#if acting can become more accommodating (especially theatre) there's a chance!!!

[agencyboys]

I've talked about this before, but Dead Boy Detectives has made me creative again. I'm learning and practicing new ways of drawing, I'm writing again, hell, I'm even learning how to play the piano!

I haven't talked about how I used to be involved in theatre. I was cast and crew at different points. I painted sets (and even designed a few pieces), I was on the stage! Life happens, disabilities can occur, and goals have to change. It's been 8 years, and I still miss it.

I felt like I was acting as I went about my day. Every conversation was a script I had to follow. I felt like I had to act to survive. Learning to unmask autism has lessened this feeling. Along with unmasking, the acting in Dead Boy Detectives has reignited my love of acting. Analyzing the smallest changes in expressions, feeling the emotions from the screen... It's hard to put the feeling into words because it's something I've felt for as long as I can remember.

Watching the cast has been such a joy. You can see the passion behind their performances. However, watching Jayden specifically has made the ache to get back on stage even stronger. Seeing everything he put into Charles reminded me of how much fun acting is and how satisfying the work can feel.

Others have written everything I can say about his (and the rest of the cast's) performances, so I figured I'd share how it's personally affected me. I may never get back on (or behind) the stage again, but I'm happy the passion is back nonetheless! I love to love things!!! So thank you, Jayden, for helping me relearn to love acting ❤️

[celestialholz]

I just like to think the bridge crew is surprisingly supportive. Q might do something vaguely sinister like show up to play poker and decide to make them play Jumanji instead, but they all treat him like Picard's theatre-kid boyfriend instead of a trickster god. He ends up actually being friends with Data and possibly Riker, who low-key punks Q by persuading him to do little things that get on Picard's nerves (like sing falsetto or bring him Italian wine). They all just want their captain happy.

Hello you! ^_^ I’ve got to write you a little fic haven’t I, especially as this is so lovely and I’ve never really written anything where Qcard isn’t a secret

 Picard takes his seat with played-up sobriety, every inch the commanding figure, replicated tea curtly placed upon a readied coaster. He’s deliberately fashionably late, the ambiguity to whether he’ll be attending ramped up for maximum psychological effect, and with a tone of airy confidence, he glances at Data and announces, “Deal me in.”

The careful act very nearly disintegrates entirely at Riker’s amused grin. “Evening, Captain. Nice to see you’re taking this seriously.”

A glimmer of steel flashes through eyes, though there’s more than a hint of a smile upon his lips. “Naturally, Commander. Jean-Luc Picard plays to win.”

“First person to tap him out gets a dose of the less-than-secret alcohol supply,” Guinan pipes up dryly, shooting him a wicked smirk, and he purses sour lips at his old friend even as everyone else beams in her direction.

“Good to see you, sir,” Geordi adds, accepting his first card with the briefest brush of Data’s fingers; Picard wonders if subtlety had truly crossed his mind, and privately grins.

“Glad to be here,” he replies warmly, “though the Risan wine also sounds highly appealing. I assume the prize is also open to me, if I emerge triumphant?”

“… Two doses, guys.” A ripple of laughter echoes around the quarters.

“Well, far be it from me to look a gift El-Aurian in the mouth,” Riker quips cheerfully.

“This just isn’t quite as fun without you, Captain.” Beverly’s smile is warm. “I think we’re all secretly pleased that you’re not too… preoccupied this evening.”

Picard contains a flush admirably, stoicism mostly intact, surprise lowered over time but omnipresent nevertheless; he’s never quite gotten used to them all being at least somewhat accepting of Q’s presence in his life over the past few months, and certainly there’s still the odd flicker of cynicism, the occasional questioning look, but he’s managed to keep the god’s customary antics largely at bay, and it imbues a distinct warmth at his dead centre that they’re supportive even through their doubts.

“Despite my best efforts,” drawls a familiar tone suddenly, as though bidden by vague thought alone, and there sits Q, perched upon Riker’s sofa, lips twitching into a smirk. “Honestly, I don’t know what in the cosmos he sees in all of you.”

Looks are exchanged across the table for a long moment, and Picard bites the inside of his cheek at their scepticism; accepting they may be, but he’s valiantly managed to keep his work and home life entirely separate for the duration, and perhaps this is less forgivable - poker night is sacred, after all, a tradition even he is always welcome at but doesn’t usually indulge in, and Q is capricious at best -

His fears are alleviated in record time, however, as Riker leans forward, eyes gleaming with the challenge. “You’re joining in, I take it?”

Q stops dead, and Picard can’t quite tell which of them is more astonished.

“Money where your mouth is, Q,” Guinan adds crisply.

“I for one am intrigued to see how a self-proclaimed god plays poker.” Deanna this time, eyebrow risen but tone not unkind.

“The casinos of Altaron VII have never been the same, I assure you,” Q replies dryly, though the wideness of his gaze doesn’t diminish.

“Well, now I want to know even more,” Beverly says, smirking. 

“No tricks.” Guinan again, glare sharp.

“No Sherwood Forest.” Worf, growl slightly darker than usual, but Picard’s astonishment redoubles at the fact that even he doesn’t seem too averse to the idea.

“And definitely no spiking us with actual alcohol,” Geordi instructs coolly.

“I would be pleased to deal you in, Q.”

Utter affection for them all surges hot in their captain’s chest, for the uncharacteristic silence and the unmoving lump in his lover’s throat.

“IQ of two thousand and five,” Q points out, and dear stars, Picard realises softly, is that a glimmer of tears in his gaze? “Last chance to back out.”

He shares a warm smile between his crew in gratitude, and turns a tender gaze on the entity - he’s the captain, after all. The final say falls automatically to him, and he’s more than happy to fulfil his duty.

“Sky’s the limit, then,” he murmurs, “and no, I do not mean that literally.”

Something in Q cracks, hairline, and Picard belatedly understands even as the god grins in delight - ‘last chance to back out’.

You are always welcome here, he promises him in thought, knowing his intended audience will hear him loud and clear despite his own lack of telepathy. As long as you’re well-behaved, anyway.

They all shift up just slightly to accommodate an extra seat summoned from nothingness, and a burst of love, of harmony, sparks brilliantly in the depths of his mind in response.

Oh, darling, Q whispers, when am I ever not?

I won’t dignify that with an answer, mon dieu.

He laughs inwardly, accepting cards with a sly wink.

“New wager, then,” Guinan unknowingly interrupts, smirk pure devilment. “First man, woman or android to sabotage the omnipotent guy gets the whole stash.”

Never mind, Jean-Luc. I know exactly what you see in them, Q self-corrects, grinning wickedly.

“Bonne chance, dear mortals…”

Fancy sending me any fluffy Qcard headcanons, folks? https://celestialwarzone.tumblr.com/post/612863839271337984/so-to-be-perfectly-honest-im-a-depressed-bean I fully intend to run this for as long as the global garbage continues

[harddrivetrash]

Methods for Creating Robust RPG Characters From an Actor’s Perspective

I know I don’t post a lot at all, but I’m trying to be better about that. So instead of empty promises and some Assassin’s Creed screenshots, here’s some Real Content! This one’s for all you RPG’ers who might want some advice on character writing. Hope you enjoy it.

For context, I am an actor in Northern California with professional training and seven years of theatre experience. I’m in college currently pursuing a theatre degree. I have been running rpgs for about a year now, and I am the forever game master (GM) for my gaming group.  With that in mind, know that the suggestions in this article come from a place of strong knowledge and love for the art of theatre, and from personal experiences, both onstage and at the gaming table. I have a lot of particular thoughts regarding aesthetic philosophy, specifically as it relates to acting and theatre art, but I’ll try to keep those to a minimum.

1. Start With Your Gameplay Vision

This method focuses on the player’s gameplay preferences first and builds the personality to accommodate that. What do you want this character to be like in a social situation? Do you want a suave talker who can charm his way into trouble and then bluff his way right out of it? Or do you want to be the quiet, brooding type who lets her allies talk things out whilst backing them up by looking intimidating? Similarly, consider how you want to approach combat. Whether you’re a guns-a-blazin’ type player or a stealthy assassin doesn’t matter; the most important part is making that concrete decision and then creating a reason for it.

For example, if you want your character to be a gunslinging, animal-taming bard, decide why they fight that way. Why do they like guns, and how did they learn to shoot? When did they discover their love of animals, and when did they practice the skills which enabled them to tame creatures? With each additional answer, keep adding to the backstory and make sure that everything you add to it stays consistent with its ability to facilitate your gameplay preferences.Keep asking and answering these kinds of introspective questions about your character until you feel comfortable with that creation.

I recommend this method for beginning players and game masters because it allows one to write up a character based on something you’re already excited about. I’ve found that this method works especially well for Dungeons and Dragons, but it’s a perfectly effective method for other, more role-play focused games like Call of Cthulhu or Vampire: the Masquerade. 

The beauty of creating a character this way is the simplicity; the player only needs to consider whether or not every added detail to the character’s personality and backstory is consistent with their desired playstyle. There is no need to worry (too much) about the lore of the game world. The biggest drawback, however, is that this method encourages players to think about actual play in a much more meta-minded manner, as opposed to focusing primarily on immersion and role-play, especially for new players. You might find that you or your players will only play this character so far as to create an opportunity to roll dice. This is totally okay, by the way; there is nothing wrong with hungering for a good dice roll. It’s just something to keep in mind.

2. Find an Environmental Anchor

You may find the previous method to be too basic or meta or for whatever reason not your desired method for character creation; that’s fine! Sometimes when you start a new character, you don’t have the slightest idea about what you want to do in combat or maybe you don’t want to build a character based on class or combat role. No matter what, this method is totally focused on immersion into the game world and nothing else. 

First, speak to your GM about the setting and theme of the game. Try to get as much information as you can about the world and its lore, and then pick something you like as an anchor. For example, if there is a rugged mountain range in a high fantasy setting that you like the concept of, consider making a connection to it with the information you have; is your character from there? Do they want to go there? Did something happen to them whilst travelling through the mountains? Whatever it is, define a clear connection to that place (assuming it works with your game master’s world and lore, of course) and then work from there, asking “why” and “how” along the way to smooth out those rougher details.

