Mydwynter:

I’ve been having a serious pizza craving the last few weeks, but we didn’t have all the ingredients called for in the “Pat’s Thin Yeast Crust” recipe from The Gluten-free Gourmet. So I waited…and I waited…until today, when I just didn’t care anymore and went ahead and made substitutions.

This is what I came up with. This turned out perfect for me, since on the whole I’m not a big fan of the flavour of baked goods that are heavy on the rice flour, and I adore (well, adored) potato bread. Most gluten-free pizzas I’ve had have basically been tomato-and-cheese-covered crackers, so this was a pleasant surprise. It was the closest to a New York-style crust I’ve had since going GF. It made me do a little happy dance. No, there is no video.

1 1/2 tsp instant dry yeast granules
About 1 cup warm water, 105° to 115°
1 tsp sugar
2/3 cup rice flour
1/6 cup cornstarch AND 1/6 cup potato flour (in the original recipe it was 1/3 cup potato starch flour. Instead, I just filled a 1/3 measuring cup halfway with cornstarch, and filled it up to the top with potato flour. Easy peasy.)
1 Tbs potato flour
1 1/2 tsp vegetable oil (in original recipe: 1 1/2t melted shortening)
1 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 415°.

In a medium bowl, pour 1/2 cup of the warm water over the yeast and the sugar, already in the bowl. Stir gently, and let it sit in a warm, still place until the yeast foams and the level about doubles.

In the meantime, prep whatever surface on which you plan to bake your pizza. I like baking on parchment paper (OH do I go through parchment paper), so I put some down on top of a round baking sheet. But if you like something else, go on ahead. Keep in mind, though, this stuff will be sticky, so if you don’t use parchment paper be sure to grease well your surface. Heh.

When the yeast is done blooming, stir in the rice and potato flours, the corn starch, the salt, and the oil. While still stirring, pour in enough water that the batter is like a stiff paste. (The original recipe says it should be like spreadable cake frosting, but mine was slightly stiffer. Heh again.)

With a silicone spatula (or another greased utensil—this stuff is sticky, remember? like a stick) spread the dough into about a 12″ circle, leaving raised edges around the outside.

If you like a crispy crust, blind-bake the crust for about five minutes or so, until the top is starting to brown. As I mentioned before, I like mine as close to floppy New York-style as gluten-free can get, so I just piled on my sauce and toppings and popped it in the oven.

The original recipe called for 20-30 minutes at 425°, but I found that the cheese was getting overly brown by minute 15, and the crust could have stood another five minutes or so. So next time I’ll try about 415 for 20-25 minutes, or until the cheese is golden brown and delicious.

Let it sit for a few minutes, since the cheese will atomise the roof of your mouth if you eat it right away. I’m think everyone’s had that experience, and IT AIN’T PRETTY.

When it’s cool enough, eat it. Preferably with a sorghum beer. Or not. Who am I to tell you what to do? I’m not your mother.

Cheers,
Bran

And no, I don’t mean in a “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” kind of way.

I mean in a “holding on to the feeling and the moment as you perform, with both hands and a mouthful of teeth” kind of way.

As an actor, you learn about commitment in terms of acting from deep within your character. In a drama, commitment is what allows you to be so blind as Helen Keller that you accidentally hit your co-star in the head with a glass pitcher on opening night* because you really didn’t see her. (Trust me on this.) In a comedy, commitment is what allows you to walk face-first into a closed door and have the audience wince. And commitment is everything in improvisational stagework; if you aren’t right there, in the moment, being whatever you’re supposed to be, the whole scene is going to fall apart.

Even if you’re in the wacky land of a musical, commitment is everything. It makes the difference between a cheesy flit on the stage and something truly heart-felt and wonderful. And it somehow makes something objectively silly (“really? the guy is going to get up and sing now?”) into something real.

I’m going to say it again, because it bears repeating: When you’re on stage, commitment is everything.

For example, let’s take this moment from the most recent revival of Company (music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by George Furth). A brief bit of background: The central character, Bobby, is a bachelor who is surrounded by a large group of married friends. His journey through the show takes him from a place of stagnation and fear and an inability to commit (!) to the idea of marriage, to place where he’s finally ready to take that step. Up until this revival in 2006, the show was a relatively light-hearted look at relationships. Bobby was glib and sophisticated and lonely and slightly sad. This version, however, takes it up a notch. Watch this.

