(For example, I mentioned something about all my time being eaten up at the opera lately offhandedly, and the props girl asked me what I was doing there. I told her I was dressing two operas for them, and she replied, "Oh. So, do you get paid for that?" I said, "No. I just really love helping demanding and sweaty dancers and singers into and out of costumes they should be able to handle themselves. And I *love* doing laundry all day long 5 floors underground when it's nice outside. I also really get a kick out of turning sweaty socks, hanging up people's costumes for them and gouging out my own eyes!" But what I really said was simply, "Um, yeah, it's pretty lucrative.")
Here's the thing about this show: when I talked to the director about it, he says (I know -- I wrote it down) he wants it to feel really '70's. I say, I can do that. He says he wants to simplify: 1 costume per actor. I can do that. And we can't afford to pay you quite what you are asking (not that high a price: out of the 49 shows curently gracing my resume, I have designed costumes for 11, most of which were post-college).
A month later, I get an e-mail from a person I'm assuming is the stage manager asking for agenda bullets for that evening's production meeting. I didn't even know that there was a production meeting and I certainly don't know who this person is who is sending me the e-mail. Oh, communication. I respond that I can't make it that night, and that I'd love some notice in the future when production meetings are scheduled. I say it nicely, though.
A household emergency and my own procrastination and crazy opera tech schedule ended up with my doing a very quick sketch for the costumes that I brought to my first production meeting. I explain to Director that I have a leak in my kitchen and my linoleum is floating. He lets me go first at the meeting because, "This is Devon, our costume designer. She's going to go first at this meeting because she's got a flood in her basement." Oh, communication. I show my crappy last-minute rendering around in all of its seventies glory, and explain the concept and palette, apologizing for the crappiness of the rendering. Director says, "Ok, well, maybe less bell bottoms. They're really big."
"Sure," I respond. I can do that. It's less stereotypically "seventies", but we can move it a little later in the seventies and the flare will calm down a bit. It takes almost an hour to discern a window in which I can get measurements, but finally, he says he'll call the actors in a bit earlier to rehearsal one night and we can measure. Grand.
Skip ahead to the next week's production meeting. I have started to make purchases for the show out of my pocket because Director has not responded to my e-mails requesting petty cash. I have clarified my design concept a bit, and I'm feeling good; it's now Monday and I have fittings on either Tuesday or Wednesday, but Director can't be pinned down.
I finally decide that we will do them on Tuesday, because I just want to get out of there. And then I talk about some fabric I have purchased that is perfect for the period.
"Period? D. I'm a little concerned when you say period and with that drawing that you showed us last week."
"Oh?"
"When you are talking about period, this is modern times. It's got some pieces that could be older, but it's today."
Well, fuck me. I was told that it was supposed to be period. I have communicated that in multiple conversations with Director, and now he has selective memory. And I have been rendered impotent in front of the room of other designers.
"Well," I say, "it's retro then."
And this is how the whole process has continued. Director has micromanaged my FITTINGS, for fuck's sake. He looks at a pair of seersucker pants from a foot away and says he doesn't like the stripes (that I've dyed way down). I tell him, "Yes, well, you're much closer than any audience member ever will be to those pants. I'm not designing for people in the cast -- it's for the audience." He goes into the house and looks at the pants. "Maybe a little darker then, with those."
"Fine," I say, writing it down with the litany of other bullshit notes he's given me, "and hem down 1.5 inches."
"Oh, good," he says, "I was going to mention that his pants are kinda short."
"That's because I just added suspenders to them and now they are at his waist."
I am so glad that I have a director who fancies himself an expert costumer. And I'm so glad that I get to do the special effects with the blood that gets everywhere because obviously that's a costume thing. And I couldn't be happier that Director forgot to mention that he actually wants another cosutme added last minute: a onesie-style pajama for a fully-frown man, because I actually can shit those out at will. And I'm so glad that I'm getting paid 175 dollars for this. And that I'm currently scheduled to work with Director again in just a couple of short months. I have got to get out of that. Because I am worth more than this bullshit. And I can't work with people who cannot communicate.
I have ranted via computer for over an hour and I'm still angry.... I have never wanted a show to end more than this one. I really am sick of it. And I'm not even in tech yet. (Thank God I'll only be able to be there for one tech/dress rehearsal because of my other, more lucrative dressing job in Skokie).
/endrant
On a high note, I have a new crush, and, as always, it's highly embarrassing.
Turn up your volume if it's not up and check it out. Thanks to NPR's Tapestry program in Birmingham, Alabama for unknowingly loaning me that audio clip.
That is all.