Environmental anchors don’t even need to be related to the geography, either! For example, if you’re playing a sci-fi setting where your character lives on a colonial planet, find out what that culture is like. Why is there a colony? What government funded the development of this colony? How do people feel about their leaders and what do they do about those feelings? Acquire any and all information about the people and their culture as you can (assuming your GM shares that with you) and then consider how you want your character to exist in that context. If it’s a religious society, define whether or not your character is religious and how they feel about religion. Do they follow the same religion as everyone else? How has religion affected them in the past? These kinds of questions help you to define how your character acts and feels in the context of the game world without focusing on the different aspects of gameplay or game balance. You’ll definitely find your fighting style along the way, don’t worry.

The biggest downside to using this method as a player is that you need to bug your GM a lot. Chances are they’ll be more than happy to help, especially if they’ve built the entire game world from scratch. But remember, depending on the person, you might not get a lot of information because it’s all an elaborate secret, or they might just not have that information available for you. However, the silver lining is that in asking your game master specific questions about the world, their creative wheels start to turn as they ponder these questions. I’ve found that this usually leads to the GM creating a far more robust and detailed land than they would have done otherwise. In any case, be kind and patient with your questions.

3. Define Personality Traits

Maybe you’re an experienced player and want to try a different method of character creation, or maybe you’re a new player who wants to focus on role-playing a particular archetype, but you have yet to define their more nuanced personality traits. This method is perfect for building a personality, and then writing your backstory to accommodate that. 

Like the other two methods listed here, the most important thing is to decide on a concrete center for your character concept, regardless of what it is. If you want to play a character who is a brave and honorable warrior, start with that. Why do they value bravery and honor? Was it ingrained in them during childhood or did they learn those values later in life? Just those two questions can give you a lot of creative room with which to work. Keep asking questions about the reasons for your character’s attitudes and the way they react in different situations. 

I personally use this method a lot in conjunction with finding an environmental anchor. You don’t have to, but if you choose not to create a character who is tightly tied to the game world in some way, you run the risk of creating a character in a contextual vacuum. I’ll expand more on this idea at a later date, but the key thing to remember is that people, and by extension characters, do not exist in a vacuum. There is always a social and an environmental context which affects how your character develops. Once you’ve used this method to come up with a good personality for your character, be sure to work with your GM to implement them into their game world as smoothly as possible before play begins.

4. Assist Your Players

This one is for all the game masters out there. I find that it is incredibly helpful and important to assist players in character creation, especially if they are struggling. Asking your players questions and providing suggestions which they themselves may not have thought of goes a long way in helping them develop a character with some real depth. In my experience, this collaboration also helps immensely with prompting players to create more intriguing backstories.

Communication is incredibly important (again, I plan to elaborate on this subject in a future post) and as a GM, character creation goes a lot smoother when you inform your players about the setting as soon as possible. Keep them updated as things change in your planning so they can change their ideas in time, if need be. 

The biggest pitfall with this method for both players and game masters is the risk of allowing the player's creation to become the GM's creation. Too many suggestions for backstory plot points or personality traits can smother the player's creativity and lead them to play a character which actually isn't their own creation, and they might not be happy about that. 

Personally, I like giving my players as much agency as possible, so i tend to keep my suggestions to a minimum and focus on asking my players questions about their character. However, if your players enjoy taking your suggestions and everyone's having fun, you don't need to worry. 

One Last Thing…

Remember that your character, especially if you’re a player, is your vessel through whom you may freely express yourself. Stay true to whatever your vision is and create something that you actually enjoy, even if it takes a little bit more time than you’d expect. Playing tabletop games is about having fun and sharing a narrative experience. Don’t worry too much about if your character is “right” or “interesting enough” or “different enough” from your own real personality; that stuff doesn’t matter. As long as you’re all having fun, you’re doing it right. 

Be kind to each other and stay healthy.

[queenmercurys]

So, I usually refrain from expressing too many “problematic” opinions on this platform mainly because I don’t wanna deal with anon hate. I’ve done so in the past and it’s never been fun. But since I’ve been talking my friends’ ears off about Disney recently, I thought I would give it a go here. Yes, in the safety of the “read more”-button, because overall, my opinion doesn’t matter and I don’t wanna force it on anyone.

Let’s cut to the chase. I kind of hate Disney. Don’t get me wrong, I watch Disney films and I occasionally reblog some Disney stuff. I think some of their earlier things, from The Hunchback of Notre Dame to Atlantis, are truly enjoyable films. But I’ve never been into the whole Marvel phenomenon. I don’t care about superhero movies, and the way Marvel is insistent upon franchising everything and essentially making every film a cliffhanger for another cliffhanger film, just makes the whole sub-genre less appealing to me. I’m not exactly an action film fan as it is, and when it’s done in such a chaotic way as the Marvel films tend to be, I’m even less convinced. I’m not saying every Marvel film has to be a John Wick in the quality of action, but... one of them could be, no? As for Star Wars, well, it is my personal opinion that Disney has thoroughly ruined the franchise, to the point that I actually prefer the prequels. Maybe they were messy, badly acted and boring, but at least they felt like films - rather than products made for a cash grab. 

As for their other products, well, I like Tangled. Moana is passable. Frozen is fine (but only fine). But none of these animated films have touched me in ways that, for example, The Swan Princess, The Prince of Egypt and Quest for Camelot have. Ever since I was a child, I’ve preferred non-Disney animated films without even realizing it. Maybe it’s because to me, the non-Disney films just tackle more complicated, fascinating stories that rely less on the chance to make merchandise and more on the opportunity to make good content. I have often heard the term of something being “too Disney”. Which, basically, kinda means that a film is just too family-friendly when it really doesn’t have to be. And that is probably something missing from the non-Disney examples I just gave. Admittedly, all of these films are from the 90′s, and I’m sure Dreamworks and co. have now fallen into the same cash-grab trap that Disney is currently sitting in. But nevertheless, I still consider most non-Disney animated films to be superior to their Disney counterparts. Part of it is definitely my annoying habit of disliking something that is too popular simply because it is popular - but I don’t think that’s the whole story. And my dislike of Disney has only grown over the years, to the point that I’m considering boycotting the company entirely. And here’s a few of the biggest reasons why:

Disney+. Yes, every company has the right to try to make money, and they should. But I think Disney+ will only mean the death of other streaming services, and eventually, the death of diversity and creative freedom in the film and TV industry. I prefer Netflix over anything Disney has ever spat out, and while I recognize its flaws, I hope that it will not get overshadowed by Disney+. But who are we kidding? It will. Especially in America, Disney is this sacred thing that nothing can defeat. Disney’s mediocre films (such as Frozen and Marvel movies) are praised as gifts from God, and everything else is either compared to Disney products, or discarded because of Disney. From everything I have read and watched, Disney+ is going to be a real threat to all of its contemporaries. It’s going to be cheaper than Netflix and others, and it’s going to have the products the masses adore (again, namely Marvel). Netflix will lose customers, and Disney+ will gain them. This will most likely make it difficult for Netflix to make new original content, and will most likely also affect movie theatres. Because if Disney+ continues their trend of releasing films on the platform rather than in theatres, well, what choice do Disney fans have but to join the service? And in the end, we’ll be left with nothing but films and shows that are so lifeless, or old classics we know from beginning to end. And neither one of these options encourage anything new. 

This brings me to my second point, which is the lack of creativity and new ideas. You only have to look as far as the Disney liveaction remakes to see that they don’t care if they give you new, quality entertainment. All they care about is getting your money. And again, I am also at fault here. I liked Cinderella just fine. I loved the new Aladdin. I paid to go see those films. I gave Disney my money and thus, encouraged them to make new liveaction remakes. So, I can’t really criticize much when I’m also the offending party here. But still. Remaking every single classic Disney film? That is just exploiting nostalgia to the point that it’s becoming absurd. And all this does is stop Disney from working on new, interesting films that don’t exist in an already established franchise, or aren’t direct remakes. It’s not like Disney doesn’t have the money to take risks. It just refuses to, because why take risks when you can make easy money? And make no mistake. Aladdin 2019 was easy money. Frozen 2 was easy money. And however nice these products are, it does show in the end result. The stories are recycled, and feel kind of lifeless. The fact that people are comparing The Rise of Skywalker to Avengers Endgame only proves that Disney is not only recycling its’ own ideas, but that it’s stripping the directors and writers involved of their creative freedom. I’ve read stuff about how much JJ Abrams had to change in The Rise of Skywalker to accommodate Disney, and it’s actually pretty scary. What the hell is even the point of trying to tell original stories if Mickey Mouse is just gonna come and tell you to rewrite everything you’ve worked on? Disney is perhaps the most obnoxious and money-hungry company I have ever heard of in my life, and that’s saying a lot when there’s companies like Amazon and Apple around.

My third and final point is the fact that Disney owns, or is on its’ way to owning, everything. Absolutely everything. Star Wars. 20th Century Fox. You name it. Almost everything in the film industry at this point is Disney. And that sucks. It sucks so much. I can’t put it any other way. It terrifies me that Disney is in charge of so much of the content we are given. Because, let’s face it. Disney is not the most risk-taking company (at least not anymore), and certainly not the most diversity-encouraging one. People of color, LGBTQ+ characters, you name it - all of the representation in film and TV will most certainly lessen even more once Disney has its’ claws in everything. Disney only represents minorities when it serves them, and when they know they’ll get money off of it. Like that lesbian kiss at the end of Rise of Skywalker? I didn’t even fucking spot it when I watched the film! That is not representation. Having a token black character (who is completely wasted in the case of Finn in Star Wars) is not enough representation. Disney is a coward, and has been for a long time. All Disney cares about is profit, and that’s it. That’s 100000% it. And I’m not saying that other companies are much better. Of course Netflix wants your money. Of course HBO wants you to hand over your credit card info. But at least the content we receive from those companies varies. Not everything Netflix produces is another Stranger Things. HBO has done things that vary from Game of Thrones. But Disney (in recent years)? Remakes. Sequels. Rebooting a known franchise. It’s all been done before. And I’m scared that, say, ten years from now, every single action film will have the protagonist say a variation of “I am Iron Man” before doing their own variation of snapping their fingers. And, in my very non-expert, very non-educated opinion, that would suck.

By the way, it goes without saying, but all of this is just MY opinion. If you love Disney+, if you love Marvel, that’s amazing. I am so happy for you. This is a really good time for you. I’m nothing but a pretentious dick who is complaining about what is essentially just harmless fun. Just wanted to make that clear. 

