Theatrical tension

I could be in the daily mail.

But I’m not. You see, this friday we had a photographer come into the theatre. The day before another volunteer and I had found a costume for all the models, some of them arriving at a completely different time than planned (so, for example: Mean to be fitted at 3 pm, arrived at 10 am with the REAL 10 am appointment) and some of them came completely unscheduled. So, to be honest, I am not sure why they even created a schedule in the first place. But anyway, we somehow manged to put a costume on all of them and tidy the place up afterwards. I ought to have some more arm muscle due to lifting the “Gloves” box up and down ten thousand times. It wasn’t until it was not needed I thought about simply leaving it down for now.

So, friday all the models/actors came and put on their costumes. The photograph was supposed to do a 360° panorama picture in the auditorium with all the actors standing around, presenting the finest costumes from every period to be found in the wardrobe.

But he arrived in the wardrobe and decided: “YES, this is where I want to do the pictures. This is what it’s all about!” As he said this I had to bite my tongue. Hard. It wasn’t my place to tell him to bugger off and do his photos elsewhere, screw the publicity!
In the last 40 days I have been here, I’ve grown rather fond of the wardrobe. I have become part of the company-intern rivalries (though it’s not that extreme) and friendships. I understand how valuble these costumes are, how much care they need and that there is a good reason for everything being sorted and labelled and categorized (or else you would not find a thing) And so I felt the pain and tension that the wardrobe mistress would have had as they moved all the rails, filled the wardrobe with chairs and made it look like a bomb hand exploded in there. While they were taking the pictures, I sat in the office crocheting therapeutically.

I went in there a couple of times, helping people with their costumes. The photographer said he would help me put it all back in order, as that was “the least he could do.” That’s also when he offered me to be in the photographs. I think he was trying to get rid of that stern look on my face and a tone in my voice that said: “I would kill you if I wasn’t a pacifist and it would be totally unreasonable to do that since that would create an even bigger mess to clean up unless of course I killed you outside.” Also, he was trying to make me part of the plot, a perpetrator. But I said no. And when he helped me clear up, I gave him an awfully hard time and I felt great about it.

Him: “Okay, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Me: “We’re not finished yet. Those rails need moving up here and that one’s in the wrong place, too.”

Him: “I’m beginning to regret this.”

It truly was a stressful experience, even though I didn’t do anything.

I suppose that just shows how fond I’ve grown of the place, how much I like working there. Before this I had never imagined myself working in a wardrobe, but now it’s my favorite place to be. I still can’t draw though.But I can make trees out of potato sacks, fat suits out of sofa stuffing and a t-shirt and monkey ears out of monkey tails. It feels good to be go all hands on after 14 years of school and theory. It will be hard to leave when this is over.

Maybe I’ll come back some day.


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