Mostly Paper & Glue

There's a room in my home that currently smells like the inside of a kindergarten classroom. For seven days a week, anytime between the hours of 2 and 11pm, I sit, stand, and crouch in that room, surrounded by the scent of aging newspapers, crafting glue, and stale black coffee. I'm in there so long, I go noseblind. The way campers get used to hair that smells of campfire and stale sweat, I go numb to the musty shreds of the LA Times, to the gallon of white goop in a bucket, to the coffee I made four hours ago that never seems to give up the ghost.

If you know me, you've heard me talk about the show I'm putting up in two weeks: The Legend of Graham Canyon.  And if you know anything about it, you know it requires (because I made myself require it) some pretty massive set pieces. Set pieces I'm making. Making with papier-maché. Why did I do this to myself? I ask myself that almost hourly. It seemed simple, when I first had the idea: a one person show with just three set pieces, each of them papier-maché. How "bespoke," how "handmade." That's how I sold it, anyway; to the selection committee, and to myself.

The thing about papier-maché is that even when it's good, it looks 87 percent coocoo. And that's when it's finished. Here I am mid-process, wading through paper clippings and old shoe boxes, questioning my sanity. Here I am in a room that looks straight out of an "I Love Lucy" episode. In fact, I'm not convinced there isn't an episode like this: in which Lucy tries to convince Ricky she needs a housekeeper, in which she enlists Ethel to haul trash bags up from the basement like a pack-mule, in which Lucy ends up ass deep in a living room full of rubbish, wailing and keening over the hijinx gone awry, Ricky emitting his signature squawk-laugh.

Of course in the gentle universe of 1950's sitcoms, Lucy always got what she wanted (except, of course, becoming "part of the act"). The set up could be a zany garbage fire, but the resolution would always be love and cleanliness. Here I am in 2019, and I can't seem to make it past the set up. I'm stuck in the first ten minutes of my own sitcom, trapped in sticky, chicken wire loop. The phrase "hairbrained scheme" doesn't even begin to cover the mess I've made. I'm knee deep in crumpled editorials and ribboned, undecipherable panels of "Drabble." My hands, forearms, and sometimes forehead are covered with what looks like gray, opaque scabs, the remnants of newsprint and adhesive.

English is my second language, so I don't always know the idioms and phrases that apply. Let's just say that the more I do, the more work there seems to be. I'm on a time-wasting errand, I'm chasing a big wild bird. That guy who pushed the rock up the hill has nothing on me. Did he spend hours tearing sports pages by hand? Did he try to make a giant sombrero out of box scores? I didn't think so.

Don't get me wrong. I'm blessed with work, and can't wait to share these massive, stupid creations with the world (or 50 people in Santa Monica). But until that day-- December 7th, 7pm, Sand & Sea Room-- you'll find me in the back of my house, making a 5 foot tall cactus out of Bill Plaschke columns. At least there's a little black and white portrait near the byline. That way every few inches, I see a smiling, goateed face looking up at me. And that's enough, for now.

if you see a small person made almost entirely of paper and glue around the beach house, say hi.
xx
analisa