[rhetoricandlogic]

The Limitless Perspective of Master Peek, or, the Luminescence of Debauchery By Catherynne M. Valente

Issue #200, Special Double-Issue

, May 26, 2016

AUDIO PODCAST

EBOOK

(Finalist, Eugie Foster Memorial Award, 2017)

When my father, a glassblower of some modest fame, lay gasping on his deathbed, he offered, between bloody wheezings, a choice of inheritance to his three children: a chest of Greek pearls, a hectare of French land, or an iron punty. Impute no virtue to my performance in this little scene! I, being the youngest, chose last, which is to say I did not choose at all. The elder of us, my brother Prospero, seized the chest straightaway, having love in his heart for nothing but jewels and gold, the earth’s least interesting movements of the bowel which so excite, in turn, the innards of man. Pomposo, next of my blood, took up the deed of land, for he always fancied himself a lord, even in our childhood games, wherein he sold me in marriage to the fish in the lake, the grove of poplar trees, the sturdy stone wall, our father’s kiln and pools of molten glass, even the sun and the moon and the constellation of Taurus. The iron punty was left to me, my father’s only daughter, who could least wield it to any profit, being a girl and therefore no fit beast for commerce. All things settled to two-thirds satisfaction, our father bolted upright in his bed, cried out: Go I hence to God! then promptly fell back, perished, and proceeded directly to Hell.

The old man had hardly begun his long cuddle with the wormy ground before Prospero be-shipped himself with a galleon and sailed for the Dutch East Indies in search of a blacker, more fragrant pearl to spice his breakfast and his greed whilst Pomposo wifed himself a butter-haired miller’s daughter, planting his seed in both France and her with a quickness. And thus was I left, Perpetua alone and loudly complaining, in the quiet dark of my father’s glassworks, with no one willing to buy from my delicate and feminine hand, no matter how fine the goblet on the end of that long iron punty.

The solution seemed to me obvious. Henceforward, quite simply, I should never be a girl again. This marvelous transformation would require neither a witch’s spell nor an alchemist’s potion. From birth I possessed certain talents that would come to circumscribe my destiny, though I cursed them mightily until their use came clear: a deep and commanding voice, a masterful height, and a virile hirsuteness, owing to a certain unmentionable rootstock of our ancient family. Served as a refreshingly exotic accompaniment to these, some few of us are also born with one eye as good as any wrought by God, and one withered, hardened to little more than a misshapen pearl notched within a smooth and featureless socket, an affliction which, even if all else could be made fair between us, my brothers did not inherit, so curse them forever, say I. No surprise that no one wanted to marry the glassblower’s giant hairy one-eyed daughter!

Yet now my defects would bring to me, not a husband, but the world entire. I had only to cut my hair with my father’s shears, bind my breasts with my mother’s bridal veil, clothe myself in my brothers’ coats and hose, blow a glass bubble into a false eye, and think nothing more of Perpetua forever. My womandectomy caused me neither trouble nor grief—I whole-heartedly recommend it to everyone! But, since such a heroic act of theatre could hardly be accomplished in the place of my birth, I also traded two windows for a cart and an elderly but good-humored plough-horse, packed up tools and bread and slabs of unworked glass, and departed that time and place forever. London, after all, does not care one whit who you were. Or who you are. Or who you will become. Frankly, she barely cares for herself, and certainly cannot be bothered with your tawdry backstage changes of costume and comedies of mistaken identity.

That was long ago. So long that to say the numbers aloud would be an act of pure nihilism. Oh, but I am old, good sir, old as ale and twice as bitter, though I do not look it and never shall, so far as I can tell. I was old when you were weaned, squalling and farting, and I shall be old when your grandchildren annoy you with their hideous fashions and worse manners. Kings and queens and armadas and plagues have come and gone in my sight, ridiculous wars flowered and pruned, my brothers died, the scales balanced at last, for having not the malformed and singular eye, neither did they have the longevity that is our better inheritance, fashions swung from opulence to piousness and back to the ornate flamboyance that is their favored resting state once more.

And thus come I, Master Cornelius Peek, Glassmaker to the Rich and Redolent, only slightly dented, to the age which was the mate to my soul as glove to glove or slipper to slipper. Such an age exists for every man, but only a lucky few chance to be born alongside theirs. For myself, no more perfect era can ever grace the hourglass than the one that began in the Year of Our Lord 1660, in the festering scrotum of London, at the commencement of the long and groaning orgy of Charles II’s pretty, witty reign.

If you would know me, know my house. She is a slim, graceful affair built in a fashion somewhat later than the latest, much of brick and marble and, naturally, glass, three stories high, with the top two being the quarters I share with my servants, the maid-of-all-work Mrs. Matterfact and my valet, Mr. Suchandsuch (German, I believe, but I do respect the privacy of all persons), and my wigs, my wardrobe, and my lady wife, when I am in possession of such a creature, an occurrence more common and without complaint than you might assume, (of which much more, much later). I designed the edifice myself, with an eye to every detail, from the silver door-knocker carved in the image of a single, kindly eye whose eyelid must be whacked vigorously against the iris to gain ingress, to the several concealed chambers and passageways for my sole and secret use, all of which open at the pulling of a sconce or the adjusting of an oil painting, that sort of thing, to the smallest of rose motifs stenciled upon the wallpaper.

The land whereupon my lady house sits, however, represents a happy accident of real estate investment, as I purchased it a small eternity before the Earl of Bedford seized upon the desire to make of Covent Garden a stylish district for stylish people, and the Earl was forced to make significant accommodations and gratifications on my account. I am always delighted by accommodations and gratifications, particularly when they are forced, and most especially when they are on my account.

The lower floor, which opens most attractively onto the newly-christened and newly-worthwhile Drury Lane, serves as my showroom, and in through my tasteful door flow all the nobly whelped and ignobly wealthed and blind (both from birth and from happenstance, I do not discriminate) and wounded and syphilitic of England, along with not a few who made the journey from France, Italy, Denmark, even the Rus, to receive my peculiar attentions. With the most exquisite consideration, I appointed the walls of my little salon with ultramarine watered silk and discreet, gold-framed portraits of my most distinguished customers. In the northwest corner, you will find what I humbly allege to be the single most comfortable chair in all of Christendom, reclined at an, at first glance, radical angle, that nevertheless offers an extraordinary serenity of ease, stuffed with Arabian horsehair and Spanish barley, sheathed in supple leather the color of a rose just as the last sunlight vanishes behind the mountains. In the northeast corner, you will find, should you but recognize it, my father’s pitted and pitiful iron punty, braced above the hearth with all the honor the gentry grant to their tawdry ancestral swords. The ceiling boasts a fine fresco depicting that drunken uncle of Greek Literature, the Cyclops, trudging through a field of poppies and wheat with a ram under each arm, and the floor bears up beneath a deep blanket of choice carpets woven by divinely inspired and contented Safavids, so thick no cheeky draught even imagines it might invade my realm, and all four walls, from baseboard to the height of a man, are outfitted with a series of splendid drawers, in alternating gold and silver designs, presenting to the hands of my supplicants faceted knobs of sapphire, emerald, onyx, amethyst, and jasper. These drawers contain my treasures, my masterpieces, the objects of power with which I line my pockets and sauce my goose. Open one, any one, every one, and all will be revealed on plush velvet cushions, for there rest hundreds upon hundreds of the most beautiful eyes ever to open or close upon this fallen earth.

No fingers as discerning as mine could ever be content with the glazier’s endless workaday drudge through plate windows and wine bottles, vases and spectacles and spyglasses, hoping against hope for the occasional excitement of a goblet or a string of beads that might, if you did not look too closely, resemble, in the dark, real pearls. No, no, a thousand, million times no! Not for me that life of scarred knuckles whipped by white-molten strands of stray glass, of unbearable heat and even more unbearable contempt oozing from those very ones who needed me to keep the rain out of their parlors and their spirits off the table linen.

I will tell you how I made this daring escape from a life of silicate squalor, and trust you, as I suppose I already have done, to keep my secrets—for what is the worth of a secret if you never spill it? My deliverance came courtesy of a pot of pepper, a disfigured milkmaid, and the Dogaressa of Venice.

It would seem that my brothers were not quite so malevolently egomaniacal as they seemed on that distant, never-to-be-forgotten day when our father drooled his last. One of them was not, at least. Having vanished neatly into London and established myself, albeit in an appallingly meager situation consisting of little more than a single kiln stashed in the best beloved piss-corner of the Arsegate, marvering paltry, poignant cups against the stone steps of a whorehouse, sleeping between two rather unpleasantly amorous cows in a cheesemaker’s barn, I was neither happy nor quite wretched, for at least I had made a start. At least I was in the arms of the reeking city. At least I had escaped the trap laid by pearls and hectares and absconding brothers.

And then, as these things happen, one day, not different in any quality or deed from any other day, I received a parcel from an exhausted-looking young man dressed in the Florentine style. I remember him as well as my supper Thursday last—the supper was pigeon pie and fried eels with claret; the lad, a terrifically handsome black-haired trifle who went by the rather lofty name of Plutarch—and after wiping the road from his eyes and washing it from his throat with ale that hardly deserved the name, he presented me with a most curious item: a fat silver pot, inlaid with a lapis lazuli ship at full sail.

Inside found I a treasure beyond the sweat-drenched dreams of upwardly mobile men, which is to say, a handful of peppercorns and beans of vanil, those exotic, black and fragrant jewels for which the gluttonous world crosses itself three times in thanks. Plutarch explained, at some length, that my brother Prospero now dwelt permanently in the East Indies where he had massed a fabulous fortune, and wished to assure himself that his sister, the sweet, homely maid he abandoned, could make herself a good marriage after all. I begged the poor boy not to use any of those treacherous words again in my or anyone’s hearing: not marriage, not maid, and most of all not sister. Please and thank you for the pepper, on your way, tell no one my name nor how you found me and how did you find me by God and the Devil himself—no, don’t tell me, I shall locate this lost relative and deliver the goods to her with haste, though I could perhaps be persuaded to pass the night reading a bit of Plutarch before rustling up the wastrel in question, but, hold fast, my darling, I must insist you submit to my peculiar tastes and maintain both our clothing and cover of darkness throughout; I find it sharpens the pleasure of the thing, this is my, shall we say, firm requirement, and no argument shall move me.

Thus did I find myself a reasonably rich and well-read man. And that might have made a pleasant and satisfying enough end of it, if not for the milkmaid.

