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Sweet Treat

It's become quite a tradition.

Whenever I'm in a play, my mother makes candy for opening night. (Like tonight.)

Not just for me. Not just for the cast. 

For everybody. Every last person in the theatre.

Jackie (that might be "Mrs. Isaac" to you) spends weeks making the candy, hours bagging it — and twelve months negotiating with me about how it is and is not to be distributed.

Through her generosity, candy making talent, love of son, and motherly desire for control, Jackie has taught me something about my own motivation in the theatre. (She has taught me nothing about letting her preview blog posts that mention her.)

First, her thirst for control.
Just to help me keep this straight, let me summarize the rules...

Basic Idea:
"Do you really want me to do this again? I'm happy to make candy for everyone."

What It Is:
Two pieces per tiny bag: one dark chocolate, one milk chocolate, both with a lovely, crunchy, buttery brittle inside. (There is a long-lasting family debate over which chocolate is better. People have taken sides and dug in. In a rare defection, I recently switched — for good — to the younger, more life-affirming milk chocolate team.) 

Prohibition Against Selling:
No leftover candy may be sold at the rest of the shows. 
Sure, people might want to pay for it, but noooo. We cannot sell it. Why, Mom? "If we sell it, we face greater expectations — and perhaps litigation if someone doesn't like it, chokes on it, or dies from it. I'm not a professional candy maker, so it is free." Then, sotto voce, "I'm warning you, Artie."

Only in your own mother's face can you see the world's most beautiful smile combined with a withering, disapproving glare. 

Official Annual Protest Over Bags: 
"The bag has no class." It is a tiny ziplock bag. It is humiliating to both candy and candy maker. But better bags make too much noise in a theatre. And we don't want to contribute to that in any way. This is a yearly frustration, as noted in the minutes.

What Does The Label Mean?
"The labels that Artie printed don't make sense." Each bag bears a no-class mailing label with a cheerful call to action. [Note to Mom: It's adapted from a line from the play.]

There are more rules, but — really — you just want the candy.

Learning From Mom
I've already shown you a poem written about her and extolled her civic engagement.

Now I shall describe how her candy making is like my acting. (Just crunchier. And universally appealing.)

They are both sweet treats
created by hobbyists
who eschew going pro. 
Mom doesn't want to be a professional candy maker. People have long asked Jackie, "Why don't you sell this?"

Her answer: "I don't want to."

She doesn't want the litigation and headaches.

And I don't want to be a professional actor. People have asked me (with a smile): "Is your goal Broadway?"

My answer: "Heavens no."

I want to live with my family. They are Ohioans.

Like my mother, I just want to offer a sweet treat to our friends and beloved town. 

Must every ambition be world domination?

Get some.
Jackie's candy will be given to everyone in the theatre tonight. (Please see above for rules.) Any candy left over will be offered — egad — for free at the bake sale in the lobby during later performances. (Feel free to make an unrelated, spontaneous, tax-deductible contribution to Available Light at the rate of $1.25 per piece of free candy.)

Tickets are selling briskly — happily, some remain available for all shows. Ticket information: HarperLeeAVLT.com.

Thinking Of You

You know this. 

You know how people sometimes pop into your head. 

Perhaps you pass a landmark — maybe just an intersection — and it brings a specific person to mind. 

You think of the story he shared. Or maybe the insight she revealed.

A comment made in passing. Tossed off and, now, long forgotten. 

But it stayed with you. 
It keeps popping up. It's an automatic memory. It's indelible. 

It has become a part of a physical landmark on your daily way. Maybe it has become the stuff of your dreams at night.

You know that experience.

But you might not know this...

Others think of you, too.
I'm always surprised when I say, "Remember when you said...."

...and you reply, "I don't remember." 

I guess you weren't listening to your own words. Or maybe it just slipped out. You didn't think much of it.

I don't blame you for not remembering. You have the advantage of hearing your voice all day, every day. I get only moments with you. To me, each of your words is a pearl.

So I was listening. And I've been meditating on your words ever since.

That's been happening to me more and more lately. 

I've been thinking of what you said.
Even if you just tossed it off.

