Suspension of Disbelief…..as a life style

Wikipedia describes suspension of disbelief as “the willingness of a person to accept as true the premises of a work of fiction, even if they are fantastic or impossible.” I realized – not long enough ago – that this has been pretty much my approach to my life. To clarify, I will tell you about The Acting Place.

What happened was this. 1976: my husband and I separated; I worked three jobs to support my three children and our wonderful old house in Beverly, MA. I taught at The Actor’s Workshop in Boston five mornings a week and Friday evenings. I taught at the Temple four afternoons a week and Sunday mornings. I directed the Temple youth group Sunday afternoons. And for further insanity, I performed in a play – “Kind Sir” – with the Workshop. February 1978: I came home from teaching; it was snowing; I was tired. The mother of one of my son Jamie’s classmates phoned to thank him for a kindness he had shown to her daughter. Then Cynthia introduced herself to me and said, “How are you?” The answer to that is supposed to be “fine, thanks.” I heard myself say, “I feel as though all my life forces have left my body.” She told me to stay where I was and she’d phone me right back. I’d never met this woman but I did as she said, serving dinner to my kids at the kitchen counter with my coat still on. She called and gave me an address. Through the snow I drove to Salem where I entered a very old apartment building. I rang the buzzer on the designated apartment and a small, elderly lady smelling of castile soap showed me into her tiny, pristine flat. We sat at her kitchen table and she read my cards.

Okay – I just heard your bull-shit alarm go off. Remember what this piece is called: Suspension of Disbelief. So suspend; and be patient.

I was with Nana Riggs for maybe an hour, maybe a bit more. It was enough time for us to bond; to become friends and confidants; and for me to be inspired by her brilliance and her spiritual acumen. Over the course of several years, we'd spend many an evening just this way.

On February 6th, we experienced what is now known as the blizzard of ’78. The snow fell like lace doilies. I saw it coming with the first minutes of its gentle beginning. Jamie and I went to the store, stocked up on necessities, and along with my other children, Alex and Clea, we settled in for a forced and welcome vacation. We had a fireplace and wood, flashlights and candles, food and water. And we had each other. When the snow finally stopped falling, the quiet of our world was unearthly. The ploughs came through, creating six foot high walls. During the next week, the boys shoveled and all played. In the evenings, I walked the silent passageway of snow and ice to Cynthia’s where we’d talk, spirit write, (remember the title!!), throw the cards, become friends.

One afternoon close to the end of our seclusion, I tried a spiritual, chakra kind of meditation and fell asleep. When I woke up (so help me universe!) I knew exactly what I wanted to do – would do. I went to the phone, called Cynthia and said, “I’m going to start my own company. It’s called The Acting Place. It will be a theatre school and maybe performing company. Do you know a lawyer?”

I don’t know why it is – but sometimes we have to go to our lowest place before we can rise up to our highest. Now you’ve been reading forever and we’ve only explored the journey to the idea. When cars rolled again and life returned to its normal days, I returned to my jobs and to my Wednesday evening pottery class. There were five of us including our teacher. I was working at the kick wheel, deep in clay and thought. My mates remarked that I was very quiet. So I announced that I was going into business, and it was called The Acting Place. All the wheels stopped. “Do you have any money?” “Oh, sure,” said I, without irony. “I have a $250 income tax refund.” (This is where the suspension of disbelief as a lifestyle comes into play). There was some snickering as I recall. And then, Wendy, one of our classmates, said, “No. Don’t laugh. That’s okay. She can do it on that. Come on. Let’s get to work.” And she washed her hands, found pencil and paper, and a clean spot on a marble slab. The rest of us followed suit.

“Your $250 is the money to grow the money you need. We’ll have a party at my house. (she lived in a gorgeous place in Beverly Farms). Use the money to print a really beautiful invitation – you’ll need a logo. And to buy the champagne for the punch. You’ll go to my wine store; tell them I sent you. What we don’t use, they’ll take back. All of us will make little sandwiches and cookies. And each of us will send ten of those invitations to friends with personal notes. So you’re assured of 40 people.”