For, as these things happen, one day not long after, not different in any hour or act than any other day, a second parcel appeared upon my, now much finer, though not nearly so fine as my present, doorstep. Her name was Perdita, she was in possession of a complexion as pure as that of a white calf on the day of its birth, hair as red as a fresh wound, an almost offensively pregnant belly, and to crown off her beauty, it must be mentioned, both her eyes had been gouged from her pretty skull by means of, I was shortly to learn, a pair of puritanical ravens.

It would seem that my other brother, Pomposo—you remember him, yes? Paying attention, are we?—was still in the habit of marrying unsuspecting girls off to trees and fish and stones, provided that the trees were his encircling arms, the fish his ardent tongue, and the stones those terribly personal, perceptive, and pendulous seed-vaults of his ardor, and poor, luckless Perdita had taken quite the turn round the park. Perhaps we are not so divided by our shared blood as all that, Pomposo! Hats off, my good man, and everything else, too. Well, the delectably lovely and lamentable maid in question found herself afflicted both by Little Lord Pomposo and by that peculiar misfortune which bonds all men as one and makes them brothers: she had a bad father.

Perdita told me of her predicament over my generous table. She spoke with more haste than precision, tearing out morsels of Mrs. Matterfact’s incomparable baked capon in almond sauce with her grubby fingers and fumbling it into that plump face whilst she rummaged amongst her French pockets for English words to close in her tale like a green and garnishing parsley. As far as I could gather, her cowherding father had, in his youth, contracted the disease of religion, a most severe and acute strain. He took the local clergyman’s daughter to wife, promptly locked her in his granary to keep her safe from both sin and any amusement at all, and removed a child from her every year or so until she perished from, presumably, the piercing shame of having tripped and fallen into one of the more tiresome fairy tales.

Perdita’s father occupied the time he might have spent not slowly murdering his wife upon his one and only hobby: the keeping of birds of prey. Now, one cannot fault the man for that! But he loved no falcons nor hawks nor eagles, only a matched pair of black-hearted ravens he called by the names of Praisegod and Feargod (there really can be no accounting for, or excusing of, the tastes of Papists) which he had trained from the egg to hunt down the smallest traces of wickedness upon his estate and among his children. For this unlikely genius had taught his birds, painstakingly, to detect the delicate and complex scents of sexual congress, and the corvids twain became so adept that they were known to arrive at many a village window only moments after the culmination of the act.

Now you have taken up all the pieces of this none-too-sophisticated puzzle and can no doubt assume the rest. My brother conquered Perdita’s virtue with ease, for no such dour and draconian devoutness can raise much else but libertines, a fact which may yet save us from the vicious fate of a world redeemed, and put my niece (for indeed it proved to be a niece) in her with little enough care for anything but the trees and the fish and the stones of his own bucolic life. No sooner than he had rolled off of her but Praisegod and Feargod arrived, screeching to wake the glorious dead, the scent of coupling maddening their black brains, and devoured Perdita’s eyeballs in a hideous orgy of gore and terribly poor parenting. Pomposo, ever steadfast and humbly responsible for his own affairs, sent his distress directly to me and, I imagine, poured a brimming glass of wine with which to toast himself.

“My dear lady,” said I, gently prying a joint of Mrs. Matterfact’s brandied mutton from her fist, hoping to preserve at least something for myself, “I cannot imagine what you or my good brother mean me to do with a child. I am a bachelor, I wish devoutly to remain so, and my bachelorhood is only redoubled by my regrettable feelings toward children, which mirror the drunkard’s for a mug of clear water: well enough and wholesome for most, he supposes, but what can one do with one? But I am not pitiless. That, I am not, my dear. You may, of course, remain here until the child... occurs, and we shall endeavor to locate some suitable position in town for one of your talents.”

Ah, but I had played my hand and missed the trick! “You misunderstand, monsieur,” protested the comely Perdita. “Mister Pompy didn’t send me to you for your hospitalité. He said in London he had a brother who could make me eyes twice as pretty as they ever were and would only charge me the favor of not squeezing out my babe on his parlor floor.”

Even a thousand miles distant, my skinflint family could put the screws to me, turn them tight, and have themselves a nice giggle at my groans. But at least the old boy guessed my game of trousers and did not give me up, even to his paramour.

“They was green,” the milkmaid whispered, and the ruination of her eye sockets bled in place of weeping. “Like clover.”

Oh, very well! I am not a monster. In any event, I wasn’t then. At least the commission was an interesting enough challenge to my lately listless and undernourished intellect. So it came to pass that over the weeks remaining until the parturition of Perdita, I fashioned, out of crystal and ebony and chips of fine jade, twin organs of sight not the equal of mortal orbs but by far their superior, in clarity, in beauty, even in soulfulness. If you ask me how I accomplished it, I shall show you the door, for I am still a tradesman, however exalted, and tradesmen tell no tales. I sewed the spheres myself with thread of gold into her fair face, an operation which sounds elegant and difficult in the telling, but in the doing required rather more gin, profanity, and blows to the chin than any window did. When I had finished, she appeared, not healed, but more than healed—sublimated, rarefied, elevated above the ranks of human women with their filmy, vitreous eyes that could merely see.

I have heard good report that, under another name, and with her daughter quite grown and well-wed, Perdita now sits upon the throne of the Netherlands, her peerless eyes having captivated the heart of a certain prince before anyone could tie a rock round her feet and drop her into a canal. Well done, say all us graspers down here, reaching up toward Heaven’s sewers with a thousand million hands, well done.

Now, we arrive at the hairpin turn in the road of both my fortunes and my life, the skew of the thing, where the carriage of our tale may so easily overturn and send us flying into mud and thorns unknown. Brace your constitution and your credulity, for I am of a mind to whip the horses and take the bend at speed!

It is simply not possible to excel so surpassingly as I have done and remain anonymous. God in his perversity grants anonymity to the gifted and the industrious in equal and heartless measure, but never to the splendid. Word of the girl with the unearthly, alien, celestial eyes spread like a plague of delight in every direction, floating down the river, sweeping through the Continent, stowing away on ships at sea, until it arrived, much adorned with my Lady Rumor’s laurels, at the palazzo of the Doge in darling, dripping Venice.

Now, the Doge at that time had caused himself, God knows why or by dint of what wager, to be married to a woman by the name of Samaritiana. Do not allow yourselves to be duped by that name, you trusting fools! Samaritiana would not even stop along the side of the road to Hell to wrinkle her nose at the carcass of Our Lord Jesus Christ, though it save her immortal soul, unless He told her she was beautiful first. Oh, ’tis easy enough to hate a vain woman with warts and liver spots, to scorn her milk baths and philtres and exsanguinated Hungarian virgins, to mock her desperation to preserve a youth and beauty that was never much more enticing than the local sheep in the first place, but one had to look elsewhere for reasons to hate Samaritiana, for she truly was the singular beauty of her age. Black of hair, eye, and ambition was she, pale as a maiden drowned, buxom as Ceres (though she had yet no issue), intoxicating as the breath of Bacchus. Fortunately, my lady thoughtfully provided a bounty of other pantries in which to find that meat of hatred fit for the fires of any heart.

She was, quite simply, the worst person.

I do not mean by this to call the Dogaressa a murderess, nor an apostate, nor a despot, nor an embezzler, nor even a whore, for whores, at least, are kindly and useful, murderers must have some measure of cleverness if they mean to get away with it, apostates make for tremendous company at parties, despots have a positively devastating charisma, and, I am assured by the highest authority, which is to say, Lord Aphorism and his Merry Band of Proverbials, that there is some honor amongst thieves. No, Samaritiana was merely humorless, witless, provincial, petty, small of mind, parched of imagination, stingy of wallet and affection, morally conservative, and incapable, to the last drop of her ruby blood, of admitting that she did not know everything in all the starry spheres and wheeling orbits of existence, and this whilst believing herself to possess all of these that are virtues and eschew all that are sins. Can you envisage a more wretched and unloveable beast?

I married her, naturally.

The Dogaressa came to me in a black resin mask and emerald hooded cloak when the plague had only lately checked into its waterfront rooms, sent for a litter, and commenced seeing the sights of Venice with its traveling hat and trusted map.

Oh, no, no, you misapprehend my phraseology. Not that plague. Not that grave and gorgeous darkling shadow that falls over Europe once a century and reminds us that what dwells within our bodies is not a soul but a stinking ruin of fluid and marrow and bile. The other plague, the one that sneaks on nimbly putrefying feet from bedroom to bedroom, from dockside to dinner party, from brothel to marital bower, leaving chancres like kisses too long remembered. Yes, we would have to wait years yet before Baron von Bubœ mounted his much-anticipated revival on the stage, but never you fear, Dame Syphilis was dancing down the dawn, and in those days, her viols never stopped nor slowed.

That mysterious, morbid, nigh-monstrous and tangerine-scented creature called Samaritiana darkened my door one evening in April, bid me draw close all my curtains, light only a modest lantern upon a pretty lacquered table inlaid with mother of pearl which I still possess to this day, and stand some distance away while she removed her onyx mask to reveal a face of such surpassing radiance, such unparalleled winsomeness, that even the absence of the left eye, and the mass of scars and weals that had long since replaced it, could do no more than render her enchanting rather than perfect.

It would seem that the Dogaressa danced with the Dame some years past. Her husband, the Doge, brought her to the ball, she claimed, having learned the steps from his underaged Neapolitan mistress, though, as I became much acquainted with the lady in later years, I rather suspect she found her own way, arrived first, wore through three pairs of shoes, departed last, and ate all the cakes on the sideboard. But, as is far too often the case in this life ironical, that mean and miserly soul found itself in receipt of, not only the beauty of a better woman, but the good fortune of a better man. She contracted a high fever owing to her insistence upon hosting the Christmas feast out of doors that year, so that the gathered noblility could see how lovely she looked with a high winter’s blush on her cheeks, and this fever seemed to have driven, by some idiot insensate alchemy, the Dame from the halls of Samaritiana forever, leaving only her eye ravaged and boiled away by the waltz.

All was well in the world, then, save that she could not show herself in public without derision and her husband still rotted on his throne with a golden nose hung on his mouldering face like a door knocker, but she had not come for his sake, nor would she ever dream of fancying that it was possible to ask a boon of that oft-rumored wizard hiding in the sty of London for any single soul on earth other than herself.