It stuck with me.

Thanks for that gift.

Let us measure our words like pearls.

Why Act? To Fail Brilliantly!

In the wings of the stage, or out in the empty house, or in the green room, while some of the cast rehearses on stage, the rest of us wait to be called for our next scene on stage.

We chat quietly.

A Recurring Topic
We chat about our characters and our motivations. We chat about our struggle to memorize lines. We praise the other actors. ("Oh, those kids. They are simply amazing.")

A frequent question: Why? Why do you act?

Why? comes in many forms. "What acting have you done?" "What shows have you been in?" "What do you like about this experience?"

Each question begs a different answer, but they all deal with a central aspect of acting: The Actor's Motivation.

The Actor's Motivation
No, not that motivation. Not the character's motivation, which is the actor's primary concern at hand.

These backstage conversations deal with the actor's motivation. Why are you acting?

I hear Why? from co-actors — and well beyond the theatre: family, friends, business colleagues, mentors, teachers, blog readers. They wonder why I invest so much time and energy in the process.

If I had a therapist, my therapist would be asking, "And how do you feel about acting?"

So that I don't repeat myself (the core mission of this blogsite), here's my answer.

Why I Am Acting
There are several reasons, none of which are my primary reason:

• The catalyst that returned me to theatre. You know this story. It was the single largest lesson I learned at Yale. It's when I rediscovered Our Town, after 25 years, at the college reunion that changed my life. I am making up for lost time. 
• The joy and delight of working with such lovely, talented people. We all ogle celebrities of stage and screen. To be sure, the superstars are not accessible. But the same skills and beauty are available more broadly than you might presume. Come see Mockingbird. Look with fresh eyes at the talent on the stage. They are lovely and talented beyond measure. I get to be with them, admiring them, for approximately 100 hours.
• The energy of it all. This is a Flow moment: heightened engagement in life, the optimal experience. We each need to find what brings us into Flow and do it. You are seeing me at my most alive. 
• The memorization. The worst part of this process is fast becoming the best part. Memorization can be drudgery, but the effects on my mind have been tangible. It's making me smarter, more focused, more able to pay attention to others. Memorization is strengthening my memory. 

Here's The Primary Reason
I am acting because life can be so serious. 

Everywhere I turn, every moment of the day, it feels like all the chips are on the table. It's as if, none of us can afford to fail:

• I cannot fail with our family's money. In this economy, a stupid — even unlucky move — would punish us, limiting our future, creating real hardship.
• I cannot fail with our children. In this world, even though the social scientists say that parents are (beyond genetics) insignificant in forming children, any failure of our children feels like a personal failure.
• I cannot fail behind the wheel. One stupid moment of inattention can be fatal. As Malcolm Gladwell writes in "Wrong Turn" in The New Yorker:

Every two miles, the average driver makes four hundred observations, forty decisions, and one mistake. Once every five hundred miles, one of those mistakes leads to a near collision, and once every sixty-one thousand miles one of those mistakes leads to a crash.

It goes on and on. Our lives seem to be a series of ultimatums (ultimati?): mess this up, lose your job; mess that up, lose your wife; mess that up, lose your health. 

That's life? That's hell!

I can't always play not to lose.

I need a place where I can fail: publicly, unabashedly.

Acting is where I can fail.
This turns out to be why I act: because I can freely fail at it.

When Arnett Howard stepped out of The Odd Couple last year, he taught us all a great deal about stepping up. He accepted a risk — acting — that was beyond his comfort zone. He took a risk that no one should take off stage — not behind the wheel, not with our children. He risked failing.

He played to win. He did not play not to lose.

That motivates me. That is my primary answer to: Why?

I am playing to win. I willingly, eagerly embrace my potential failure.

You want to see someone who won't fail as Atticus? 
You want a guarantee? 

Watch Gregory Peck. There's no risk. He can't fail; it's recorded. 

And, while we're at it: his Atticus can't really lose everything, because, well, he's The Handsome, Perfect Gregory Peck. (I'm no Gregory Peck.)

Am I being cavalier?
Don't I have a responsibility to the other actors and the audience? 

