I’ve just viewed the movie from the festival on the webpage. It certainly brought back many memories. The week was so action-packed it could’ve been condense into a 3-hour Hollywood masterpiece, but once it was over, it turned out I remembered little and wanted to remember even less.
A few months have passed and I’ve certainly distanced myself emotionally from the event, so hopefully I can dig down into the dregs of my memory and bring up some interesting stories.
Probably one of the most hectic moments was due to a few meters of black plastic. Yes indeed. I’ve never been too much involved in either dance or theatre (unless you count the ballet preschool I went to with my brother in North Carolina. I wasn’t the best dancer, as I was decidedly too gangly, but I enjoyed it a lot, especially when my brother joined me. He had apparently had some qualms about ballet being girlish, in spite of the fact that I tried to convince him it wasn’t so. In face of the facts, the 99% of girls, he did have something going for him. Thankfully though, black ballet slippers embroidered with cute puppies sufficed to convince him it wasn’t a dishonor to his 4-year old masculinity to consent to accompany me.)
So it might not surprise you to find out that the whole concept of dance flooring was something new to me. I’ve seen people dancing plenty of times, but in movies ballet dancers usually practice in mirror-bedecked rooms with wooden floors polished so that they could serve as mirrors as well. Well, apparently this was another thing I had to learn. I soon came to know the exact dimensions of the dance flooring at the Centre and even what matte tape was necessary to secure it to the floor, as well as the fact that it has to be laid out a few days earlier, or at least the previous night, in order for there to be no creases or bumps.
I had it all figured out for the workshops and performances at the Center. The flooring would simply be laid out on the Sunday preceeding the festival and lay there until Friday morning. I wrote it in the ‘labor demand book’ that I would need two strong men to lay it out on Sunday, I supplied them with abundant tape and even arranged for the cleaning lady to mop it between workshops.
One thing escaped me, though. Not all the performances would be at the center. Nay, most of them would take place at the Warsaw Theater Conservatory.
That was a mistake I paid for most dearly.
Wednesday I made a quick visit to the premises with the technician for the Friday performance. I prompty got caught up in translating between him and the Polish technicians (who, although experts in their respective professions, are not endowed with an extensive knowledge of English), the discussion took a very technical turn as to the reflectors, light filters, number of lumens etc. The French technician was very much impressed with the size and brand-new equipment of the theatre, although of course it turned out they lacked a color filter which was necessary for him (the one they had was too orange). The crew showed him around for the better part of an hour and he left, content with the situation.
Thursday afternoon, the workshops were nearing the end. My OD and I heaved a sigh of relief that we had hit the half-way mark. We checked off the light filter, which we had bought, and all the other accessories for the next day. The French technician was eating dinner and eager to chronicle his impressions of Warsaw. I took a few minutes to accompany him and all was well until the bomb broke. „Hm, well, you know, I know this is a stupid question, because it’s so basic that it never even crossed my mind. There is dance flooring at the Conservatory, right? I just don’t remember seeing it there.”
My mind went blank. Of course there wasn’t. It’s a theatre, not a dance performance venue. It’s for actors who present Shakespeare and Kantor and Witkacy and care not what they stomp on. Not for dancers or actors who feel the need to come into close contact with the floor.
What more, the nice French technician had conveniently managed not to send me the technicial specifications for the performance, even though I had asked for them repeatedly. He had called a week before the festival and asked if they had back light, front light and 2 CD players. Fairly basic. Nothing about a dance floor.
„Well, yes, dance flooring, well that’s a standard”, said I, playing for time, yet not wanting to lie.
„Just wanted to doublecheck.” He emitted a nervous chuckle.
I chuckled even more nervously and proceeded to excuse myself.
The OD chuckled nervously when he found out. Then I called the Conservatory Director and we all proceeded to chuckle nervously.
Of course there was no dance flooring at the Conservatory.
