The New Studio

December 20, 2008

Downtown for a haircut on Wednesday, I ran into Cody, who took a break with me when Charlotte was finished with my hair. We sat in the green café and caught up on the last several months, and on his plans for the future, which are modest and achievable, while still doing some honor to his talent. My affection for him could not be contained, and, luckily, he did not require it. I invited him to London with me (plans which were formed on the spot) after the run of Titus , so he can look at acting schools. I meant the invitation as soon as I said it. I think, though, the Gaiety in Dublin may suit him best. As we sat, he convinced me to accept the role of Marcus Andronicus in Titus, with a detailed analysis of the importance of the role. I haven’t read the play in ten years, and then but once, and I’d forgotten who Marcus was. I didn’t want to be an attending lord.

Jason and I move in shifts into our new space in the Phil Mechanic. It is airy and bright, so the medieval intricacy of lighting I had rigged up in the basement is no longer needed. I actually did some work there in the lucid morning, and was very happy. I’ll keep the nook two floors down as an office for Black Swan, and as someplace to write other than here, one which may set a new tone into the writing.
He had three people helping him, and I was alone. That summarizes all.

The back spasm which set in while I was sitting in a chair having tea with Tom, and which for a while kept me all but incapacitated, limbers a little now, a week later. I had to go to David the masseur Tuesday afternoon to have any chance of standing erect long enough to sing the concert. He’d touch a sore spot and say, “Man, that must be on fire.” Oddly, the times it felt least bad (except when I was lying down) was when I was hauling furniture up the narrow warehouse staircases to the studio. I suppose movement warmed the knots a little.

Went with the gang to see Milk at the Fine Arts. The performances are good, but the film is less compelling than the documentary The Times of Harvey Milk. James Franco has the most classically beautiful face in public life. As I walked to the theater, I stopped at the Arts Council to see Jonas Gerard’s opening, and, as it turned out, the man himself. What a voluble and interesting man! I still think his paintings are tricks, but he performs those tricks with such joyful exuberance that one hardly minds. Saw him again at The New French Bar afterward, where he was being interviewed by my former student John Coutlakis. JC delivered a testimonial to his learning experience at UNCA which was heartwarming and not expected. I was the best teacher there, according to him. I always thought so, but confirmation even in a moment as subjective as that is welcome. I’d parked rather far away, and it was a sweet night and the walk through the town sparkling with lights and belling with voices was joyful. I will not have a tree this year, because of the wild youth of the new cats and because of my being away so long, so I’ll have to suck Christmas in from wherever I find it.

Evening. Worked most of the morning and afternoon at the studio, and was happy. Alex the glassworker from across the hall introduced himself. He has ivory skin and flaming red hair and beard, an attractive man, laughing often, shouting over the roar of the torches to his coworker. He has a big dog in his studio with him. Diligently the dog carries various bits of wood in his mouth, following his master around against the moment when just that chunk of wood might be necessary.