“I have heard that you can make a new eye,” said she, in dulcet tones she did not deserve the ability to produce.

I could.

“Better than the old, brighter, of any color or shape?”

I could.

She licked her lily lips. “And install it so well none would suspect the exchange?”

Perhaps not quite, not entirely so well, but it never behooves one to admit weakness to a one-eyed queen.

“You have already done me this service,” said she to me, loftily, never asking once, only demanding, presuming, crushing all resistance, not to mention dignity, custom, the basest element of courtesy, beneath her silver-tooled heel. She waved her hand as though the motion of her fingers could destroy all protestation. The light of my lantern caught on a ring of peridot and tourmaline entwined into the shape of a rather maudlin-looking crocodile gnawing upon its own tail, for she claimed some murky Egyptian blood in the dregs of her familial cup, as though such little droplets could mark her as exceptional, when every dockside lady secretly fancies herself a Cleopatra of the Thames.

“Produce the results upon the morrow! I will pay you nothing, of course. A Dogaressa does not stoop to exchange currency for goods. But when two eyes look out from beneath my brow once more, I will present you with a gift, for no particular reason other than that I wish to bestow it.”

“And if I do not like your gift, Clarissima?”

Puzzlement contorted her exquisitely Cyclopean visage, causing a most unwelcome familial pang within my breast. “I do not take your meaning, Master Peek. How could such a thing possibly occur?”

There is, it seems, a glittering point beyond which egotism achieves such purity that it becomes innocence, and that was the country in which Samaritiana lived. In truth, had she revealed her gift to me then, or even promised payment in the usual manner, I might have refused her, just to experience the novel emotion of rejecting royalty—for I am interested in nothing so much as novelty, not love nor death nor glass nor gold. Something new! Something new! My kingdom for something new! But she caught me, the perfumed spider, wholly without knowing what she’d done. I did indeed take up her commission, and though you may conclude in advance that this recounting of the job will proceed according to the pattern of the last, I shall be disappointed if you do, for I have already told you most vividly that herein lies the skew of my tale.

For the sake of the beautiful Dogaressa, I took up my father’s battered old pipe and punty. I cannot now say why; for a certainty I owned better instruments by far, and had not touched the things in eons except to brush them daintily with a daily sneer. Perhaps a paroxysm of sentimentality seized me; perhaps I despised her too much even then to waste my finer appliances on her pox-punched face, in any event, I cannot even say positively that the result blossomed forth from the tools and not some other cause, and I fear to question it now. I sank into the rhythm of my father and grandfather and his before him: the dollop of liquid glass, the greatbreath of my own lungs expelled through the long, black pipe, the sweet pressure and rolling of the globule against the smooth marver stone, the uncommon light known only to workers of glass, that strange slick of marmalade-light afire within crystal that would soon ride a woman’s skull all the way through the days of her life and down into her tomb.

The work was done; I fashioned two, an exquisitely matched pair, in case the other organ required replacement in the unseen feverish future. Samaritiana, in, so far as I may know or tell, the sole creative decision of her existence, chose not one color for the iris but all of them, dozens of infinitesimal shards chipped from every jewel in my inventory: sapphire, jade, emerald, jasper, onyx, amethyst, ruby, topaz. The effect was a carnival wheel of deep, unsettling fascination, and when I sewed it into her flesh with my golden thread she did not wail or struggle but only sighed, as though lost in the act of love, and, though her faults were called Legion, they were as yet unknown to me, thus, as my needle entered her, so too did my fatal softening begin.

The Dogaressa departed with her stitching still fresh, leaving in her wake but three souvenirs of our intimate surgery: one gift she intended, one she did not, and her damnable scent, which neither Mrs. Matterfact nor Mr. Suchandsuch, no matter how they scrubbed and strove, could remove from the premises. I daresay, even this very night, should you venture to my old house on the High Street and press your nose to its sturdy bones, still yet you would snatch a whiff of tangerine and strangling ivy from the foundation stones.

The gift she intended to leave was a lock of her raven hair, the skinflint bitch. The other, I did not perceive until some weeks later, when I adjourned to my smoking room with a bottle of brandy, a packet of snuff, and a rare contemplative mood which I intended to spend upon a rich, unfiltered melancholy as sweet as any Madeira—for it is a fact globally acknowledged that idle melancholy, like good wine, is the exclusive purview of the wealthy. To aid in my melancholy, I fingered in one hand the mate to the Dogaressa’s harlequin eye, rubbing my thumb over that strange, motley iris, marveling at the milky sheen of the sclera, admiring, unrepentant Narcissus that I am, my own skill and artistry. I removed my own, ordinary, unguessable, nearly flawless glass eye and held up the other to my empty socket like a spyglass, and a most thoroughly stupendous metamorphosis transpired: I could seethrough the jeweled lens of that artificial eye! Truly see, without cloud or glare or halo—ah, but what I saw was not the walls of my own smoking room, so tastefully lined with matching books chosen to neither excite nor bore any guest to extremes, but the long peach-cream and gold hall of the palazzo of the Doge in far-distant Venice! The chequered black and white marble floors flowed forth in my vision like a houndstooth river; the full and unforgiving moon streamed glaucous through tall slim windows; painted ceilings soared overhead, inlaid with pearl and carnelian and ever-so-slightly greyed with the smoke of a hundred thousand candles burnt over peerless years in that grand corridor. Women and men swept slowly up and down the squares like boats upon some fairy canal, swathed in gowns of viridescent green cross-hatched with silver and rose, armored in bodices of whalebone and opal, be-sailed in lacy gauze spun by Clotho herself upon the wheel of destiny, cloaked and hooded in vermillion damask, in aquamarine, in citron and puce, their clothing each so splendid I could scarce tell the maids from the swains—and thus looked I upon a personal paradise heretofore undreamt of.

But there were worms in paradise, for each and every beauty in the Doge’s palace was rotting in their finery like the fruit of sun-spoiled melons within their shells. Their flesh putrefied and dripped from their bones and what remained turned hideous, sickening colors, choleric, livid, cyanic, hoary, a moldering patina of death whose effusions stained those bodices black. Some stumbled noseless, others having replaced that appendage with nostrils of gold and silver and crystal and porcelain, and others, all hope lost, sunk their visages into masks, though they could not hide their chancred hands, the bleeding sores of their bosoms, the undead tatters of their throats.

Yet still they laughed, and spoke animatedly, one to the other, and blushed in virtuous fashion beneath their putridity. Such is the dance of the Dame, who enters through the essential act of life, yet leaves you thinking, breathing, walking whilst the depredations of the grave transact upon your still-sensate flesh, making of this world a single noisy tomb.

My breath would not obey me; my heart ricocheted amongst my ribs like a cannon misfired. Was it truly Italy I saw bounded in the tiny planet of a glass eye? Had I stumbled into a drunken sleep or gone mad so swiftly no asylum could hope to catch me? I shot to my feet, mashing the eye deeper into my socket until stars spattered my sight—closer, look closer! Could I hear as well? Smell? Taste the tallowed air of that far-off moonlit court?

I could not. I could not hear their footsteps nor inhale their perfume nor feel the fuzzed reek of the mildewed canals on my tongue nor move of my own volition. I apprehended a new truth, that even the impossible possesses laws of its own, and those unbendable. I could only observe. Observe—while my vision lurched forward, advancing quickly, rocking gently as with a woman’s sinuous gait. Graceful, slender arms extended as though from my own body, opening with infinite elegance to embrace a man whose head was that of a Titan cast down brutally into the pit of Tartarus, so wracked with growths and intuberances and pulsating polyps that the plates of his skull had cracked beneath the intolerable weight and shifted into a new pate so monstrous it could no longer bear the Doge’s crown, which hung pitifully instead from a ribbon slung round his grotesque neck. Those matchless arms which were not my own enfolded this hapless creature and, encircling the middle finger of the hand belonging to the right arm, I saw with my altered vision the twisted peridot and tourmaline crocodile ring of the Dogaressa Samaritiana.

I cast the glass eye away from me, sickened, thrilled, inflamed, ensorcelled, the fire in my midnight hearth as nothing beside the conflagration of curiosity, horror, and the beginnings of power that crackled within my brain-pan. In that first moment, standing among my books and my brandy drenched in the sweat of a new universe, an instinct, a whisper of Truth Profound, permeated my spirit like smoke exhaled, and, I confess to you now, all these many years hence, still I enshrine it as an article of faith, for it was with breath that God animated the dumb mud of Adam, breath that woke Pandora from stone, breath that demarcates the living and the dead, breath with which we speak and cry out and divide ourselves from the idiot kingdom of animals, and breath, by all the blasted saints and angels, with which the glassblower shapes his glass! The living breath of Cornelius Peek yet permeates every insignificant atom of his works; each object broken from his punty, be it window or goblet or cask or eye, hides the sacred exhalations of his spirit co-mingled with the crystal, and it is this, it is this, I tell you, that connects the jeweled eye of the Dogaressa with the jeweled eye in my hand! I dwell in the glass, it cannot dispense with me any further than it can dispense with translucency or mass, and therefore it carries the shard of Cornelius whithersoever it wanders.

Let us dispense with a few obnoxious but inevitable inquiries into the practicality of the matter, so that we may move along past the skew. How could this mystic connection have escaped my notice till now? It is only sensical: Perdita vanished away to the Netherlands with both marvelous eyes, and no window nor goblet nor cask is, in its inborn nature, that organ of sight which opens onto the infinite pit of the human soul. Would any eye manufactured in the same fashion result in such remote visions? They would indeed, my credulous friend. Does every glassblower possess the ability to produce such objects, should he but retain one eye whilst selling the other at a fair price? Ah, here I must admit my deficiency as a philosopher, for which I apologize most obsequiously. It cannot be breath alone, for I made subtle overtures toward the gentleman of the glassmen’s guild and I can say with a solemn certainty that none but Master Peek can perform this alchemy of sclera and pupil. Why should it be so? Perhaps I am a wizard, perhaps a saint, perhaps a demiurge, perhaps the Messiah returned at last, perhaps it owes only to that peculiar rootstock of my family which grants me my height, my baritone, the hairiness of my body. Grandfather Polyphemus’s last gift, lobbed down the ancestral highway, bashing horses as it comes. I am a man of art, not science. I ask why Mrs. Matterfact has not yet laid out my supper oftener than I ask after the workings of the uncluttered cosmos.