(If you have the time and inclination, you really should watch it all the way through from the beginning. The progression from the obstinate beginning, to the more pleading middle, to frustrated and confused, to joyous resignation, is GLORIOUS. But I’ll talk about emotional progressions in another post.)

Raúl Esparza, playing Bobby here, has 100% committed to his character. He’s in there. You know those moments in life where you’ve been fighting a fight within yourself for days, months, or years now, and you’re sick of not having a clear answer? You’re tired, and you’re frustrated, and maybe you’ve been crying. You just want to get that emotion out any way you possibly can, and it seems like the best way to do that is just to yell at the sky. That? Esparza just channelled that. On stage. While singing.

Commitment, baybee.

So I’m bringing this up, because I’ve seen a lot of performances recently where the people on stage were just sort of…there. They went through the motions, they knew their moves and hit their marks, but there was no spark. There may have been a storyline in there, but they didn’t feel it. So I sure as hell didn’t.

One of the most important things you can do as a performer is to learn how to commit to what you are doing. For one thing, you’re making the job of emotionally involving your audience WAY tougher if you’re not emotionally involved yourself. It can be done, but you have to be a fecking brilliant classical actor to do it, and let’s face it, sugarpie; you’re most likely not a fecking brilliant classical actor. So make it easier on yourself; learn to tap into that well of emo you’ve got down deep in there.

For another thing, being committed to what you’re doing will pull your audience into the story and make even that luke-warm storyline better. A so-so throughline concocted to stitch together a handful of disparate performances will seem much stronger if your audience is along for the ride with you. Think about it; if they’re in it too, they won’t notice the glaring plothole in the third act. They’ll just want to see what’s next. Really. (Which isn’t to say that you shouldn’t freakin’ try to do it well first off, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. And committing to that will help.

Which brings me to the last—but still extremely important—bit; if you are truly committed to what you are doing on stage, if you or someone else screws up, it won’t matter as much. In fact, it might not matter at all. There are two main reasons for this.

Let’s go back to something I said at the beginning. Improvisational acting depends completely on the actors being right there, right then, rolling with the punches. If they are committed to that moment, when actor number 1 does something totally unexpected, actor number 2 can just go with it. She can react as the character would have reacted, because she is absorbed in her character. Think about it. This works for all live performances, yeah? If your troupemate suddenly zigs when he should have zagged, if you are totally there on stage in that moment, you’re going to be able to go along with it way better than if you were just floating along in a haze of nothingness. In fact, you might be able to make something even better from it.

The second reason? I need to pull your audience in and get them invested in what you’re doing, because then if you fall on your ass…or drop something…or forget your line…or your headband falls off…you’re probably going to be able to completely gloss over the mistake. I’m cribbing a line from the drum major academy I went to when I was fifteen when I say, “if you screw up, screw up with enthusiasm”. If you have committed to what you are doing, and you have hooked your audience in, you can totally jedi-mind-trick them into thinking nothing is wrong. Seriously. This shit works.

So, please. Spank your inner moppet. Read some Coleridge. Do what you gotta do. But take that emotional energy and let it suffuse your whole self, from your core all the way out through your fingertips and the ends of your hair. Do it. It’ll be brilliant.
Show us what it’s like, being alive.

So I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about dancing and “the rules” (perceived or real), and when it’s okay to just do your own thing.

And since I’m at the point where I’ve begun to focus pretty hard on coming back from that (stupid, ill-judged, only-slightly-voluntary) dance sabbatical, and I’ve just split this blog off from my business one so that I can keep more honest and personal entries separate from the more commercial ones, I’m just gonna ::blahh:: let it all out here. Bear with me.

I’ve been having a bunch of conversations lately, with friends who are beginning to question the influx of “other” that has been pouring into the tribal and fusion bellydance communities lately.

You may have noticed that there’s a hell of a lot of steampunk and steampunk-esque stuff floating around culture these days. Everybody wants a piece, because it’s gotten hip and funky and there are cool shiny things involved in it. And burlesque scenes are growing, as are the fire and circus arts. And there’s a bit of overlap there, and quite a bit of mutual admiration, and surprise! it seems like everywhere you turn people want a piece of it in their act. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it’s just this thing they do instead of dancing.

And then there are the people who stop dancing in the middle of their set to sing a song upside down, or ride a unicycle, or play a trumpet, or something. At what point do you just admit that you’re doing something wacky just to do something wacky? At what point is it just schtick?