I mean, the actors are relying on each other (and me) to get it right. And the audience paid good money. (We are closing in on a sell-out for opening night, thank you.)

Yes. I owe it to them, to you, and to myself to do my very best. And I have prepared earnestly to do just that.

But let us remind ourselves.
Everything in life is not life 'n' death. 

As the old man said:

If I'd known it wasn't going to kill me, I wouldn't have been so freaked out all the time.   

Let us place Mockingbird in proper context: this is a play. A play. Play!

So, can we not play with light hearts — even when the dramatic subject matter is injustice?

Isn't this why most golfers come to hate their game: because it ceases to be play?

Come see me fail.
(Advance tickets here.  Any unsold tickets will be offered at the door for pay what you want.)

My goal: to fail so subtly that you don't notice. That you — and I — remain in the moment. 

But, holy cow: if I fail brilliantly, what is truly lost? Will my acting career be over? Maybe!

Piffle.

Trusting Dad To Do Right

Staging To Kill A Mockingbird this year has been a lucky choice.

The audience is motivated — and briskly buying advance tickets — by the book's well publicized fiftieth anniversary. 

It's just our dumb luck that the media is celebrating Harper Lee's only published novel as a national treasure. 

For example, NPR 820 WOSU-AM's Ann Fisher has invited me to discuss Mockingbird on her All Sides on Wednesday from 11 a.m.-noon. (During the hour, there will also be a 20-minute interview with Mary McDonagh Murphy, author of Scout, Atticus, and Boo: A Celebration of Fifty Years of To Kill a Mockingbird.)

What is it about this book? Plenty of books turn 50. Why is Mockingbird so treasured? Why is it routinely rated by Americans as the #2 book that all civilized people should read? (The Bible is #1. No matter how wonderful our performance, Mockingbird seems unlikely to take over first place.)

It's About Dad.
While the classic text plumbs a great many important themes (as previously covered here), I think there is a reason why it's a national treasure, routinely rated by Americans as the #2 book everyone should read. (The Bible is #1. No matter how wonderful our performance, we're unlikely to take the top spot.)

Mockingbird is so treasured, I believe, because it is a beautifully written, easily savored expression of appreciation for our fathers. 

Our hearts are warmed when Miss Maudie summarizes the town's admiration of Atticus Finch: "We trust him to do right." (Playing Atticus can go to one's head.)  

Perhaps you might not have benefited from a great relationship with your father. Still, you understand when — moments later — Dill stops in his tracks to reiterate the opinion. "They trust him to do right."

We love good fathers. 
This respect is hard wired into us as animals. 

Laws — from the Fifth Commandment (upgraded to #4 for Catholics and Lutherans) to the national commemoration of Father's Day — merely codify the eternal appreciation of fatherhood done right.

Happy Father's Day
My own father (of blessed memory for 18 years) was someone trusted to do right.

Trust was placed in him for two reasons:

• He knew how to do right. His insights were ethical. He could hear your problem and respond with helpful words.
• He actually did right. Once you sought his counsel, he didn't betray you by speaking of you to others. He knew that your story was not his to tell. 

An example: he never told me who his clients were. He didn't consider that to be his story to tell.

I've learned who they were since his death because many have told me. Some I learned at his deathbed, when they came to pay final respects. 

I was initially astounded to realize that his clients were such brilliant, powerful people. They could have worked with any stockbroker in the world. They chose my father. They trusted him to do right.

And he kept their trust by never revealing them to anyone.

Two Stories About My Father
 I won't reveal his clients here and now, but here are two stories that reveal something about my dad, trusted to do right. 

At a community lunch some years ago, a fellow introduced himself and asked if I was indeed the son of "Art Isaac, the stockbroker."

Yes, I said, expecting to hear a simple: "He was a great guy." (I've heard that a lot.)

But, rather, he launched into this story: 

Your father was a great guy. Let me tell you how I met him. When I was in college, I was a bicycle messenger for [big name in town]. Every couple of weeks, [Mr. Big] would give me an envelope and say, "Take this to Art Isaac." I would rush it to him.

