’re scratching your head, here are a couple highlights from the press release:

Faced with the pending inauguration of Donald J. Trump, Allen has decided to let the existing Chicago Neo-Futurists’ license come to an end so that he can rebrand the show with a new diverse ensemble that embraces a specifically socially activist mission.”

“[The new Too Much Light ensemble] will be comprised entirely of people of color, LBTQ+, artist/activist women, and other disenfranchised voices in order to combat the tyranny of censorship and oppression.”

“I could no longer stand by and let my most effective artistic vehicle be anything but a machine to fight Fascism.” [Greg quote.]

Oh, the trouble with this. There are almost too many problems to list. But let’s try!

  1. The current Neo-Futurist ensemble is made up of all kinds of folks, many of whom fit the description of the “new diverse” company he wants to build. So this can’t be his main goal.
  2. By doing this with no warning, Greg instantly put around 12 hard-working, low-paid-but-paid artists out of work. How is this being visionary?
  3. There is a New York City company and a San Francisco company, both of which also pay Greg to perform Too Much Light. He did not yank the show from them, only from Chicago. Interesting.
  4. The Neos have always done interesting, highly-political work — and there were a variety of political opinions expressed on the stage, at least when I was around. And all kinds of people who fell on different places on the political spectrum came to the show. To make an ensemble that exclusively makes theater about one perspective on Trump/his cohort, this is not going to create conversation.  This isn’t even going to sell tickets. I hope Greg is shopping for choir robes for his new, uber-progressive ensemble, because whatever show they make is going to be a lot of preaching to the choir.

So that’s all the bad stuff. Guess what? There’s good stuff.

The good stuff is that the Neos have been working so, so hard to get a new show up in the next few weeks. They’ve been raising money and have almost reached their goal of $50k. (I wouldn’t be a good Neo if I didn’t ask you to consider putting a buck or two in the hat; it’s easy and you’ll feel good knowing you’re…fighting fascism?)

And the other amazing thing is that when the news came out, all the alumni from 28 years of Too Much Light and the Neos, we circled the wagons, we lit the flares, we came together in support of the current ensemble and we’re doing a big benefit show for them on New Year’s Day. It’s the most extraordinary thing. You can’t get tickets because they sold out in five hours; I posted a note on Facebook and within minutes, it was too late. There are dozens of Neos, some coming from far away, to be in the show and be together, to remember, to play, to laugh, to cry. All that stuff.

We had a rehearsal on Tuesday and will rehearse all day Sunday leading up to the double-feature that begins at 7 p.m. The oversold house and the enormous cast, we will be proof that you can’t stop art — you can’t even contain it, can’t make it hold still.

By the way: New York and San Francisco? They quit. After hearing about all this, they didn’t opt to renew their rights to do Too Much Light. They’re standing with Chicago. Greg’s plan backfired.

As I said yesterday, being part of that company and being lucky enough to get to do TML for those years was like finishing school for my soul. I worked with people so talented it was almost embarrassing. We were rock stars. We were friends. The best art I’ve ever seen or made for the stage was the art I saw or made for Too Much Light and the Neos.

Too Much Light is dead. Long live the Neo-Futurists.

 

Too Much Light Is Dead: Long Live The Neo-Futurists, Part I.

posted in: Art, Chicago, Family, Plays, Rant 11
Jumping for numbers. I think that's Kurt. Hi, Kurt! Photo: Chicago Neo-Futurists.
Jumping for numbers in Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind. I think that’s Kurt. Hi, Kurt! Photo: Neo-Futurists.

 

Many people who read the ol’ PG started coming around because we share an interest in quilting. You saw me on TV or online and poked around and hey, look: blog. You know by now I’m glad you’re here.

But there are other readers. The survey this summer (which you can still take if there’s nothing good on TV) showed me a goodly portion of people are here because we came in contact with each other via the world of Chicago performance. In 13-ish years in Chicago I’ve logged untold hours as a performance poet, I do a lot of “live lit” events around the city, and from 2006-2012, I was an active ensemble member of a theater company called the Neo-Futurists.

When I am dying — hopefully a long time from now, on a divan with comfy pillows, lipstick perfect —  I will look back on my life and see plainly at that time — just I do now — that being a Neo-Futurist was one of the most gratifying and soul-affirming experiences of my time on Earth. More on that later.

