Stillness/Silence

There is a lot that goes on backstage at Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Christmas Carol. A fog machine the size of an oil drum rolls around, we have over a dozen quick changes, props are tossed, belts are thrown to the ground. There are conversations and clanking costumes and the occasional accident, when a rolling trench runs headlong into a ladder and the collision rings out like an alarm. Amidst all this, Kristen and I try our hardest to keep the audience from hearing anything but the words spoken onstage.

At the end of the play, when Spirit Three exits, I quick change Tim into a nightgown and robe. The Spirit Three coat is huge: knee-length, flared, made of a raincoat material. And let me tell you: that material is LOUD. Anytime it rubs up against itself, it rustles like cellophane.

So: Tim exits, removes his hat and mask and gloves, while I take his nightgown off the hanger and sling it over my arm. All the while: crinkle, crinkle, CRINKLE, crinklecrinkle.
Then he turns around, I place my hand on his collar, and he rips open the coat along it's snaps: crinkle
CRINKLECRINKLE, crink.
Then he takes his arms out of the sleeves: crIIIInkle.
And then the coat is my hands: (silence).

I know that the soul of a quick change is speed and efficiency  but I always pause there and relish this moment. Tim is busy taking off his pants, so he never notices when I just stop and look at this coat, this loud, obnoxiously huge and impractical coat, now completely silent. Of course, it goes back to crinkling as soon as I move to put it on the hanger, but for that split second something wild and noisy goes still and mute in my hands.

I like to feel like I have the power to bring that stillness.