I’m usually pretty damn good with grey areas, but I think for me the line has to be drawn when it’s no longer furthering the emotional throughline of the act. If you have to basically stop dancing to do your crazy-wacky-thing, it’s gonna be hard to convince me that it was necessary to convey what you wanted to convey. If I think, “huh. I wasn’t expecting that” in the middle of your piece when you pull some flowers out of your crotch, it’s not going to be easy to convince me that it helped you tell the story. (Unless your story really was about this new product you bought at the drug store…er, nevermind.) And really? If after the dance is over and all people remember about it is the new thing you did where you pole-vaulted over a dressing dummy covered in string, and how cool was that? and man, I wish I thought of that, and they aren’t thinking wow, when she soared over the guy it really made me feel like I felt the last time I was overcome with joy, then I’m calling foul.

The whole subject is a bit near and dear to my heart, since some of the ideas I’ve been having lately as the choo-choo train engine of my dancer-mind starts back up again have been about mixing in some of what I’ve learned over my vast and varied performance career into the bellydance that I do. The conversation I have with myself often goes a little something like this:

Me1: This song is so raffia, so Africa, so sun-breaking-through-the-clouds. It’s a lion running through amber grass. It’s…Oh, snap! You know what would be fucking awesome with this? I need to have this giant raffia mask, like that one I made five years ago, and everything needs to be golden and brown, and string skirts, and emergent, and lots of jumping and smiling and being like a playful cat.
Me2: Oh, c’mon Art-School. A giant raffia mask? What, are we in “The Lion King” all of a sudden? Can’t you just do it without the mask?
Me1: …Well, sure. But…it won’t be the same. There needs to be some sort of coming-out-of hiding right at that point in the song, and the mask conveys the feeling of the song and the story…and…and…it all matches.
Me2: But what if nobody gets it? Then you’re just some idiot onstage with a Julie Taymor fetish.
Me1: First of all, I don’t care if Taymor has hopelessly connected raffia with African music and jungle cats. This song is just screamin’ for it. And besides, that was years ago. Nobody’s gonna notice the connection.
Me2: The readers of this blog are certainly going to.
Me1: That’s not the point. The point is, I am not her, and she is not me. This piece is not from the bleeding Lion King, and I’m truly feel that this piece is gaining something from the use of the mask. It’s part of the story.
Me2: And where the hell do you think you’re going to perform this freak of unnature? You certainly don’t have appropriate places now. You know you’re not gonna do it somewhere specifically for tribal or classical bellydance…
Me1: Who cares? I want to dance to this song. This song makes me want to dance. I can make it, and maybe a show will show up someday. Where to perform it is not the whole point. A big part of the point is the creation. But maybe you’re right. Mask-work is kinda weird to be bringing into bellydance. What if all this is in my head?
Me2: Well, technically we are, Harvey.

And so on, and so on, like Ouroboros eating a snake sandwich.

I still haven’t decided if I’m going to make the mask. But I’m hoping the decision will come upon me when I finally choreograph it, when I can decide whether I really, really need it or not.

But this is just one piece out of many I have ideas for. The bottom line is, this: I took puppetry classes at university. I’ve been a mask-maker. I’ve been tap dancer, a modern dancer, a ballet dancer. I’ve danced on pointe, I’ve danced barefoot, and I’ve danced in four-inch heels. I’ve done Commedia dell’arte, musicals, and more Shakespeare than I could possibly begin to tell you about without quoting things. So I’ve begun to wonder: What have I learned from these things that I can bring into fusion pieces? All these things combine with others to make me me, so if I want to tell a story, can’t I use all the tools at my disposal? Isn’t the point to calling it “fusion” to mix elements of two or more arts together to help increase the value of the piece?
And if I do mix these things in, how do I do it so as to preserve what I think of as the soul of bellydance, to save it from being dropped out the window? How do I keep it from being generic performance art? And how do I keep it from being nonsense distracting people from my dancing, which—ultimately—is what I want to use to move people? How do I make it ethical bellydance fusion?

I don’t know the answers yet. But please, stay tuned as I try to find out.

I usually disregard the “new age for yuppies”- style blogs which tell you about how to increase your effectiveness, or about “hacks” for getting your life organized, or about the life-changing new method of dealing with your email inbox. For the most part, they seem like someone proselytising about some (either obvious or banal) thing which WORKS FOR THEM! and therefore WILL WORK FOR YOU! BUY MY BOOK!