Tonight, I want to tell you what’s going on with that company right now, for there is news. I aim to share the story so that anyone reading this blog, whether they’re Quilt Camp people or Chicago Performance Camp people, will come along. (And both of those things need to be actual camps.)

The Neo-Futurist ensemble was formed 28 years ago, back in 1988. The group became famous for a show called “Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind: 30 Plays In 60 Minutes.” I’m not going to describe the show too much here, except to say that yes, there were 30 plays, we only had 60 minutes in which to perform them, the ensemble wrote all the plays and the show changed every week. It was not improv (go to Second City for that), and the short pieces were always true to our lives in some way.

This is because the aesthetic, or guiding principle, for the Neos was — and still is — to never pretend to be something we’re not or be somewhere we aren’t. So if I do a cheerleading routine with two other girls in Too Much Light about how I had my colon removed and how it really hurt, the audience at a Neo show knows that what I’m talking about really did happen. (I did a lot of plays about my colon circa 2011 but I never did a cheerleading routine. That would’ve been awesome.)

The one other thing to know about Too Much Light is that it was a phenomenal success. There were three performances every weekend; people would line up around the block to get in to see this thing. Our 120-ish seat theater would sell out most nights. Too Much Light became the longest-running show in Chicago theater history. Twenty-eight years that show ran.

Until it ended, very abruptly, at the beginning of this month. Which brings me to the meat of my tale.

Though the show changed every single week, the 30 plays/60 minutes format was created by a man named Greg Allen. Greg founded the company and owns the trademark and copyright to Too Much Light and the concept of “30 Plays in 60 Minutes.” Every year for a lot of years, the company would pay Greg for the rights to keep doing the show.

This was a terrible situation for the company to be in. The “rights thing” became a rug Greg could whip out from under us at any time. It didn’t have to be that way, but it was.

This is because Greg wanted it that way. A corrosive figure who behaved abominably within the ensemble, Greg abused his position of power in the company as Founding Director over and over again for years in ways too numerous and varied to detail, positioning himself for personal gain (e.g., teaching opportunities, lecture gigs, etc.) while the ensemble made the art and ran the day-to-day operations of the theater. His misdeed are legendary; every ensemble member since the company started has horror stories. He antagonized or manipulated the board of directors; he harassed ensemble members; he offended everyone; he hurt people. My grandmother would have called him “a real rat fink.” My grandmother would not like to hear what I call him.

You needn’t worry that I’m getting petty or assassinating his character: This has all been corroborated in the papers over the past month. The Tribune, the Sun-Times, the Chicago Reader, TimeOut Chicago, they’ve all covered this story because in Chicago, it’s pretty big news, what Greg did. Wanna know what he did?

Greg used the election of Donald Trump as an excuse to pull the rights to Too Much Light.

Yep.

For the rest of the despicable story, for more juicy details, for my best attempt at an explanation of this foolish person’s behavior, and for a whole bunch of beautiful silver linings, tune in tomorrow, my gorgeous ones.

And Mom Played Pac-Man: PaperGirl Gold, c. 2006.

posted in: Day In The Life 7
This is what we call "the good old days." Image: Wikipedia.
This is what we call “the good old days.” Image: Wikipedia.

 

My friends Mark and Netta sent me their box of Christmas goodies this year as they do every year. The pecans! The fudge! The humanity! Mark and Netta, you have some good mail coming your way as a token of my appreciation, though I should turn you over to the police because that fudge should be illegal and those fresh Florida pecans are criminal. You should be in jail for what you’ve done, but don’t worry: I’ll make sure you get out before December next year so you can send more.

Mark and Netta, you’re my mind tonight not just because I have pecan dust on my front but because you are some of my most-cherished, loyal-est readers, with me from the start, almost exactly ten years ago (!) when I began writing this blog. For those looking for the entries from 2006, for now, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.* When I switched servers at one point, all the old stuff went away — except that I have everything in hard copy from 2006-2012, hurray! It’s all in a big, red binder.

Tonight I pulled the binder out to see what was going on 10 years ago on PaperGirl — and I hit pure gold.

This is because when Liberty was here to visit, I thought very deeply about the cell phone thing with the kids these days. The girl is on her phone a lot — and I don’t even think she uses it as much as a lot of kids (or adults, for that matter) use theirs. I really struggled with the whole thing, though. I really, really hate it when people have headphones in while they’re with other people. What is that about? And I despair that for so many people, when there is the slightest lull in a conversation, this is a cue to pull out a device and start flicking through whatever. Can you just be for two seconds? Can you wait?