Your father would always come greet me personally. As I handed him each envelope, I'd ask: "Whatever you're buying for [Mr. Big], please get me one, too."

The amazing thing: he did. I'd pay for the single share of stock, but he never charged me a commission, let alone an premium for an odd lot transaction. I didn't know how valuable this was. 

I never realized it at the time, but he was generously giving me the highest kindness.

I immediately suggested that my father was just being smart. After all, this young man was bringing envelopes filled with cash. Shoot, anyone would have made him jelly doughnuts on the spot, if that might have kept the bike wheels rolling in the same direction.

But the fellow said, "No. Your father would take me — a bike messenger! — to his office to explain why he was recommending the specific investment. He wanted me to learn how to invest. And, because of him, I did. Those lessons served me well."

He did right.

More Important Than Money: Music
Another story, from another grown man who I met in recent years. We met in the same way: "Was Art Isaac your father?"

Some background is helpful. My father was an introvert. He could entertain groups of people, but he repaired to his solitude, in his beloved home office, where he recharged. 

It was a small room off the kitchen — originally a maid's room, now wallpapered in grass, harkening back to his army days in the South Pacific. 

In a cloth recliner beside his desk, his typewriter, and his library of first editions of W.H. Auden, he would read, with music softly playing.

One evening, he was in The Office, where this fellow found him:

I was a high school friend of your sister. She had a group of kids over. For some reason, I wandered off and started poking around your house.

I opened a door and was startled to be face to face with this man, your father. It was like he was in some sort of magic room. 

I'd never met him. He immediately said, "Come in. Sit down."

We talked. And that night, we talked about the music he was enjoying. It was jazz. I had never heard jazz before. Your father told me of his love of jazz. And he did it in such a way that I immediately became a jazz fan.

And I have ever been so. I am a lifelong lover of jazz. Your father gave me that gift. I have always been grateful to him for that gift. 

Just jazz? Just music? No big deal?

Wrong. 

Very Big Deal 
These are the moments that make us what we are.

It's best if those moments are with people worthy of our trust. The people we trust to do right.

We all think of Atticus.
We all think very similarly about Atticus, because he stared down the drunken lynch mob, fighting to defend another human being.

Playing him this coming week, I'm also thinking of Atticus as a father. He was a single parent. Oddly, his children (and their friends) called him by his first name.

Last week, during a break in our evening rehearsal, I asked the young people in the cast, "Why do you call me Atticus? As Southerners, shouldn't you call me 'diddy' — not just in childhood, but throughout your lives? And shouldn't your friend Dill call me Mr. Finch?"

The answers were telling. These actors understand their roles and motivation. (If you come to the show, you're in for a treat.) They said: "Because we respect each other as equals."

I am the son of Atticus.
I've always thought of my father not so much as A Father, but as Someone I Was Lucky Enough To Befriend. 

I dedicate my performance this coming week to the loving memory of my father, Arthur J. Isaac, Jr. They trusted him to do right.

The Meaning of Maycomb

As a budding Yankee, I once spent a summer bartending at a fancy resort outside Charleston, South Carolina. 

I was often stunned at the Southern customs, especially as they regarded race. I often felt like a fish — lox at that — out of water.

Now I'm the Public Defender
of Maycomb, Alabama.
For the past couple months, I've been preparing to portray Atticus Finch, the noble, righteous lawyer who focuses his life — and the teaching of his kids — on one primary message.

To be sure, To Kill A Mockingbird is about a lot of things: race relations, community and sub-communities, civil rights, small town gossip, xenophobia, respect and disrespect, the wayward bent of mob mentality, single parenthood, neglected children, opium addiction, gun use, law enforcement and, of course, capital punishment. (I'm sure I'm missing something here.)

But Atticus focuses all his energy on one thing.
His message is this: humanity.

In his teaching of his kids, in his own actions, and in all his dealings in court, his home and his neighborhood, Atticus is a living reminder of the importance of our common humanity.

Why does he care about humanity? Because he is a man of justice, a tzadik.  

And he deeply believes that justice — in the court of law and the Court Of Life — is based on our individual ability to appreciate each person as a living, mortal expression of our shared humanity.

