Changing Room
A change in life could mean many things. To Rachel Sheinkin, Tony-nominated for writing the book for The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, it means a successful move from off-Broadway to Broadway, and all that comes with it. Sheinkin is currently neck-deep in wardrobe distractions, and being a self-described semi-contemplative person, she has a few questions about what constitutes life-changing success. Sheinkin, who wrote Striking 12, Blood Drive and the upcoming Serenade, is a busy woman lately. After all, she has to learn how to grow her neck and walk in heels. Find out how a Tony nomination has changed Sheinkin's life. Or did it?
After Spelling Bee opened off-Broadway at Second Stage there was a period where Bill Finn called me every day to ask if my life had changed. "Has it changed yet? Has it changed yet?" he'd ask. I didn't know. "Then it hasn't changed," he'd say.
Flash forward--and through amazing good fortune and Bill's determination you barely need to speed up time to do that--and Bee has opened on Broadway and received several Tony nominations. It's awesome, I love it, I'm proud of our homegrown show--but I'm not sure I can pull anything as coherent as a "changed life" out of these new experiences. Still, one thing is definitely different…
Five-foot tall writers generally don't have to worry about a lot of fashion attention. Having chosen a semi-contemplative life, that's fine with me. Still, in this odd bubble that is Broadway preparing for the Tonys, I suddenly find myself receiving a lot of beauty advice.
Carole Rothman, Artistic Director of Second Stage, is petrified that I'll show up to some photo op without makeup. She's constantly reminding me to brush my hair and wear lipstick. Several people have told me that as the only woman nominated in a writing category, I should wear a low-cut blouse to all press events. I'm nominated with luminaries, but I should use my cleavage to confuse the voters. I take it all with the love and pragmatism with which it's offered, and do as I'm told. As I put on my low-cut blouse I tell myself I'm drawing attention to the issue of diversity.
I'm sent to Gabrielle Carlson's West Village studio to look for a Tony dress. I'm buzzed into an array of gorgeous fabrics and colors, and instantly feel out of place. But I can't walk out, so I try things on, and end up falling in love with a relatively simple, fanciful navy dress. It's strapless, so the expressive "Gab" to whom I'm "Rach" from minute two chooses a large red silk shawl, beautiful, and big enough for me to move into--"No, no, she says, hold your arms like this." But I don't hold my arms like that. "But you can practice" she says. I try explaining that what I love about her dress is how it makes me feel dramatic without having to develop a new personality, and couldn't we complement its quieter elegance in the shawl. "No, no," she says "Practice."
Gab eventually compromises on the shawl. I get to wear something subtler and in return I must promise to practice walking in heels, get my hair trimmed, and grow my neck three inches before the Tony Awards. I really don't know how to grow my neck, but apparently that involves practice as well. She also asked me to stop eating.
The title gave me pause: Was I already on that streetcar? Either way, I loved Williams' reminder that what's important is not recognition but "the obsessive interest in human affairs, plus a certain amount of compassion and moral conviction, that first made the experience of living something that must be translated into [art]." But oh no! What's this about "all the little vanities and conceits and laxities that success is heir to." Would the Harry Winston jewelry appointment come under vanity, or conceit? Would not having written for the past month come under laxity?
The truth is I'm having more fun than I expected. So while I'm at this big party, I think I'll enjoy myself. And then I'll enjoy the quiet of the day after or the day after the day after and getting back to the work, with fewer wardrobe distractions.
Because perhaps life hasn't changed in the sense that I'll be able to pull off Gab's shawl, or grow my neck, or even that I'll remember to wear lipstick when the producers aren't looking. Perhaps the biggest change is in feeling more secure that the work can continue. Maybe in the best scenario, life doesn't change in the sense of becoming something different; it changes in the sense of becoming a little more securely itself.
So thank you, Bill Finn. And, yes.