“Never been to Subway, what do I do?” a foreign accent once called out years ago when I worked at a local Subway as a “Sandwich Artist”. It was a Nigerian who was in the country for school. He had never been to a Subway before. There is quite an interesting story to go along with it (I used it for an audition piece, actually!) but that’s neither here nor there.

Point is, the other day I felt like him. The sad part was that I was in exactly the same industry I claim to profess! But rather than simple ignorance, it was lack of opportunity that had brought me to this spot. I called one of my good friends, William.

“Hey William,” I asked. “Those uh… director concepts. How do those work?” He chuckled and offered to help me out.

You see, I have never sat through a production meeting before. I have no idea what directors are supposed to say during those meetings! And considering that I’m interviewing at U/RTA and SETC in two months, I better figure out pretty quickly how to develop a concept and explain it to the designers. That’s where William comes in. William was the lead lighting designer at the theatre until he left for graduate school.
“You have anything written already?” he asked. I showed him the link. He skimmed through it. “More original on costumes, more specific on lights, more props notes, less specific on set — it looks like you want Carl to do it, and that’s fine, cause he’s the only set designer you’ve really seen.” I nodded.

“The thing is,” he said. “You don’t want to limit the designers’ needs. You want to give them direction, but let them figure stuff out. Give them crazy things to do so they’ll have to do research — designers love that shit — and let them come up with designs. Don’t be too specific, or you’ll be limiting what they can do and they don’t like that.”

I nodded again (which was stupid since this was a phone conversation).

“So,” I said. “I want lights that look like dusk in a–”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “No times. Just describe the feeling you want.” I tried again.

“Okay, so I want a dark forest with scattered rays of sunlight, a place that makes me feel mischievous and sneaky.”

“Better.” Now I saw what he meant.

The problem with developing concepts for me was that I had never had to do it. Yes, I’ve directed three shows before, but one was in Directing class and Dr. C never explained the whole concept idea. For both of the other shows, I was given less than 5 weeks to put the show together from start to finish — concept to strike — and I barely had time to squeeze in rehearsals, much less spend time with designers planning things out. Besides, minimalist shows with basic light plots aren’t that difficult for designers.

Things are different this time. I’m going to U/RTA and SETC in the Spring, and I’m preparing some concepts for my interviews. This is the first time I’ve had months to plan out something like this — and I’m using my time wisely, I think.

If you look to the right, I’ve posted concepts for Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage, William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun.

If you have any comments or suggestions, I’d be glad to hear them. Don’t get your feelings hurt if I don’t follow your suggestions, though — after all, this is supposed to be my take on things.

Whenever I think about time, I look at my watch. It doesn’t matter whether I’m thinking of minutes, hours, days, months, years, or eons, I look at my watch when I think of time. An old student of mine used to laugh when she’d ask me what the date was and I looked at my watch. She thought I was crazy.

Maybe I am. I glanced at my watch.

“I’ve only had my scripts for a week, and we open in three weeks! This is crazy!” I exclaimed to Carl, the producer.

“That’s the way our summer shows usually are,” he replied with a shrug. This was only half-true, for several reasons.

“Yes,” I said, scowling. “But people only take one class at a time in the summer, and the directors also know which play they’re doing weeks and months in advance. Besides, this isn’t summer, this is almost winter, and I found out a week and a half ago!” He shrugged in a semi-apologetic manner.

“Just going to have to make it work. The show must…,” he trailed off as he turns around and went back to doing whatever it is that producers do when they’re not producing shows.

“The show must go on,” I finished. I sighed in frustration and left to track down James, Kimberly, and Adam.

One of the most difficult things a director does is maintain communications with his designers. This particular show, The Faculty Room, is no exception. For one thing, I had only four weeks to turn this script into a finished production. The biggest problem facing us was that the performance space was currently being used up by the other production opening this weekend, All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten. I needed to make sure my designs were ready, so we could implement them as soon as Kindergarten struck their set. We were temporarily rehearsing on the main stage.

I quickly tracked down James and Kimberly and received their design plots. We went over them. I made suggestions, they made suggestions, and we compromised. The set and costume designs were ready.

I was down to finding Adam for the sound designs. I walked down to the scene shop, but he wasn’t there and none of the other techies had seen him all day. I asked the secretary in the lobby. She hadn’t seen him either.

Disappointed and distressed, I stepped outside to talk to my cast about finding some extra time during the day to work on their scenes. As I wrapped up negotiations, Adam pulled up in the parking lot and began walking towards the theatre. I intercepted him.

“Hey Adam!” I called. “Did you get my script?”

I like Adam. He and I worked together for my directing debut of 1984. He is a brilliant sound designer, and since this show is sound-heavy, I immediately thought of him for the position of sound designer. I knew that if anyone could pull off the sound effects and recordings on such short notice, it would be Adam.

“No, man,” he replied. “I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Shit,” I said. “I gave it to the TD to give to you. He didn’t?” Adam shook his head. I spouted off some four-letter words regarding the female anatomy. He shrugged and grinned.

“What do you need?” he said. I explained all of the sound effects that I needed. He shook his head again.

“I can’t help you, man,” he explained. “I’m doing sound for two shows right now, and I just don’t have the time.”

“Shit,” I said again. He suggested that I track down one of the twins. The twins are some of the new kids on the block, both wanting to be techies. One of them does sound, the other lights. I can barely tell the two apart. I wavered, not entirely sure of the the twins’ abilities, but Adam assured me that he could assist if necessary–he just couldn’t do the entire design on his own.

I thanked Adam and headed down to the costume shop. One of the girls there should know where the twins were. As I headed down the steps, I practiced my 30-second pitch. I was gonna need to use all my persuasive ability to convince one of these twins to do the sound design. I decided that if both twins are together when I found them, I’d ask the other to do the lights, too.

I thought I’m getting a headache. I’d have killed for some Tylenol at that point.

This day was going to be a long, long day.