The Sharing's The Thing
Atticus teaches Jem and Scout (Dill already knows) — and all of us — that "you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

Atticus can't truly walk in another's skin. But he probably comes as close as any white person can to understanding Tom's ultimate explanation for fleeing the scene of Mayella's advances: "Mr. Finch, if you was black like me, you'd be scared, too."

The Mockingbird Message
The play has changed me. (That's why I wanted to do it. I'm an actor in search of epiphany.)

I find that I am looking at people more deeply (whatever their color). The clerk at Kroger's, the woman behind me in line, the man waiting for the bus — I am trying my best to appreciate their situation and the implications for how that might influence who they are.

I even stare at the other actors in rehearsal — amid the continuing challenge of spilling out the lines in the right order at the right time — and wonder: "What must it be like to be him or her?"

All this birdwatching is helping me understand how I must appear to others, too.

Come hear the song of the mockingbird.
Ask not for whom the mockingbird sings. It sings for thee.

Advance tickets for Mockingbird are online. Any tickets left at the door will be sold at the price of Pay What You Want.

Why? Because, given the choice between having your money or having you in the theater, we'd cheerfully choose the latter. We'd like some of the former, of course, but don't let the price of tickets keep you away. Pay what you want.

I just handed a card for the show to The New York Times/Columbus Dispatch delivery man as he drove past the house. I told him, "I'm in a show. The tickets are priced at Pay What You Want."

His reply: "Really? Cool. Thanks."

Tell everyone. This is a show for everyone.

The show opens and closes next week.
Details are here at HarperLeeAVLT.com.

I hope you're coming. It's going to be a great show.

Uh, Artie?: Living in the City

A former student writes:

Uh, Artie?

Long time no chat. I have a quick question for you since you got your MBA at Columbia. 

Did you like living in NYC? 

My current employer might transfer me there, if some internal interviews I am going through go in my favor. 

Any thoughts you have on anything about living there would be appreciated. 

Hope you're well.

— "Former Student"

Dear "FS,"

I am well indeed and glad to hear from you. Thanks for reaching out.

That's an easy question and one that warms my heart.

I loved, loved, loved living in NYC.
Being in a pedestrian-friendly, mass transit-rich city is great. Not having a car is a wonderful thing.

The food is cheap once you learn where to go (Chinese, Indian, pizza, vegetarian and so much more). Most importantly, the arts and culture can forever ignite your imagination and intellectual curiosity.

I spent eight years there -- back when the town was truly dangerous, at the peak of the murder rate.

And I wouldn't trade those years for anything.

Why wouldn't someone go?
At my fifth or tenth high school reunion, an old classmate said, "What's it like in New York City?"

I asked whether he'd ever visited. He said no. 

I'm still stunned. Why wouldn't everyone visit the City? It's so close to Columbus. And it's not as expensive as feared. 

Good luck on those interviews.
If they do not land you in NYC, go anyway — at least for a long weekend.

Here's a list of favorite things to do when in the City.

Personal Branding

This morning I sat on a panel at the Ohio Growth Summit. The topic for this panel was Personal Branding, effectively and imaginatively led by Nate Riggs.

I learned a lot about personal branding from the other panelists.

Right now, here's what I think it is.

Personal Branding Is Theatre.
As usual, Shakespeare offers the insight we seek.

As his Macbeth (V.v.24-28) tells us, each of us is in life "but a walking shadow, a poor player, / That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, /And then is heard no more."

Our primary challenge is to pick a role that is worthy of us. For that is how we define ourselves. Be not the bloody king who played "a tale / Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing."

So, what to do?
Do what any actor works hard to do. And try to make it look easy.