But I was link-hopping this morning to see what the internet world had to show me, and came across a link for this page on a sidebar. Curious what some early-to-bed-early-to-rise nut (as I assumed the author, on spec) had to say about doing nothing, I was pleasantly surprised to read an article about meditation and its helpfulness with being creative.

http://lateralaction.com/articles/getting-nothing-done/

It’s not a new thing, really. Scientists have studied the brain patterns involved with doing specific activities and have found a similarity between those during meditation and those during jogging or ingrained activity, and artists have similar brain patterns when they’re creating.* If you’ve ever “zoned out” while working on a project, and then “came to” to realize that you’d made something awesome without really thinking about it, then you know what I’m talking about.

It seems to me that one of the main ways the author is using meditation in this instance is as a jump-start to creativity; he’s using the meditative state to help him get his brain into that zoned-out state during which great creativity happens. And when you’re in that particular state, the five recommendations he lists at the end of the article come naturally.

I like the idea of using meditation, sure. I myself find that my life is so much better the more I exist in that zoned-out state, and if I’m not creating or dancing, meditation works just as well. But I think there are other ways to achieve that state, and “doing nothing”—which is how he refers to meditation, I think because he’s directing his article at non-Buddhists, non-meditators—is only one of them. I know some people who achieve that state while running, while in the bath, while doing the dishes. People are, as we know, exceedingly different.

So while I enjoy meditating as means for slowing down my brain, getting it into “the zone” and open for potential “ah-HAH!” moments, I know it’s not the only way. It is, however, a nice way to reenforce my continuing efforts to extricate myself from that horrible Yankee mindset of “if you’re not busy doing something every moment of every day, you’re a lazy, worthless, human being.” (I know several of you are also dealing with that particular monkey on your back as well.)

I’ve posted this same write-up over here in the Mydwynter Studios Forum, hoping that you’ll wander over there and talk to me. What ways do you guys have for getting in that frame of mind/being? Have you had particularly good results from something? Are there new things you can do as well? Come on over, and join the conversation!

*Uncited, because I really can’t remember in which science mag I read the article.

The Mydwynter Studios site (both blog and forum) will be going through some big changes over the next week, so please don’t be alarmed if things go awry as I renovate. The chaos is temporary, I assure you. In the meantime, I hope that you all are having a relaxing, joyous, and safe holiday season.

-Bran

It’s been an interesting week.

I’ve been sitting here, knowing cerebrally that South Carolina does not get autumn. It seems that it gets slightly…drier, but the temperature and the preponderance of palmetto trees conspire to deny the state a Proper Autumn, with bright colours and crisp smells and chilly breezes.

However, the intertubes have been full of the change of the season this week. A friend posted pictures of the colourful mountain range around her house. Another friend complained lovingly about how it was already too cold in the mornings to stalk around without heavy socks. And I’ve been forced to watch it all from afar, marvelling at the dissonance between the knowledge that I won’t have that here, and the actual experience of lacking it. I’m having the climatic version of taking a sip from a cup that you thought was water, which turns out to be rum. Or, more accurately, I’ve been hoping for spiced rum and got water instead.

I wonder how many times I’ll walk outside and not be slapped in the face by the blustering autumn wind. I’m wondering how many times I’ll go to open the window and smell…nothing. And I’m wondering, more and more, what all this is going to mean for my winter. Is it just going to get worse, as I wait over and over for the snow that won’t fall? Or will I just get used to it, in that way that humans do, and forget that I ever owned a wool overcoat?

Ordinarily I rely on the change of season to spur me on, and the cold weather to keep me moving. The autumn and winter are when I usually get things done, especially all those projects I’d been thinking up in the heat of the summer when I was too lethargic to move. It’s a reaction to the cold and the quiet, I think. It’s a reaction to the juxtiposition of briskness and ice-bound immobility. So how is a lack of winter going to affect my creativity, my productivity? Will everything just remain…stagnant? Where will I find my winter inspiration, if not from the sun on snow?