But I use my phone. Not as much as many 12-year-olds, but way more than some people. I was just on the train for 35 minutes coming from the north side of the city; you better believe I was listening to music and scrolling through Instagram. But I was alone, on a commute. That’s okay, right? Or should I just be bored and let my mind wander because that’s a good thing to do? It’s complicated.

In light of all this, my entry for December 27th, 2006 is of particular interest.** Mom, I’m sorry, but I gotta throw you and this adorable story under the bus. Enjoy!

My mother told us all a secret tonight. 

We were in the middle of a particularly hot round of Apples To Apples with family friends, talking about games of all kinds: board games, card games, electronic games, mind games, dating games, etc. Pac-Man was mentioned as a favorite early video game. 

“Remember that Pac-Man game you all got for Christmas back on the farm?” Mom said, looking mischievous. Biccy and I nodded, wistful.

The game she was talking about was a self-contained, yellow plastic bubble device shaped like a Pac-Man. There was a small screen and a little console below that with up, down, and sideways buttons. There was a button and an on/off button and that was about it. The game was Pac-Man. It was only Pac-Man. The ghosts gave chase, the Power Pellets got chomped, the electronic beeps sounded out the Pac-Man theme over and over and over again. Nothing was worse than watching the screen slowly fade, signaling the death of the four C-batteries required to run the thing, which I think was produced by Texas Instruments. Everything electronic in the 1980s was produced by Texas Instruments. 

Mom went on: “I played that thing for weeks before I gave it to you. I would stay up at night for hours, secretly mastering Pac-Man.” 

My sister and I looked at our mom like she was some weirdo woman who had just walked in off the street to play Apples To Apples with us and eat our Royal Dansk cookies. 

“And you know,” my mom said, “several of my friends revealed to me that they did it, too. Marty and Jan gave that Pac-Man game to their kids only after getting sick of it themselves. Hours and hours they said they played, after the kids went to bed.” 

Mom popped a Hershey’s Kiss into her mouth with a satisfied smile. She and her friends had gotten away with something. 

I’m still shocked. Mom was so anti-videogame! She still is. She resented my grandpa for years after he surreptitiously purchased a Nintendo for us, and here it comes out that she was fiending for power pellets long before we were. 

And then she went and waxed everyone at Apples To Apples. My mother, she is complex.

*I plan to make these available. Stay tuned.
**I’m a better writer today than I was 10 years ago. I’ve got a long way to go, but guess what? It appears that if you do something a lot over the course of 10 years, you get better at it.

An Ice-Skater Is Born.

posted in: Day In The Life, Family 9
Woman ice skating, 1930. Photo: Wikipedia.
Woman ice skating, 1930. Photo: Wikipedia.

 

Today was the last day of the Christmas holiday for most of us; for me, was the best day yet.

Not only did I go ice skating today, I got to skate with my mom and also I got to teach someone to skate who had never stepped a toe on the ice. She did so well and it felt terrific to share something that I love so much but had never tried to teach to another.

Mark is my step-dad, as many readers know. Mom and Mark have been married for 16 years now, and though Mark didn’t raise me from a whelp (I came home from college for the wedding) I love Mark. He’s a good man. He’s also a grandpa, which is lucky because Mark does a lot of grandpa-like things, e.g., takes naps, gets grumpy about his knees.

Mark’s granddaughter Liberty is 12-year-old. This year, Grandpa’s big gift to her was a week-long visit to the continental United States. Liberty was born and is currently being raised in Hawaii. Mark’s daughter Alison settled there years ago for some strange reason that must have to do with the beautiful beaches, cuisine, and fascinating culture, but that’s just a guess. Liberty was flown all the way from Oahu and came to Chicago for three days here; tomorrow they’re all headed to Iowa for the second leg of the trip.

I loved having Liberty here. She’s smart, funny, interested in things — though I will speak at a later date about my feelings on The Youth and their Cell Phones — so when Mom put ice skating on the itinerary, the girl was game even though she had never skated before in her life.