We did all of that. Many of my students and friends from the Workshop came. Friends in Beverly and from Boston. My colleague, Laura Sheppard, was performing her mime show in Chicago. She flew into Boston; Paul Lingard, another dear friend, picked her up at the airport. She hadn’t had time to change so traveled and arrived in costume and whiteface. Students of mine did monologues; some sang. It was a terrific evening. And I walked out of there with close to $2,000.

Cynthia’s cousin was the attorney who incorporated our new not-for-profit. Finding a location was difficult; it took maybe 5 or 6 months. And during this time, I planned the curriculum and intention of The Place. The location I found was the top two floors of a building that had been a mission house when Beverly was first settled. After putting two months rent down, our budget for creating a studio theatre in the space would be very tight. The light shown through the windows filtered by years of grime. Some sort of shop had been up there I think. Mark’s Beauty Parlor was on the first floor. Mark owned the building. Okay, I said. “What magic wand do I wave for you to become a theatre?” Ah, you can almost hear the hooves of that white horse galloping up the stairway! My estranged husband, Don Beaman, a brilliant set designer and genius with space arrived as I was walking around the main room. It was summer by this time. Don walked in and announced, “Here’s the way to do this.” One look around and he knew the best layout. The rest was improvisation.

A softer white horse arrived soon after. Ginny Williams who volunteered at The Actor’s Workshop as stage manager was the Executive Assistant to the head of the Katherine Gibbs School at that time. Ginny walked in and presented herself as my new assistant. Over the next five years Ginny taught me how to run a company, how to write grants, how to manage a business. She gave up her apartment in Boston, wrote grants for her own salary, lived in a tiny apartment in Beverly above a shop. She participated in classes, acted in the shows, recreated herself.

Did we really stretch the money that far or have I forgotten something? All that wood and paint and carpeting and fabric. The chairs, the lights, the mirrors for the dressing room (yes, Don even figured in a dressing room!) The floor for the upstairs space to be a dance studio. All the people who showed up to paint or hammer or scrub. People who’d never done anything like this before (like me). And a couple like Paul Lingard, who could wield a hammer, paint brush, drill, anything. Passing building inspection; fire inspection. Printing up our first brochure and distributing it around the city. Getting ourselves in the local newspapers.

The night before the grand opening, we carpeted our way to the exit, kicking paint cans and debris out the door. It had been seven months since my epiphany. The launching party was delightful. Then Monday came, and registration for the classes. And the next surprise. Most of the students were not kids as I had envisioned. They were adults with actors hiding inside their traditional lives. A good number signed up; but the full-time school that I had expected to carry the organization brought in only two students. Another would join in a week, and Ginny joined the class whenever she could so there’d be a suitable number. A dance teacher who had left her passion to work in a corporation appeared to become a dance teacher again; Laura would teach mime; a ballet teacher was being mom somewhere in Beverly and so welcomed the opportunity; an acting teacher came out from Boston. We had created a powerful magnet.

Cynthia was my partner for a brief period. She and her husband helped us get a bank loan for $3,000 to float us while we grew our baby company. I rarely if ever took salary. Every month my kids and I would hold a garage sale. Yes, it was a very empty house after a few years. But it was, as one of our best actors said to me many years after, “it was magic.”

All because I didn’t know I couldn’t do it. All because I suspended disbelief and went with my passions. And that belief in the impossible is obviously contagious because a large, talented theatre family was created on Bow Street in Beverly. The church across the street rang its bells on the hour. I heard them one of our painting days and remembered the phrase, "the sound of Bow Bells." When I was at school in England years earlier, I spent a week or so with a cousin in London. Heading back to her house after touring one day, I got up suddenly and exited the train at an earlier stop. I didn't know why I was doing it. Up on the street I stood in front of Covent Garden. The street sign read Bow Street. Well, this wasn't Covent Garden nor was it London. But it had a kindred spirit.

I ran The Acting Place for five years. We had a rep company doing three or four plays a year. We had a participatory children’s theatre. All that The Acting Place was is another story unto itself. So I’ll save it for another time.
But how it happened is always powerful to me. I did it because I didn’t know I couldn’t. With a $250 income tax refund, and an idea born from a nap on a snowy day. And other talented, visionary people drawn in by the power of the dream; and the suspension of disbelief.