A few hours later, we took to task the theatre company, a very nice couple in their 60s. The OD spoke, I translated, and after some small talk about the weather in Warsaw and the reception of their workshops, we got to the gist of the matter.
These artists are true professionals. They found out they would have to play on floorboards the next day. They were tired after their workshops, already stressing out before there performance. Yet they remained understanding and pro-active throughout. We had explained to them that there was no flooring, there would have been had we known earlier it was necessary, but no one had mentioned it. We would arrange for them to have access to the Conservatory that evening to look at the floorboards. Mr. Actor decided to accompany me there, while his wife went home. The guard wasn’t surprised to see us there at that hour, since he had been forewarned.
We were let onto the dark scene. Mr. Actor tentatively slid his foor over the floor. It was black, newly-painted, but the surface was uneven. Not only the risk of splinters, but also the risk of stubbing a toe during some glissade.
He shook his head.
I understood.
The taxi deposited him at his hotel, while the OD and I held our customary midnight battle talk.
Dance flooring is not some accessory you can randomly pick up from a costumes shop. And it has to lay on the floor for at least a few hours before it becomes usable. These two facts remained unchangeable, no matter how long we stared them in the face. Finally, the OD telephoned the Centre’s director. She consented to have the dance flooring removed the next morning to the Conservatory. The dimensions of the flooring were exactly enough to ensure that the Conservatory floor would be covered.
Of course, things were not that simple. I still had to expediate the flooring to the Conservatory, that is, get 2-3 men to roll it up, carry it out to the truck (thankfully the center’s truck was on call and accessible, although I also had to officially fill out an ‘order’ for the truck), drive it to the Conservatory, leave it there and have someone roll it out. Seems fairly simple. But the truck driver managed to get lost and when he finally found the Conservatory, he couldn’t enter the private driveway. So he did what all other employees and volunteers whenever they encountered the slightest hitch – they called me. As if he couldn’t get out of the truck and ask the guard to open the gate. No, he had to call me, so I had to call the Conservatory’s technical director and ask him what the procedure was for opening the gate to let our truck through. If only I could have gone with them it would have been much easier, but no, at that moment I was scheduled to gather up all of the leaves, stones, pebbles, and branches that one of the artists had been depositing over the course of a week in my office, and with the overmentioned artist, take a taxi to collect and take to the Conservatory the remaning articles, which he had stored in his hotel room and outside his hotel window (among others, the famous 2-meter branch he had brought with him by plane from his country).
As it turned out, we pulled up to the Conservatory just behind the truck with the dance flooring. It was as well, since the sight of a slight young blonde as myself with such a load quickly mobilized the boys from the stage crew to carry the flooring in, thus sparing our driver. (In general the stage crew were the bright point of the festival, young professionals who worked overtime and in great stress, while not knowing the language of the artists, in order to make sure everything went well.)
The French technician was there as well. I imagine his bosses, the acting couple, had given him a piece of their minds the previous evening. He had taken a break from getting the stage set up and was outside smoking, so he saw everything. He came up to me with a beaming smile: „Dance flooring! Super. I hope it wasn’t a problem for you?”
To which I deigned to reply with a haughty look and the words: „It was, indeed, a problem. But it’s been solved.” („No thanks to you”, I added in my mind). And I turned around and left him there in a cloud of smoke to meditate on his own iniquity.
All in all, the dance flooring was a good investment. It turned out all of the actors for the remaning performances wanted it as well. Their eyes positively shined when they saw it was there.
And Mr. Actor thanked us effusively. In an official statement, he said he was very touched by the effort the organizers had made to supply everything, and added with a wink in his eye that he was especially grateful for the dance flooring.
Those words of his were one of the nicest that were spoken during the festival. It takes a great artist to be able to appreciate and thank the people who work behind the scenes.
The moral of the story is: Never let a dance flooring take you unawares.

