Waiting for the Frame

My sister gave me a picture of an arctic hare, back when I had an apartment in the city. Well, it was Jersey City, but I was closer to midtown than most places in NYC. The rabbit was photographed by some naturalist or conservationist or something. It was a beautiful image of a snow white hare surrounded by... well, by snow. There are these very subtle shades of purple and blue which prevent it from looking like a blank white canvas. (As an high school art teacher used to say, snow is blue.) I loved it.

At the time, I had the picture mounted in a white frame, since it was to hang over the stackable washer/dryer in the kitchen. Which was white. The washer/dryer, not the kitchen. The kitchen was earth tones. For anyone who has not lived in an apartment in the city, having a stackable washer/dryer in the kitchen is not as strange as it sounds. It was a practical luxury.

When I moved, I packed the picture in bubble wrap, with little cardboard triangles protecting the corners. It survived the year in storage and the trek out to LA, and there was the perfect spot for it in my new bedroom. No washer/dryer in there, though. In fact, the washer/dryer is outside in a little shed. For anyone who has not lived in LA, having a washer/dryer outside in a shed is not as strange as it sounds. It is also, in it’s own way, a practical luxury.

In my bedroom, on the wall over my bed, was the ideal space for the picture of this arctic hare. Just above the only painting of mine I’ve ever displayed. It’s also the only oil painting I’ve ever done. Funny how I used to imagine I preferred acrylic, and yet have either never finished or never liked a single one of those. This oil does not look like something I would have painted, which is an odd but often true thing about art. It is not at all uncommon for the painter to be surprised by the painting.

This sole oil is abstract, which I am not. What I love about it is the color palette. Shades of purple and blue, which would look nice beneath an image of an arctic hare which would be all white if it were not for the more subtle shades of those same colors. Except for the white frame, which now no longer fits. The size is the same, of course, it’s the absence of the stackable washer/dryer which makes the white frame unfitting. So, I set the picture aside on a shelf in the garage. I’d have to change the frame before I hang the picture.

That was seven years ago. All this time, while the events of my life have unfolded here in LA, there has been a blank space on the wall above the painting over my bed. Sitting on shelves in the garage are bubble wrapped pictures and boxes of things I never unpacked. Putting together a yard sale a couple of weeks ago prompted me to go through these things. Unpack these boxes, unwrap these frames. There were things I’d forgotten I had. Beautiful things from my travels to other places. Gifts I’d been given that I loved and then put back in the presented box. Empty picture frames from people who mean something to me. Boxes full of photos that were meant to be organized at some point in time.

It has taken me until this point in my life to learn that when someone you love gives you a picture frame as a gift, the thing to do is put a photo of that person in that frame and display it on a dresser or a book shelf or hang it on a wall. Why do I have empty frames?

In the past couple of weeks, I have sorted through my unhidden things. Putting objects I love in places where they can be seen. Surrounding my space with things I have picked up on my journey so far, and things which remind me of the people I love back home.

My arctic hare now looks very happy above the only oil painting I’ve ever done. The frame is the same. The perspective has changed.

Borat Non Borat

Another Russian.

That's what I am called in to play lately. Russians and Eastern Europeans. Back in New York, I was often mistaken for some other nationality. Other than American. Mediterranean, Jordanian, something. When I first came to Los Angeles, it was clear that they only wanted the real thing. French from France. Italian from Italy. Must speak Farsi. I was caucasian. Just caucasian. Nothing else.

Things have changed. Now I go out for European or Slavic or something. Today it was for Borat. The call came in last night at six. The script was funny. Two lines in Russian (or faux Russian) which they did not provide. In the script. They only provided the translation. In English. The joke was that the Borat guy would speak in Russian (or faux Russian) and the translator would say the funny line, in English.

Naturally, I felt I was better suited for the translator, since I do not speak Russian, and there are sure to be guys at the call who do. Also, the two funny lines would work with a deadpan, and I have a pretty good deadpan.

So I am up until four in the morning, preparing a list of Russian words which sound funny when spoken next to each other. I choose sounds which suggest the English translation, but also sounds which work with the comic gestures the Borat guy is supposed to make. I watch a bunch of videos of the real Borat on youtube. I study him. I practice the faux Russian. I also go over the translator's lines, hoping they will let me read for that role, too. I go to bed feeling happy about this audition.

In the morning, I put on a purple and green paisley rayon shirt with a pair of light green linen pants. Gold chain. Hair like Borat. I look like one of those Israeli guys who sell electronics. When I get to the audition, the monitor comes into the lobby and says they have decided not to go with Borat. So, do something else.

Perfect. I race into the men's room to put my hair back to normal, but I have not brought a change of clothes. Make a strong choice they always say, and I did. Now what? As my agent said, go big or go home. I'm already there, and I'm not going home.

So I return to the lobby and try to rework the faux Russian so it does not sound like Borat. I listen to the other guys. Some of them ask the monitor if they can also read for the translator. They are told no. Some of the ones who were called in to read for the English speaking translator are actual Russians. They speak Russian and are wondering why they have been called in for the part which does not require them to speak Russian. They are matched up with guys who aren't and can't, but who were called in for the suddenly Non-Borat faux Russian speaking role.

Another monitor comes into the lobby and tells us we are to tell a brief improvised story before we begin. Presumably, this is to weed out the non Russian speaking actors who have stayed up until four in the morning studying Borat and preparing a list of faux Russian sounding words. Why then, have they not specified in advance that all actors reading for Non-Borat must speak Russian? Why then, have they called in actual Russians to read for the English speaking translator? Why then, do they not let us switch roles now? Switching characters at the last minute is easier than re-working what we have already prepared. Especially if the switch would allow the Russians to speak Russian and the non Russians to speak English.

Here I am dressed for Borat but am not reading for Borat. I am not allowed to read for the English speaking character, but must quickly put together an improvised story in faux Russian. I consult my list of Russian sounding words. I laugh at the whole thing, and do the best I can.

What is that line from Out of Africa? The Gods are happy. They play with us.