Velina Hasu Houston. . ."Growing a New Play"

I am in the process of bringing into being another new play in my ongoing effort to mine the human condition and contribute to our understanding of it via an aesthetic medium. I call it “growing” a new play because, for me, it is a process of nurturing that often requires the attention of a maternal force to take it from conception of a mere idea to a play that is ready for an audience. My new play is called The Ideal and the Life. It is about women, aging, the relationship between mothers and their adult children; and, ultimately, about the ways that we choose to define our lives at any given time in our lives and the impact that such a decision can have on the quality of life.

The plan for the summer was to have two staged readings of the play, hosted by theaters with whom I have long-term relationships. The objective of each reading was to investigate the terrain of the play in the search to refine it. The readings would culminate in interactive discussions with artists who were involved in the project. The fruit of these reflections would then be mined for viable elements which, in turn, would inform my revision of the play. It was anticipated that the first reading would lead to a revised draft which would be presented in the second reading with a new cast and new director. These changes would allow the presentation of the play some added breadth and flexibility, because different artists bring different interpretations to the work which result in the playwright’s education shifting and growing in manifold ways.

Let me give you a brief synopsis of the play. Sixty-eight year old retired, widowed English teacher Madeleine Palmer’s golden years become even more tarnished when her unmarried stockbroker daughter Hayley decides she can no longer come home for the holidays. A sense of unbearable disappointment and loneliness bears down on Madeleine triggering her recognition that, since her husband died, her whole life has become a sidecar to her daughter’s life. She falls into a depression that subsides only when she saves the life of a young homeless woman. Trying to restore what she feels has been taken from her—the presence of family—so that she can find some emotional and spiritual fulfillment that will help her to sustain, Madeleine attempts to shape the girl into the daughter that she has lost, a move which dramatically alters her understanding of who she is in the twilight of her life.

The play was conceived in its present form early in 2001. On two other occasions, I had attempted to write the play, investing the story with different circumstances and settings. To give you an idea of the road the concept has traveled, the original story was set in rural Japan. The concept has several points of germination. The initial one was my concern about aging women in Japan, given the fact that so many Japanese women of their daughters’ generation have entered the work-force and have less time to give to maintaining family ties. Japanese grandmothers are the biggest client pool for family leasing agencies who lease stand-in sons or daughters to allow these women to present to the world a “good face.” This means that they wish to show that their grown, working children remain devoted to them and return home regularly (with gifts) to visit. Other points of germination included the original Pygmalion myth as well as conversations with many girlfriends about their changing relationships with their aging mothers. Eventually, the story emigrated from Japan to the United States, just like my family, as I followed a desire to transplant the story in American soil and investigate it in the context of the society in which I reside.

The first reading took place in New York City on July 29 with the protagonist’s role performed by Olympia Dukakis. (I met Olympia in 1989 when she produced my play, Tea. I stayed with her family during the rehearsal process and a friendship grew beyond the production.Over the years, we have hoped to be able to work together as actress and playwright. The Ideal and the Life has afforded us that opportunity.) The reading was directed by David Saint, artistic director of George Street Playhouse (which premiered my play, Waiting for Tadashi, in January, 2002, also directed by David). The second reading took place about six weeks later on August 12 in Sacramento with Peggy Shannon, artistic director of Sacramento Theatre Company (STC) directing. Peggy and I enjoy an artistic alliance and friendship that dates back sixteen years. In the past, she has directed and produced my plays Tea, Kokoro (True Heart), American Dreams, and Shedding the Tiger.

Each reading—affected by the state of the script, the casting, the direction, the element of audience (none desired in New York, a small one in Sacramento)—produced rich insights into character and story. I completed a revision of the play on August 3 that was presented at the second reading. The subsequent reading had an audience of STC subscribers who regularly support my work. The audience, especially given their history with my aesthetics, became viable participants in the process. They asked questions and provided helpful feedback. Their comments and those of the cast and director fed my process, and led to my completing another revision about three weeks after the STC reading. STC will present the world premiere of The Ideal and the Life in February, 2004, as part of the American Playwrights’ Conference in Davis, California; at which I also will sit on a panel with playwrights Arthur Miller and Paula Vogel to discuss the state of American theater. Miller and Vogel also will have their new plays presented as part of the conference. In addition, my continuing nurture of the play foresees an interim staged reading with an invited audience of a size larger than has yet been exposed to the play to date. My hope is to present that reading at USC over the next few months with Stephanie Shroyer directing. Stephanie directed a scene excerpt of the play for The Pasadena Playhouse’s Writers’ Gallery over the summer, prior to the New York reading.

Often, people ask me, “How long did it take you to write that play?” An idea is easy. Writing—which involves tireless reconsideration of the work and refinement—is the challenging part, something that cannot be rushed. For me, however, it is also the exhilarating part. Speaking about river-boating on Italy’s river Po, Attilio Formigoni, captain of the River Queen, discussed his love affair with his rigorous work. He did not need to study the sonar screen to calibrate the slipping and stirring depths and shapes of the river bottom. His compass was practice: “This is a river that requires experience. First you learn it by eye. If you don’t know what you’re looking at, all this radar and sonar doesn’t mean a thing.” He talked about the hazards of navigation, low water and floods, whirlpools and sand banks, as well as the costs of purchasing his boat and maintaining it. Naturally, considering such rigors, the question of why he has done it for so long is raised; “for passion,” he said without hesitation. “If you don’t have passion. . . quit immediately. Because to own a boat like this costs an eye from your head.” That is the way that I feel about writing. It is demanding, lonely, and hazardous, and both figuratively and sometimes literally expensive. “Seeing” it and calibrating it requires experience, otherwise all the books and theory in the world do not mean a thing. It, however, does not enervate me. On the contrary, it provokes an adrenaline that can keep me up all night and sustain me when I am exhausted with life. The process of writing is like riding the River Queen down the Po. At the end of the day, the passion that fueled it and that it produces makes me realize how vital it is to my existence.