Crooked fingers in Argentina

Yes, I have crooked fingers. I've written about them before. 

I tried a new tactic in Argentina, after my experiences in Peru, where the kids noticed my crooked little fingers in about 95% of the performances. Here's the most common scenario: one kid would see that there was something different about my fingers. He or she would nudge the kids on either side to point out this oddity. They would look at their own fingers, then at mine, then whisper about it. They might start to show off their "double jointedness" as we called any kind of strange bending in our fingers when I was a kid. In the process, they were so engrossed in the idea of something different that they didn't listen to the story.

Partway through the Argentina tour, I decided to be proactive. In each performance after I showed the US map and talked a little about my family, I said "I want to tell you something else about my family. We happen to have crooked fingers." Gasp! The audience was fascinated, I think in part because I gave them permission to look at something strange about my body. Afterwards, I let them touch my fingers if they want to. It's just a finger, a bit more bony than most, and crooked, but still, just a finger.

In Argentina, five times, I had a treat--four kids and one teacher, at different schools, showed me their own crooked fingers. I've never seen so many outside my family. Occasionally I'll see crooked fingers at a school in the US, but not often. I only got a picture of one set, on the last day at St. Luke's School. There was another set at this school, but the two kids weren't related.

Not as crooked as mine, but it's still noticeable. In my family, there is a range of crookedness. Mine are the second-most.

It's genetic. My father and grandmother had this trait, as do two of my sisters and all three of my brothers. The medical term, I believe, is clinodactyly. I found a blog post other than mine about crooked little fingers and wasted quite a bit of time reading all the "me, too!" comments before I came to my senses. I guess that's my version of nudging the person next to me and whispering.

My nursery school art project, plaster painted with gold paint. Crooked as can be.

Watching other performers

One of the great pleasures of being in the performing arts is that watching other performers is part of the job. It's especially a pleasure to see performers who are incredibly gifted and who know exactly how to read their audiences. 

Last Saturday I went to see Rachel Ponsonby in her new show, Mon Opera, a one-woman clown opera in Brussels at La Samaritaine. Woohoo! Though it was a show in English, I wasn't the only one in the audience rolling on the floor with laughter. 

Rachel plays the part of Virginia Davis, a stereotypically buttoned-down Englishwoman of a certain age, who has come to tell us about the life and work of Lady Penelope Flower, the famous (really?!) English opera singer. Virginia plays many parts in the show, changing seamlessly from one to the next. We were never confused about who was speaking or singing. 

When I watch other performers, I pay attention to essentials, such as pacing, clarity of the scene and of articulation, physical movement, as well as to the story being told (in whatever artform). Rachel got all of these right--as I knew she would, since she has been a clown for almost two decades and had excellent training. Her timing especially was spot-on. 

On top of all that, she plays at least five instruments and sings. One part of the show is the Hallelujah chorus, in which she sings all the parts (you'll see part of it in the clip). The audience roared. And did I mention the hulahoop of fire?  

I also watch other performers for the arc of the show. If this had been one unrelenting laugh-fest, it would have been too much. Rachel brought the audience along on an emotional journey. There was plenty of tenderness, for example when Lady Flower finds herself dumped by her true love for Maria Callas. One of my favorite lines in the show: "Maria Callas! She can't even sing...in English." 

As good storytellers--and other performers--know, it's important to bring the audience home at the end of the journey. We all arrived back safely with Miss Davis. As my friend Marie said afterwards, "C'etait super!"

What a satisfying evening. Aaah.

That's good, that's bad

In fact, this post has nothing to do with the book, nor with the "That's good, that's bad" style of story. I just like to have a picture and this was convenient. 

What I really want to write about is a question I had from one of the teachers at the European School of Brussels today. I did two performances for 13-year-olds. At the end, as I usually do for this age, I asked if they had any questions. In the second set, one of the teachers asked one:

Is the storytelling about the story or the action of telling it? 

I didn't quite know how to answer this. It's about both, to me, but he wasn't satisfied. He rephrased it:

Is it better to have a good story told badly or a bad (or mediocre) story told well? 

I had to think about this. Neither. Why not expect excellence every time? 

I've heard good stories told badly and it sets my teeth on edge. It's awful to hear a story butchered. This afternoon, that was the response I settled on. Now I'm thinking about stories that were told very well but in the end had no substance. Though they were told in an engaging way, I didn't remember what they were about later. They had no impact. 

What do you think? Is this a question worth asking?