• Recognize that you are playing a role. If you are a deep introvert, you can take comfort that the brand is not you, exposed naked. Perhaps it's you, amplified introvert. Pick the right role.
• Know your lines. All vivid brands are centered around a concise, clearly written message strategy. This is the backstory for your script.
• Stay in character. If you are wildly inconsistent, people won't know what your brand stands for.
• The role needs to be authentic. If you are trying to be something you are not — and something that you can't even reasonably grow into — then you are living a lie and you will constantly be swimming against the tension. That's a hard swim and a long life.
• It isn't a one-person show. Share your role with others. (Not just in performance. Tell people about your role from your point of view.) See how your motivation might contribute to others' motivations. Play nice. Collaborate. Be more than independent; be interdependent.
• Be self-aware, not self-centered. Know what you look like from the audience's point of view. Practice in a mirror and on camera. Dissect. Understand.
• Rehearse. If you don't practice your basic lines (such as your elevator pitch), then don't be surprised if it always sounds like the first time you've said it.
• Practice improvisation. Every day teaches us that life is not scripted. Get good at listening and working with others in a highly collaborative way. (Want group training? Let me introduce you to ImprovEdge.)

That note on authenticity is key.
It's the most important of the bullets above. As you know, I'm keen on trying to become authentic.

Polonius is no fool. As he tells Hamlet (I.iii.78-81):

This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!

Same to you!

Let It Go (To Your Head)

After a while, it can really go to your head.

And I don't need anything more going to my head. It's fully inflated already.

But, I do declare, as I sit in the wings and hear Miss Maudie praise Atticus Finch, it's heartwarming to take her kind words personally, as if she's describing the guy who's pretending to be the gentleman she's describing. 

Who wouldn't want to be considered thusly?

"If [Atticus Finch] is anything, he's civilized."

"There are some men in this world who were born to do our unpleasant jobs for us. Your father's one of them."

"We're so rarely called upon to be Christians, but when we are , we've got men like Atticus to go for us." 

"We're paying your father the highest tribute we can pay a man. We trust him to do what's right."

I mean this is flattering stuff. Especially to be called upon as a Christian. 

But it's not really about me. Or is it about me? And is it also about you?

Maybe We Should All Practice Hearing These Words
As If They Do Indeed Describe Each of Us.
This is why, as I wrote earlier, I wanted to play Atticus Finch. 

In the hope that I might become more like him. 

That I might — that we all might — live up to Miss Maudie's words. 

This Is Your Invitation.
Don't give me that post-show crap — Atticus would say, "Don't give me any of that." — about how you missed the show because you didn't get an invitation. 

The play opens and closes in less than three weeks. If you're coming, now's the time to buy tickets. 

Details are at http://HarperLeeAVLT.com. Advance tickets (today) are strongly recommended and sincerely requested. (If any tickets are still available the day of each performance, they will be sold at the door at the price of "Pay What You Want.")

Amplified Introversion

An Alarmingly Beautiful Reader of Net Cotton Content said to me recently, "I think I must know everything about you."

(I guess that hardly narrows it down. For you, too, are alarmingly beautiful. Unless, of course, you're a guy — and then you're just plain dashing.)

Anyway, she turns her eyes on me and claims to know all about me — from reading Net Cotton Content. For, beyond this blog (and the correspondence it sparks), we hadn't ever had more than one short conversation.

I was charmed — and a little spooked.
You'd think by now I might expect some folks to believe they know me. 

After all, I've gone into several client meetings over the past couple of years and found out — sometimes over time — that the clients have been reading my mind. They know my stories before I tell them.

That's fun.

And wonderfully efficient. We can take turns leaping to the punch line.

But reading Net Cotton Content doesn't reveal me completely. I'm not that good a writer.

What To Tell
Another ABR said recently, "I don't understand social networking. I don't understand hanging everything out there. It creeps me out."

"Me, too," I told her. "I certainly don't put everything on the blog."

I know what you're thinking: "Gimme a break. Whatever could he be leaving out? We've read about his failures in business and his inadequate marital infidelities, his evolving psychology and his midlife crisis. If there is any more, pray tell, don't tell us."

"Do You Lie To Me?"
When our daughter was very young, she asked, "Do you and mom ever lie to me?"

"No," I said. "But we don't tell you things that we think won't interest you." That was my way of saying,"We're telling you the truth, but we aren't telling you every truth."

Same here.
I don't include everything in Net Cotton Content. I leave out the things that I think wouldn't interest you. And, of course, the stories that aren't mine to tell.

I think I am an amplified introvert.

Out there — but still choosing what to type.