Many winters ago and several states away, I spent the winter staying in the attic of some friends’ house, sharing the mostly-finished space with another friend. That season I spent the entire time reading Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of Avalon, listening to my copy of Jethro Tull’s “Songs From the Wood”, and handsewing a gigantic woolen cloak. It was chilly everywhere, but that was the warmest I’d felt in ages. I was surrounded by people whom I loved and loved me, we had a constant supply of hot cocoa, and I was immersed in a very medieval-inspired winter. It feels like every year since then is an attempt to recreate those amazing few months, to no avail; you really can’t go back home again. But at least I still had the cold and the calm.

So, perhaps, this year is the year I invent something else. A new winter. A new zero. Something less reliant on snow and cold, and more derived from an inner quiet. After all, people have to slow down to think sometime, and I hope that even down here–in a humid land full of palmettos and pecans–people still use winter as the season of meditation, reflection, and calm.

Today I’m working on the design for some workout pants (trousers, for you Brits, not underpants) for bellydancers, and whomever else wants them. They–and some other reclaimed t-shirt clothing I’ve been designing–will eventually be put up on etsy. I’ve got a nice cup of chamomile tea, and I’m about to start a pot of chili a-simmering.

Once I finish the current step for these pants (working on ruffles), I think I’m going to work on a current custom tattoo design. I was hoping to get some prelim. graphic design stuff done this week, but since I won’t be getting my other computers from West Virginia for yet another week I have a bit of a reprieve.

ON DECK: Research the hair of Alphonse Mucha’s women
TODAY ON TV: Ep 101 of “Mad Men”; Terry Jones’ “Barbarians”

Well, here I am, back in good ol’ Charleston again. I’m just in time to catch what (at this point) may or may not be a Catagory 3 hurricane. Joy!

I’m getting a chance to sort through old t-shirts and get to work on some designs for the etsy store. Be assured that as soon as I get some items up I will post a link here. And I’m also putting the word out: I’m looking to build up my supply of old t-shirts from which to make new and exciting garments. If you have an old pile of t-shirts sitting around that hasn’t yet made it to the thrift store, please consider sending them to me instead. As an incentive, for every ten shirts you send I’ll make you a new and shiny something out of one of them. Spread the word! This is a great way to get something useful out of an old sentimental shirt you never wear anymore.

I’m also going to get to re-paint the room which will soon be my studio. We might even get to buy the paint today, and as soon as James’ dad drops off the ladder I can get going. This is all way more pleasing than just painting a room ought to be; it’s really the little things with me, innit?

Well, I’m back in Ontario, having spent the last two weeks at Pennsic. I’m spending the next day or so here, and then Virginia and I are driving back to West Virginia for some serious prep work for The Maryland Rennaisance Festival.

At this point, the plan is for me to be in town and at faire for Labour Day Weekend. On that Friday, my friend Terri is performing, and on that Sunday is DC Tribal Cafe, which I am very much looking forward to attending. Please contact me if you want to plan something. In fact, if you are available or interested in…conveyance…to or from events, also please contact me.

Back to watching Virginia watch the Olympics for me. Cheers, all.

Happy April!

It’s been an interesting few days here at Mydwynter Studios.

The work on my apartment above the pottery studios is progressing. Soon, the ceiling will be finished, and after that work can continue more easily. I have completely moved in nonetheless, which has been fantastic…especially for Rigel the studio cat, who has decided now that there is a dog-free zone, he’s going to sleep off the last year. (He’s been an almost-exclusively an outdoor cat for that time due to some “dog issues”.) His greatest ambition thus far seems to be to shed as much as possible onto my bedcover. Congratulations, Rigel. You’re doing well.

Last night was a bit stressful, for various personal reasons. I decided to take a page from my freshman year at university and stay up all night, doing some sort of artwork which I seldom get to do. The whole thing is an exercise in freedom; freedom from the usual constraints of time, and freedom from my usual constraints of media.

I was inspired to pull out my old pastels and a beautiful blue piece of pastel paper I had bought on a whim this past fall. I let fly, to this effect:

I’ve been calling it “study of a celt in lapiz and copper” for lack of a better title. If you have any suggestions I’d be pleased to hear them.

I won’t editorialize here, only to say that it was an interesting ride getting back on that horse. I haven’t worked with pastels for so long that I can’t even remember when I last used them. I had a blast though, and hope to do that more often. “A fresh palatte of pastels” go onto the list of art supplies I need to order; I suspect that this set is nearly as old as I.

The spring winds outside are gusting, and changes are afoot indeed.
Be well,
Bran