Thus did I enter the business of optometry.

When you have placed a mad rainbow jewel in the skull of a Dogaressa as though she were nothing but a golden ring, a jewel which drove the rotting men of Venice insane with the desire to tie her to a bridge-post and stare transported into the motley swirling colors of the eye of God, lately fallen to earth, they began to say, somewhere in Sicily, advertisement serves little purpose. I opened my door and received the flood. It is positively trivial to lose an eye in this wicked world, did you know? I accepted them warmly, with a bow and a kerchief fluttered to the mouth in acute compassion, a permanently sympathetic expression penciled onto my lips in primrose paint—for that moth-eaten scab Cromwell was finally in the grave, where everything is just as colorless and abstemious and black as he always wished it to be, so full of piss and vitriol that it poisoned him to the gills, and Our Chuck, the Merry Monarch, was dancing on his bones.

Fashion, ever my God and my mother, took pity upon her poor supplicant and caused a great miracle to take place for my sake—the world donned a dandy wig whilst I doffed my own, sporting my secret womanly hair as long and curled as any lord, soaking my face in the most masculine of pale powders, rouges, lacquers, and creams, encasing my figure, such as it ever was, in lime and coral brocade trimmed in frosty silver, concealing my gait with an ivory cane and foxfurred slippers, and rejoicing in the knowledge that, of all the men in London, I suddenly possessed the lowest voice of them all. So hidden, so revealed, I took all the one-eyed world into my parlor: the cancerous, the war-wounded, the horse-kicked, the husband-beaten, the inquisitor-inquisited, the lightning-struck, the unfortunately-born, the pox-blighted, and yes, the Dame’s erstwhile lovers, for she had made her way to our shores and had begun her ancient gambols in sight of St. Paul’s. And for each of these unfortunate angels of the ocular, I fashioned a second eye in secret, unknown entirely to my custom, twin to the one that repaired their befouled faces, with which I adjourned night by night to a series of successive smoking rooms, growing grander and finer with each year, holding those orbs to the light and looking unseen upon every city in Christendom, along with several in the Orient and one in the New World, though it could hardly be called a city, if I am to be honest. And Venice, always Venice, the first eye and only, her eye, gazing out on the water, the moonlight, the dead.

In this fashion, I came to know that the Doge had died, succumbed to the unbearable weight of his own head, long before Samaritiana appeared on my night-bestrewn doorstep, the saffron gown she wore in the moonlight, and every other in her trunk, torn violently, soaked with bodily fluids, rent by the overgrown nails of the frenzied rotting horde who had chased her from the palazzo through every desperate alleyway and canal of the city, across Switzerland and France, in their anguished longing to touch the Eye of God, still sewn into the ex-Dogaressa’s skull, to touch it but once and be healed forever.

But of course I aided the friendless and abandoned Good Samaritiana as she wept beside her monstrous road. Oh, Clarissima, how dreadful, how unspeakable, how worthy of Mr. Pepys’ vigilant pen! I shall have to make introductions when you are quite well again. I sent at once for a fine dressmaker of my acquaintance to construct a suitable costume for the lady and save her from the immodesty of those ragged silken remnants of her former life with which, even then, she attempted to cover her body with little enough success that, before the dressmaker could so much as cross the river, I learned something quite unexpected concerning the biography of Samaritiana, former queen of Venice.

She was quite male. Undeniably, conspicuously, astonishingly, fascinatingly so.

I called up to Mrs. Matterfact for cold oxtongue, a saucer of pineapple, and oysters stewed in Armagnac, down to Mr. Suchandsuch for carafes of hot claret mulled via the latest methods, and listened to the wondrous chimera in my parlor tell of how that famous Egyptian blood was not in the least of the Nile but of the Tiber, on whose Ostian banks a penniless but beautiful boy had been born in secret to one of the Pope’s mistresses and left to perish among the reed-gatherers and the amber-collectors and the diggers of molluscs.

But perish the lad did not, for even a grass-picker is thoroughly loused with the nits of compassion, and the women passed the babe one to the other and back again, like a cup of wine that drank, instead, from them. Now, it is well known to anyone with a single sopping slice of sense that the Pope’s enemies are rather like weevils, ever industrious, ever multiplying, ever rapacious, starving for the chaff of scandal with which to choke the Holy Father and watch him writhe. They roved over the city, overturning the very foundational stones of ancient Rome in search of the Infallible Bastards, in order, not to kill them like Herod, but to bring them before the Cardinals and etch their little faces upon the stained glass windows as evidence of sin. My little minx, having already long, lustrous hair and androgyne features more like to a seraph than a by-blow son, found it at first advantageous to effect the manners and dress of a girl, and then, when the danger had passed, more than that, agreeable, even preferable to her former existence. Having become a maid to save her life, she remained one in order to enjoy it. Owing to the meager diet of the Tiber’s tiniest fish, little Samaritiana never grew so tall nor so stout as other boys, she remained curiously hairless, and though she escaped the castrato’s fate, her voice never dipped beneath the pleasing alto with which she now spoke, nor did her organ of masculinity ever aspire to outdo the average Grecian statue, and so, when the Doge visited Ostia after the death of his first wife, he saw nothing unusual walking by the river except for the most beautiful woman in the Occident, balancing a basket of rushes on her hip with a few nuggets of amber rolling within the weave.

“But surely, Clarissima,” mused I, savoring the tart song of pineapple upon my tongue, “a bridegroom, however ardent, cannot be so easily duped as a vengeful Cardinal! Your deception cannot have survived the wedding bower!”

“It did not survive the engagement, my dear Master Peek,” Samaritiana replied without a wisp of blush upon her remarkable cheek. “Oh, mistake me not, I do so love to lie—I see no more purpose in pretending to be virtuous in your presence than I saw in pretending to be fertile in his. But there could be no delight in a deception so deep and vast. It would impair true marriage between us. I revealed myself at Pentecost, allowing him in the intensity of his ardor to unfasten my stays and loose my ribbons until I stood clad only in honesty before His Serenity and awaited what I presumed to be my doom and my death. But only kisses fell upon me in that moment, for the Doge had long suppressed his inborn nature, and suffered already to get upon his departed wife the heirs he owed to the canals, and though my masquerade, you will agree, outshines the impeccable, he would later say, on the night of which you so confidently speak, that some sinew of his heart must always have known, since first he beheld me with my basket of amber and sorrow.”

I did not exchange trust for trust that night among the oysters and the oxtongue. I have a viciously refined sense of theatre, after all. I made her wait, feigning religion, indigestion, the vicissitudes of work, gout, even virginity, until our wedding night, whereupon I allowed Samaritiana, in the intensity of her ardor, to unfasten my stays and loose my ribbons until at last all that stood between us was the tattered ruin of my mother’s ancient bridal veil, and then, not even that.

“Goodness, you don’t expect me to be surprised, do you?” laughed the ex-Dogaressa, the monster, the braying centaur, the miserly lamia who would not give me the satisfaction of scandalizing her! That eve, and only that eve, under the stars painted upon my ceiling, I applied all my cruellest and most unfair arts to compel my wife to admit, as a wedding present, that she had not known, she had never known, never even suspected, loved me as a man just as I loved her as a woman, and was besides a brutal little liar who deserved a lifetime of the most delectable punishment. We exchanged whispered, apocryphal, long-atrophied names beneath the coverlet: Perpetua. Proteo.

Samartiana treated me deplorably, broke my heart and my bank, laughed when she ought to have wept, drove Mrs. Matterfact to utter disintegration, kept lovers, schemed with minor nobles. We were just ferociously happy. Are you surprised? I, too, am humorless, witless, provincial, petty, small of mind, parched of imagination, stingy of wallet and affection, a liar and a cad. He was like me. I was like her. I had, after all, seen as she saw, from the very angle of her waking vision, which in some circles might be the definition of divine love. I have had wives before and will have again, far cleverer and braver and wilder than my Clarissima, but none I treasured half so well, nor came so near to telling the secret of my smoking room, of the chests full of eyes hidden beneath the floorboards. Samaritiana had her lovers; I had my eyes, the voyeur’s stealthy, soft and pregnant hours, a criminal sensorium I could not quit nor wished to.Yet still I would not share, I held it back from her, out of her reach, beyond her ken.

The plague took her in the spring. The Baron, not the Dame. The plague of long masks and onions and bodies stacked like fresh-laid bricks. I buried her in glass, in my incandescent fury at the kiln, for where else can a man lose his whole being but in a wife or in work? These are the twin barrels in which we drown ourselves forever.

It soon came to pass that wonderful eyes of Cornelius Peek were in such demand that the possession of one could catapult the owner into society, if only he could keep his head about him once he landed, and this was reason enough that, men being men and ambition being forever the most demanding of bedfellows, it became much the fashion in those years to sacrifice one eye to the teeth-grinding god of social mobility and replace it with something far more useful than depth perception. Natural colors fell by the wayside—they wanted an angel’s eye, now, a demon’s, a dryad’s, a goblin’s, more alien, more inhuman, less windows to the soul than windows to debauched and lawless Edens, and I, your servant, sir, a window-maker once more. I cannot say I approved of this self-deformation, but I certainly profited by the sudden proliferation of English Cyclopses, most especially by their dispersal through the halls of power, carrying the breath of Peek with them into every shadowy corner of the privileged and the perverse.

I strung their eyes on silver thread and lay in a torpor like unto the opium addict upon the lilac damask of my smoking room couch, draping them round and round my body like a strand of numberless pearls, lifting each crystal gem in turn to gaze upon Paris, Edinburgh, Madrid, Muscovy, Constantinople, Zurich—and Venice, always Venice, returning again and again, though I knew I would not find what I sought along those rippling canals traveled by the living dead. It became my obsession, this invasion of perspective, this theft of privacy, the luxurious passivity of the thing, watching without participating as the lives of others fluttered by like so many scarlet leaves, compelled to witness, but not to interfere, even if I wished to, even if I had liked the young Earl well enough when I installed his pigment-less diamond eye and longed to parry the assassin’s blade when I saw it flash in the Austrian sunset. I saw, with tremulous breath, as God saw, forced unwilling to allow the race of man to damn or redeem itself in a noxious fume of free will, forbidden by laws unwritten not to lift one hand, even if the baker’s boy had laughed when I offered him a big red eye or a cat-slit pupil or a shark’s unbroken onyx hue, any sort, free of charge, even the costliest, the most debonair, in honor of my late wife Samaritiana who in another lifetime paid me in hair, not because she would wish me to be generous but because she would mock me to the rafters and howl hazard down to Hell, begging the Devil to take me now rather than let one more pauper rob her purse, even if I saw, now, through his eye, saw the maidservant burning, burning in the bakery on Pudding Lane, burning and screaming in the midnight wind, and then the terrible, impossible leap of the flames to the adjoining houses, an orange tongue lasciviously working in the dark, not to lift one hand as what I saw in the glass eye and what I saw in the flesh became one, fusing and melding at last, reality and unreality, the sight I owned and the sight I stole, the conflagration devouring the city, the gardens, and my house around me, my lovely watered ultramarine silk, my supremely comfortable chair stuffed with Arabian horsehair, my darling gold and silver drawers, as I lay still and let it come for me and thee and all.