It's been a few weeks since the festival ended, and I still haven't got around to describing the antics that went on meanwhile. Perhaps to set the scene it would be best to describe the remaining two of my bosses, as an understanding of their characters is crucial to comprehending some situations.
2) The Organizational Director.
Probably the nicest guy of the bunch. A movie producer and director, producer of various international festivals in Warsaw and all over Poland. His down-to-earth approach and managerial skills made working with him a pleasure. Taking time out of the day to pamper his employees and make sure they were never lacking for everything (even Kleenex!), he was for me an inspiration, although his absent-mindedness and his constant tardiness did sometimes upset my well-planned day. What is most striking about him are the people skills he possesses - never at a loss for a word, a well-timed compliment, or a simple pat on the back. He learns the names of everyone he meets, from cleaning ladies to security guards, and calls them by name whenever he can - a simple enough ploy which literally keeps the cleaning ladies running after him with mops offering to do extra work to accommodate him. His practical attitude ("better work hard for 2 hours getting everything done than spend 8 hours playing solitaire on the computer and pretending to be busy") puts him in direct opposition to HIRD, and his marketing and popularizing approach to theatre ("Art") daily, nay even hourly ignited the wrath of AD (who, acting contrary to his own interests, does not even have an e-mail account). This made for some tense but interesting situations.
3) The Head of the International Relations Department (HIRD).
HIRD is the only one of the full-time culture institution employees, and this is reflected in his work. He does not work because he is artistically motivated (AD), nor yet interested in bringing the project to its conclusion (OD), he works because...he works because... I know not.
Nominally, HIRD was my supervisor in the institute. This turned out to be a good deal for him, since he got credit for the project without actually knowing what it was about. Not that this didn't have its good side - he signed any paper, contract or bill which I would put on his desk, after a peremptory: 'So, this expense was really needed? Is it in the budget?" to which he would always receive affirmative answers (note: this was entirely correct, as they were - it was the first project with a major budget that I was responsible for, so I preferred to underspend than otherwise). However, the last day, when the final performance and closing ceremony were running the risk of being canceled at the last minute due to technical problems (the theatre company had failed to bring their main technician, and the lighting and sound were being done by an actress who had never done them before), this proved to be slightly annoying. HIRD called me from across the impatient crowd (including directors and other VIPS, since the closing ceremony was also a banquet) milling about in the foyer: "Is everything ok?" to which I undauntedly replied: "Of course!" (no use explaining the hitch to him - he would have panicked, adding to an already stressful situation.) "So, Coordinator, what is going on?" "Well, we're having a few technical problems, so we'll be a few minutes late. But everything is fine!" We were 30 minutes late, and everything did turn out to be fine, but no support from his quarter was forthcoming.
HIRD is probably the most interesting of my bosses for a simple reason - for all his staunch anti-communism, he is actually the product of a bygone era in Poland. HIRD is quite young, in his mid-thirties, so he certainly has only distant memories of what life under communism looked like. He professes to be very much right-wing. However, his work ethic belies his beliefs. Let me explain.
In communist Poland, the dream of most people was to obtain what was known as a 'posada' (in English this translates into: job, position.) However, in Poland the word carries connotations of a job position with many benefits: paid vacations, special recreation centers targeted at employees of a certain state enterprise,etc. The most important of these benefits is the stability of the job, the fact of being regularly paid - regardless of the efficiency and results of one's work.
HIRD is what I imagine a state employee (and under communism, most people fell into this category) used to be like. He comes in late, usually around 9.30, sometimes not even bothering to explain his tardiness. He then promptly sets about making himself a pot of coffee, checks to make sure the room is properly humidified, surveys his little kingdom of 3 subordinates and sits down in his great armchair to catch up on his correspondence.
At 12 he leaves for lunch, well-prepared with a stack of newspapers under his arm, and returns at earliest around 2 PM. Hopefully, he has a meeting with the director, or someone else from the institute, or someone with whom he is working on a project. He is most happy if this person is from outside the office, which necessitates officially signing himself out and leaving the office for an indefinite period of time. Lacking official professional meetings, he takes it upon himself to organize 'department meetings', which are a story unto themselves.
If no more semblants of meetings are available, then he is condemned to suffer through another few hours, until he leaves, earlier than 5 PM. He is very exacting about letting himself take days off from work due to illness or otherwise.
What HIRD actually does do in his time in the office (what little of it there is) remains a mystery. His computer screen is set up in such a way as to make it impossible for anyone else to see what he is actually doing. He delegates as much of his tasks as possible to his employees, and when asked about how to fulfill a certain formality, or what is the procedure applicable in a given situation, he stares point-blank to try to make the inquirer feel guilty about not knowing. Failing that, he sends the inquirer to any other department (accounting, administration, graphic design), explaining that this is none of his business.
And his penchant for meetings... that merits a separate post.