Learning something new is so scary, especially when the new thing involves blades and ice. Liberty put on her skates and the first 20 minutes on the ice were just painful, and that was without a fall. She had a deathgrip on the railing and she moved inch by inch on the ice ribbon, her whole body rigid, breathless with anxiety that she was going to fall.

“You’re gonna fall a lot” I said, there right next to her. “But it’s no big deal, I promise. I will also probably fall at some point.” (I did.)

Though I’ve never taught a person to ice skate, I have taught lots of people how to make patchwork and I’ve taught a goodly amount of writing and performance, too. I realized today that at this point in my life, I have what you could call “an approach.” My approach — what I tell students — is essentially: “Give yourself permission to be wrong, fall, un-sew, and write really lousy first drafts. Then go from there.”

My approach deepened today, though. I remembered something my mom told me about how she raised me and my sisters. She read a book called “Between Parent & Child” by Dr. Haim G. Ginott and his thing was, essentially, that kids are who you tell them they are. So if you say to your kid, “You lied to me — you’re a liar,” or “You’re stupid,” or “You’re in big trouble! Why are you such a bad kid??” your kid is going to internalize all that. They sort of figure, “Well, I’m already bad, and a liar, so I might as well just lie and be bad.”

It works the other way, too.

“If you girls were fighting,” Mom told me once, “I’d think of Dr. Ginott’s method and say, ‘Now, Hannah. You girls love each other. Why are you being so mean to your sister?’ Or if you took something that wasn’t yours, rather than say, ‘You little thief, put that back,’ I’d say, ‘Mary, you’re an honest person. I’m surprised and disappointed that you took that. Put it back.'”

Personally, I think this is genius stuff and it came to me today on the ice when, thirty minutes into the skating lesson, I had convinced Liberty to release her death grip on the railing only to find her death grip was now on my right forearm. Hm, I thought…Liberty is an excellent swimmer at school. She also likes skateboarding and is generally athletic. Let’s try something.

“You know, Libs,” I said, “Swimming has given you such a great sense of moving your body through space, this is really kind of an extension of that. You’re such a physically capable, body-smart person. Ice skating is another manifestation of what you already know, in a way. Does that make sense? You’re doing great. I think your body just naturally gets this stuff.”

I swear, five minutes later, that girl let go of my arm. Oh, she fell plenty. She may not be slaloming or skating backwards by tomorrow. But she went from no-no-no-don’t-let-go to death grip to less death grip to “I think I can try it on my own” to “I’m doing it! Grandpa! I’m doing it!”

The takeaway here is not that I should get a World’s Best Ice-Skating Teacher Award. The takeaway is that it was true what I said to her: She did know how to skate. It was an extension of her other physical activities. She had the ability — she just needed the perspective. She needed someone to remind her that she was honest. I mean athletic. I mean kind. I mean powerful. I mean full of grace. I mean perfect.

The girl from Hawaii ice-skated today because she showed courage and got some encouragement.

And at the risk of dipping into serious Cheeseland, I just realized that that first word — courage — is embedded, nestled, wrapped and supported by the other one: Encouragement.

 

Merry Christmas Eve! A Silly Poem.

posted in: Family, Poetry 12
Thanks, Wikipedia! Lyndon B. Johnson and his family on Christmas Eve in 1968. Yellow Oval Room, White House.
Thanks, Wikipedia! Lyndon B. Johnson and his family on Christmas Eve in 1968. Yellow Oval Room, White House.

 

A Merry Christmas Eve to you!
Did you ask for a brand new shoe?
Did you request a cockatoo?
Merry Christmas Eve to you.

It’s Christmas, everyone!
For our presents, how we run!
(Henry shoved aside a nun!!)
It’s Christmas everyone.

Let’s all have some pecan pie!
We can get some from that guy!
If he’s all out, we’ll have to buy
Our Christmas pecan pie.

You scream, I scream, we all scream for vanilla bean ice cream with the pecan pie because really, nothing else will do but vanilla bean on pecan pie, am I right about this?

Santa’s hat, it ‘shore is red!
Think it makes for a real hot head?
And is the white part WonderBread
On Santa’s hat so red?

Tomorrow, all the stores will close:
Better not need a rose,
A garland or a garden hose —
All the stores will close!

Best to go and get some rest,
Tomorrow morning will be the best!
Go brush teeth and use your Crest —
Then lay down to rest.

Merry Christmas, beautiful.

 

 

 

1 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 246