I did not die, for heaven’s sake. Perish the thought! Death is terrifically gauche, don’t you know, I should never be caught wearing it in public. I simply did not get up. Irony being the Lord of All Things, the smoking room survived the blaze and I inside it; though the rafters smoked and blackened and the walls swelled with heat like the head of a Doge, the secret chambers honeycombing the place contained the inferno, they did not stove in nor fall, save for one shelf of books, the bloody Romans, of all things, which, in toppling, quite snapped both my shinbones beneath a ponderous copy of Plutarch. Mrs. Matterfact and Mr. Suchandsuch fought valiantly and gave up only the better part of the roof, though we lost my lovely showroom, a tragedy from which I shall never fully recover, I assure you. And for a long while, I remained where the fire found me, on the long damask couch in my smoking room, wrapped in lengths of eyes like Odysseus lashed to the mast and listening to all the sirens’ mating bleats, still lifting each in turn and fixing it to my empty socket, one after the other after the other, and thus I stayed for years, years beyond years, beyond Matterfact and Suchandsuch and their replacements, beyond the intolerable plebians outside who wanted only humble, honest brown and blue eyes again, their own mortal eyes, having seen too much of wildness. And what, pray tell, did I do with my impossible sight, with my impossible span of time?

Why, I became the greatest spy the world has ever known. Would you have done otherwise?

Oh, I have sold crowns to kings and kings to executioners, positions to the enemy and ships to the storm, murderers to the avenging and perversities to the puritanical, I have caused ingenious devices to be built in England before the paint in Krakow finished drying, rescued aristocrats from the mob and mobs from the aristocracy by turns, bought and traded and brokered half of Europe to the other half and back again, dashed more sailors against the rocks than my promethean progenitor could have done in the throes of his most orgiastic fever-dream. I have smote the ground and summoned up wars from the deeps and I have called down the heavens to end them, all without moving one whisper from my house on Drury Lane, even as the laborers rebuilt it around me, even as the rains came, even as the lane around it became a writhing slum, a whore’s racetrack, a nursery rhyme.

Look around you and look well: this is the world I made. Isn’t it charming? Isn’t it terrible and exquisite and debased and tastefully appointed according to the very latest of styles? I have seen to every detail, every flourish—think nothing of it, it has been my great honor.

But the time has come to rouse myself, for my eyes have begun to grow dark, and of late I spy muchly upon the damp and wormy earth, for who would not beg to be buried with their precious Peek eye, bauble of a bygone—and better—age? No one, not even the baker’s boy. The workshop of Master Cornelius Peek will open doors once more, for I have centuries sprawled at my feet like Christmas tinsel, and I would not advance upon them blind. I have heard the strange mournful bovine lowing of what I am assured are called the proletariatoutside my window, the clack and clatter of progress to whose rhythm all men must waltz. There is much work to be done if I do not wish to have the next century decorated by some other, coarser, less splendid hand. I shall curl my hair and don the lime and coral coat, crack the ivory cane against the stones once more, and if the fashions have sped beyond me, so be it, I care nothing, I will stand for the best of us, for in the end, the world will always belong to dandies, who alone see the filigree upon the glass that is God’s signature upon his work.

After all, it is positively trivial to lose an eye in this midden of modernity, this precarious, perilous world, don’t you agree?

[favoniaa]

Accommodations Can Make Holidays Truly Memorable

A secondary is something that everyone else yearns for after months of toil and work that is hard. It is that time when one forgets all his/her worries and wants to relax and enjoy. With high hopes for a perfect holiday one must choose from numerous beautiful tourist locations and choose one particular location. However, choosing a great location is just one single element in the whole process of getaway planning. Deciding on the accommodation that is best, its location, the required amenities, and the purchase price is also and crucial section of the vacation planning procedure. While hotels have historically been the preferred option for several travellers, these rentals are fast becoming a popular option for rooms throughout the world. It could be anything from rented homes, cottages, cabins, villas or condos. No matter what type of leasing accommodation you select, it will typically be much more spacious when compared to a resort room and therefore are offer an affordable cost. These rentals vary from rustic cabins to plush homes or condos. Luxury vacation rentals offer gourmet kitchen areas, home theatres, saunas, hot tubs and spas, fireplaces, charming gardens, security systems, books and far more. Some rentals also offer maid services, grocery delivery, laundry and catering services. Some rental managers or owners may also organize use of private clubs such as tennis or exercise facilities. Most vacation rentals are situated near prime locations and tourist that is popular associated with the getaway destination. These great locations provide vacation rental guests the possibility to easily explore the area. These rentals act as a home that is second in the heart of your vacation destination and provide all the conveniences that one desires while on a holiday. It could be securely booked online by having a credit card through holiday rental web sites or you can get-in-touch directly with the property manager or owner. Utilizing the help of professional rental managers can show beneficial if you should be looking a personalized package to meet your requirements. They might also offer reduced rates for last-minute rentals or off-season rentals periods. These rentals typically offer better value than hotels, especially if one is on any occasion with the family or team. One holiday rental can accommodate one or more families which would typically require several hotel rooms. This could lead to significant cost benefits and provide amenities and flexibility that is not available in accommodations.

Caribbean Rental St Lucia

Some of the things you need to keep in mind before making a decision to go for a vacation rental: * Price - Budget is an important factor for a vacation and it is vital to create a budget for accommodations and then narrow the choice to vacation rentals that meet the budget. * Accommodation Size - that is also a consideration that is important varies according to the amount of people into the group on the holiday trip. Room setup is also important so that partners, singles, small children and seniors can all be accommodated.With a larger group one can opt for bigger homes or cabins while little condominiums or cottages would be ideal for a couple. * Location - Your need search for those vacation rentals that in a area that matches the type of activities your plan to pursue. A centrally located rental offers the chance to explore the area and walk to beaches, ski areas shops or restaurants. Regarding the other hand you can opt for a property that is more remote and maximizes privacy and quiet if you wish to stay away from the hustle-bustle.

[jodilauren98-blog]

Job Roles in The Industry - Solar Task 1

Actor

Job description

An actor communicates a character and/or situations to an audience through speech, body language and movement. This usually involves interpreting the work of a writer under the instruction and support of a director, although some work may require the actor to devise a character or improvise the reactions of a character to a situation. Work varies enormously, from live stage performances of the classics and community theatre to soap operas, radio work and film parts. An actor’s role may also involve education, training or therapy, as well as entertainment. An acting career inevitably incorporates periods of unemployment, underemployment and alternative employment.

Salary

An actor’s salary varies on the outcome of what they’ve starred in! But an average amount would be at least £41 per hour.

Experience needed

Actors and actresses are generally creative individuals who work well as part of a team. As part of their education, they develop strong critical thinking skills necessary for interpreting all of the different characters they’re called on to portray. A good memory is also essential for actors because they must learn lines quickly. Actors tend to be both effective speakers and good listeners. They need to accept constructive criticism on a regular basis and be able to adjust to changing sets of expectations.

Qualifications

The most popular courses are in acting, drama or musical theatre and acceptance depends on factors including:

·         Relevant exam results: A levels, GCSEs and BTEC diplomas in subjects such as English, Drama and Performing Arts.

·         Auditions.

·         Experience in amateur or professional acting.

What an actor does on a daily basis

·         Learning lines and rehearsing

·         Researching or undertaking activities to help prepare for a part;

·         Discussing interpretation and delivery with other members of the company and the director;

·         Performing for a live audience;

·         Performing in a studio or ‘on location’ for film, television, internet and radio broadcast;

·         Doing voice-overs for advertisements or recording audiobooks;

·         Managing the performance area, costumes and props;

·         Undertaking activities associated with touring, such as driving a van, ‘get-ins’ and ‘get-outs’ at theatres (i.e. setting up and dismantling the performance area);

·         Liaising with venue managers and accommodation providers;

·         Keeping records for company managers;

·         Working as a walk-on or extra for television or film.

Education an actor took

Participate in school activities like performances, school drama classes and productions allow students to develop their skills and experience what it feels like to perform in front of a large audience. They are also very important in preparing students for the inevitable countless auditions that await them once they venture into the world of professional acting or head off to a college or university drama program. Many students can benefit greatly from a formal college or university drama degree program. Post-secondary drama programs can be found at almost every major public and private college, as well as at most community colleges. College drama programs allow actors and actresses to acquire a wide range of performance skills through classes in acting theory, theatre history, stage production, dance, music, and more, as well as acting. College productions also provide students a chance to be seen by agents and producers who may be looking for promising new talent. Most actors accomplish this by performing for free in local theatre groups and attending regular acting classes and workshops. For many, this is where their real professional training begins. Acting workshops and small theatre companies keep performers in top form by providing an environment in which they can stretch their creative muscles and work. They also provide one of most effective networking opportunities available. And a good reputation spread by word-of-mouth is possibly the best tool a training actor can hope for, and finally signing with an agent.

Dancer

Job description

Dancers use movement, gesture and body language to portray a character, story, situation or abstract concept to an audience, usually to the accompaniment of music. This normally involves interpreting the work of a choreographer, although it may sometimes require improvisation. Dancers work in a variety of genres including classical ballet, modern stage dance, contemporary dance, street dance and African or Asian dance. They may perform to a live audience or take part in a recorded performance for television, film or music video. Many dancers follow portfolio careers, combining performance with teaching, choreography or administrative work in a dance company.

Salary

An experienced dancer may earn £450 - £500 per week. This can rise to £620 per week for a West End show and some performers will earn more.