It's over!

My desperate battle-cry of 'The show must go on!" appears to have taken effect. I no longer have 3 phones ringing every few seconds with a group pilot demanding: "There is no taxi coming to pick them up, what I am supposed to do?" or the translator: "My tramway is up in smoke - I won't get to the theatre for the rehearsal in time" or the catering company: "Can you possibly come 15 minutes late? Nothing is ready for dinner yet". No longer do I have to keep track of 25 lost and forlorn artists in all stages of undress, distress and stress. No longer do I have to worry about where they left the 5-kg block of green clay, nor whether the Swiss branches and leaves really are sufficiently fire-proof enough to be placed 5 centimeters from the lit candles, or that the make-up assistant's child lost its favorite toy below the stage.
In a word, the festival is over. Finito. La fin. End of story.
Or rather the beginning - as you can imagine, I have my fair share of stories to tell after this ridiculous week, when adrenaline and a large dose of pseudo-ephedrine were the only things that kept me going from 7 AM to 12 PM eight days straight. It's not easy being one of 2 people responsible for an international theatre festival.
Once the adrenaline and pseudo-ephedrine were no longer in my system, I slept for a whole day. And a few more days for 12 hours straight. Now I feel okay. And I can commence the stories. Beware, some will be truly blood-curdling!

A new definition of telecommuting

So... Apparently there is a chance of coordinating from bed. In fact, it's what I'm doing right now. I have two phones laying beside me, and the laptop, as its name befits, on my lap.
It seems this kind of work is the only choice left, when:
a) the Internet is STILL not working at my workplace, and hasn't been since Thursday
b) the festival started today
c) A few minutes after the first workshop started, I came closest in my life to fainting.
Since then I have been unceremoniously packed away to my apartment by my co-workers and two of my bosses ("She's green! What on earth is she still doing here? Send her home!"). If the flu wasn't enough, other more disabling health problems chose the perfect moment to kick in.
So here I am, typing away and trying to remember where I saved which file and put each document, as one of the two phones is constantly ringing.
Keep your fingers crossed, and pray for me, because this day hasn't been fun at all.

Isn't it ironic?

The sleepless nights and working overtime have done their job - a day before the whole festival is supposed to start, I am in bed with a nasty cold, and no perspective of either getting well quickly or taking time off from work (as my job title states, I'm supposed to be there coordinating).
I guess no chance of coordinating from my bed, is there?
And the most amusing thing is that I am well on the way to losing my voice at the beginning of an international mime festival.
Get it?

The festival is on its merry way!

This last week has been very, very hectic for me. Being the coordinator of an international mime festival and having to juggle between afore-mentioned bureaucratic procedures resulting from the fact that I work in a regional self-government-financed institution and the demands of my three bosses has basically taken over all of my time and most of my thoughts.
My bosses are, respectively:
a) the Artistic Director (henceforth referred to as AD). A well-known mime artist, actor, stage director. He spends his time between attempting to oversee all the technical details of the festival (which should be left to the coordinator and organizational director, methinks). He manifests his supervision by inquiring one week before the festival if the invited artists have a hotel reserved and airplane tickets bought, and oh my goodness, what about transportation?
He also is known for insinuating that the Organizational Director and Coordinator (my humble self) are scheming against him. His latest accomplishment was a long sermon in which he expressed his worry at the 'negative energy' he felt emanating from Coordinator., which negative energy was no doubt no way related to the fact that the said Coordinator has spent the last three weeks working overtime and hence has had her personal and emotional life reduced to a bare minimum.
AD is frequently accompanied by his stage designer, an elderly lady who is known to add on her insightful comments to contracts she signs, comments in which she stipulates amendments which are simply re-wordings of conditions already set forth in the said contract. She also occasionally doesn't realize she didn't hang up her cell phone while perorating about the deficiencies of the Coordinator to the AD, who is her bosom friend, and then is guilt-stricken. Her guilt lasts only long enough for her to induce her to limit her stormy visits to Coordinator's office to one a week, not three a day.
AD also has parented multiple artistic offspring. The students of AD are class unto themselves. They have inherited all the 'artistic' behavior of AD with only a fraction of his talent. Their unannounced visits to Coordinator's office are always badly-timed, and frequently also stormy. Not content to have their names alongside great mime artists, they blame Coordinator for not having 10 tickets each to give away to their adopted daughter's ex-boyfriend's mother's Hawaiian yoga instructor. AD's students are oblivious to the fact that the reason there are no tickets or places in the audience results from their beloved AD's artistic vision, which limits seating to 80 places. They are known to call three times a day with the same question and then visit Coordinator's office in the hope that they will receive a different answer.
My other bosses are slightly easier to handle, but also very characteristic, and their portraits will no doubt appear in my next posts.
I am completely saturated with pantomime these last few weeks, which is somewhat surprising in the sense that I have, as of yet, never witnessed a 'true' pantomime performance (which, as they tell me, is something very different from the gold-ensconced motionless figures standing on street corners in all European capitals and breaking their stillness at the drop of a coin).
My saturation level has reached the point where my boyfriend appears in my dreams only to argue with me... by pantomime. I wake up, paralyzed, begging - "Please, God, NO!"
But today I think that even if these nightmares are recurrent, in 10 days this will all be over.

Announcement!

Dear avid readers of my blog - I am sorry to announce that for reasons beyond my control (mainly a somewhat paranoid actor who happens to be my boss) I will, for the next few weeks, regularly fail to update this blog.
Do not worry - if I survive the onslaught of work and hosting the festival for which I am apparently responsible, I will let you know.
Meanwhile I shall be gathering material for my posts. Lots and lots of material. Whole scores of anecdotes about slightly nutty actors, bureaucratic procedures and the like.
Stay tuned.