Experience needed

Dancers must tell stories and display emotions with their bodies through various styles like ballet, hip-hop, and modern dance. You need to train in a variety of dance styles, so even if you want to be a ballerina, you need to experience certain levels of jazz, tap, and hip hop to get a good understanding of all things dance. It also enables your body to develop in a variety of ways, making you stronger and a more flexible dancer. Visit lots of shows. Musicals, ballets, theatre – broaden your horizons of the industry. You never know if you’ll land a job in a music video, or on Broadway, so be open to everything!

Qualifications

Creativity, teamwork and persistence, Innovation & Business Skills Australia (IBSA), in consultation with experts in the dance industry, have created a training package for the dance sector called the Live Performance Training Package. These national qualifications for the dance industry cover dance performance, dance teaching and management, and cross-sector qualifications in community dance and theatre, musical theatre and community culture.

What they do on a daily basis

·         Preparing for and attending auditions and casting sessions;

·         Preparing for performances, by rehearsing and exercising;

·         Performing to live audiences and for television, film and music video productions;

·         Studying and creating choreography;

·         Discussing and interpreting choreography;

·         Learning and using other skills such as singing and acting - many roles, for example in musical theatre, require a combination of performance skills;

·         Looking after costumes and equipment;

·         Taking care of the health and safety of others, which requires knowledge and observation of physiology and anatomy, as well as safe use of premises and equipment;

·         Teaching dance, either privately or in the public sector;

·         Working in dance development and promotion, encouraging and enabling people, especially children, to become involved in dance and to understand and appreciate it;

·         Running workshops in the community, for example with groups of disabled people;

·         Undertaking administrative, promotional or stage management work, particularly in a small company or if setting up your own company;

·         Liaising with arts and dance organisations, theatres and other venues regarding funding and contracts.

Education

Begin Training - Most dancers start their training before adolescence and audition for full-time work by the age of 18. Even after a dancer finds employment, training must continue throughout the dancer’s entire career. Many students attend dance training programs in their teens. Private dance or performing arts schools and colleges can provide the experience needed to join a professional dance company. To gain acceptance into an advanced dance school, students often must participate in a summer workshop, which can serve as an audition for a full-time dance training academy.

Consider an Undergraduate Degree - Although postsecondary education is not a requirement for a dancing career, undergraduate programs in dance can allow students to explore various dance genres or concentrate on a specific discipline. Performance opportunities are often available to give students practical experience. Curriculum for a bachelor’s degree program in dance includes classes in choreography, contemporary dance trends, movement analysis, ballet, jazz, rhythm and dynamics, dance composition and dance history.

Stay Conditioned and Strong - A dancer’s job is physically demanding and requires long and irregular hours. Dancers typically must stay in top physical condition through regular exercise and training. Dancing is extremely taxing on the body, and dancers may spend eight hours a day or more in class or practicing. Dancers have one of the highest on-the-job injury reports, so it’s important to keep the body healthy and strong in order to continue working.

Musician

Job description

Musicians are involved in creating and/or performing music in a variety of genres. They can be composers, instrumentalists and/or singers who perform either in the studio or before a live audience.

Salary

A musician earns up to £700 to £2,875 a week.

Experience needed

·         Musical skills

·         Stamina to perform at peak level

·         Self-confidence, motivation, dedication and determination

·         Good communication skills

·         Able to concentrate for long periods

·         Mastery of one or more styles of music such as classical, jazz or pop

·         Flair for entertainment.

Qualifications

Music and Grade VII / VIII for your main instrument, some universities have a preference for at least one essay-based subject such as history or English, Other typical A-levels taken by current music students; Maths, French, Physics. Music technology, Commercial music, Performing arts.

What they do on a daily basis

·         performing in concerts and participating in recording sessions;

·         practising regularly;

·         preparing for auditions;

·         preparing for and attending rehearsals;

·         maintaining the instrument;

·         setting up/tuning the instrument and other equipment as well as arranging for its transportation, if it is large;

·         learning new pieces of music to extend their repertoire;

·         handling the administration of business activities such as promotion, handling accounts, negotiating fees and organising distribution of their recordings both offline and online, e.g. making their music available for sale on iTunes;

·         seeking out and liaising with new venues in which to perform;

·         delivering educational work in schools, businesses and the wider community.

Education

Begin Taking Lessons - Musicians often begin taking lessons during their youth. Whether it’s the piano, guitar, drums or saxophone, individuals will learn to play an instrument or sing by enrolling in lessons with a private teacher or through a school program. Young musicians will often need to practice on a regular basis in order to prepare for recitals.

Enrol in a Post-Secondary Program - While prospective musicians can enrol in an associate’s degree program in music, the BLS notes that musicians who want to work as classical musicians may need to pursue a bachelor’s degree. Students in a bachelor’s degree program will be able to focus on a particular type of instrument and begin specializing in a specific genre, such as jazz, opera or classical. In addition to taking classes and participating in musical groups, students may also have an opportunity to take part in a senior recital.

Begin Auditioning - Whether a musician wants to perform in a jazz band, professional orchestra or for an event, they will often need to audition to demonstrate their musical skills and talents. Musicians may also be expected to have a demo that they can send out to producers or potential employers that will include a sample of their work.

Director

Job description

A theatre director has responsibility for the overall practical and creative interpretation of a dramatic script or musical score, taking into account the budgetary and physical constraints of production. They are involved at all stages of the process, from the design and pre-production stages and rehearsal right through to the final performance. Directors work closely with their creative and production teams, the performers and the producer to create a performance which connects with the audience. They therefore need to be able to coordinate effectively across a wide range of disciplines and with artistic vision. Most directors are usually employed on a freelance or fixed-term contract basis. They can also be employed as artistic or resident directors in repertory companies. Some directors are also writers, designers and performers and may write, devise, design and act in their own work.

Salary

Directing a full-length play should earn you £1,305 per week, whereas directing a short-length play would pay £903 per week

Experience needed

·         English literature;

·         drama and theatre studies;

·         music;

·         creative and performing arts;

·         languages;

·         Humanities-based subjects involving thought, reflection and interpretation, e.g. philosophy, history, psychology.

Qualifications

·         Education

·         Experience

·         Characteristics

What they do on a daily basis

·         programming and budgeting;

·         working with writers through workshops or script development schemes;

·         adapting a script and, if the play is newly written, working with the writer or collaborating with playwrights;

·         breaking down a script, analysing and exploring the content and conducting relevant research;

·         translating and interpreting a script or musical score;

·         holding auditions for productions, selecting and hiring designers, musicians, etc.;

·         managing time and organising people and space;

·         attending production meetings with set designers;

·         organising rehearsals;

·         communicating and liaising with all parties involved, including actors, the creative team, the production team and producers;

·         attending preview performances and preparing detailed notes for the cast and creative and production teams;

·         helping to publicise the production by giving interviews and leading discussions.

Education

A theatre director applicant must usually have at least a high school diploma, or the equivalent. Although a post-secondary education isn’t required, preference is often given to an applicant who has a live production, theatre or Master of Fine Arts degree and several years of relevant experience. Some employers will also hire applicants who have studied relevant areas such as acting, performance theory, or theatrical audio, lighting and design, outside of a degree program.

Stage manager

Job description

Theatre stage managers coordinate all aspects of a theatre company to ensure the successful delivery of the performance. In order to do this, they must have excellent people management skills. They manage rehearsals, actors, technicians, props and costume fittings, and liaise with front of house staff and the director. A stage manager needs to have a good understanding of both the technical and artistic elements of a performance so that they can ensure it is delivered exactly to the director’s requirements. They will be involved from the rehearsal stage through to the live performances, where they will be on hand to deal with any emergencies or issues that may hinder the show. Larger productions will typically have a stage manager supported by a deputy stage manager and one or two assistant stage managers. However, small shows may just have the stage manager working on their own.

Salary

Starting salaries for assistant stage managers range from £17,000 to £20,000, with deputy stage managers earning slightly more. Regular stage managers usually start around £20,000 to £26,000. Once significant experience has been built up, salaries of £26,000 to £40,000+ can be achieved.

Experience needed

A stage manager makes sure all the sets, equipment and props are ready for the opening of a performance. They also organise the staff so that everyone is in the right place at the right time before and during a show. If you’re well organised, can think on your feet and would love to work in theatre, TV or film, this could be a rewarding career for you. You’ll need to be a good leader, able to follow a director’s instructions and pay close attention to detail. To get into this job, you’ll normally need experience of stage work, for example as a stagehand, and a qualification in stage management. You’d usually start as an assistant manager and progress from there.

Qualifications

·         First Degree

·         HND Degree

·         Foundation degrees and degrees in theatre practice, technical theatre or stage management

What they do on a daily basis

·         setting up and running rehearsal schedules;

·         procuring all props, furniture and set dressings, and in small companies, assisting in set construction;

·         arranging costume and wig fittings;

·         distributing information to other theatre departments;

·         managing the props and possibly the design budgets and liaising with the production manager regarding costs;

·         supervising the 'get in’ to the theatre, when the set, lighting and sound are installed, and the 'get out’, when all the equipment is removed;

·         compiling and operating prompt copy - also known as the 'prompt script’ or 'the book’, which notes actors’ moves and cues, and the requirements for props, lighting and sound;

·         making alterations to the set between scene changes, prompting actors and cueing technicians;

·         ensuring the company’s welfare and maintaining a good working knowledge of all relevant health and safety legislation and good working practice;

·         running the backstage and onstage areas during performances;

·         liaising with the director, stage personnel and other technical departments, e.g. costume, lighting, sound;

·         calling actors for rehearsals and performances;

·         during a long run, maintaining and replacing props and costumes as required;

·         liaising with resident staff at other performance venues (if touring).

Education

You would usually start as an assistant stage manager (ASM), before progressing to deputy stage manager (DSM) and then stage manager, developing your skills on the job as you progress. You may find it useful to take short courses in technical areas, health and safety and production management.

Skills, interests and qualities

As a stage manager, you will need:

·         a keen interest in theatre and performing arts

·         excellent planning, organisational and leadership skills

·         great communication and 'people skills’

·         confidence and decision making ability

·         the ability to multi-task and 'think on your feet’

·         patience and tact

·         calmness under pressure

·         a high level of attention to detail

·         good IT and budget management skills

·         awareness of health and safety.