Tripod Columns: Cutting Edge Careers

WORK & MONEY

cutting edge careers

THE ACTING LIFE FOR ME
by Dara Yomtov Herman

Published December 12, 1996

It seems ironic to attempt to offer practical insights on being an actor in New York City -- that most impractical of all pursuits -- but I hope to enlighten, or perhaps entertain, at least some small few who care to hear my confessions on the subject. After all, it's less dear than a therapist, no?
I moved to New York about a month ago, after spending a year in New Orleans discovering that most theatre outside a few major cities occurs on a near-volunteer basis. I chose New York over Chicago and Los Angeles, the other two biggies, for a variety of reasons, including an innate suspicion of Los Angeles and all other synthetic cities, a lack of friends and contacts in either Chicago or L.A., and the famous cold of Illinois winters. Most of my time and energy here in New York I spend on furthering my career as an actress: taking classes, auditioning, doing "mailings" of my head shots and resumes to potential agents and other interested parties, and generally hustling.
I supplement my income by babysitting and doing random jobs. I'm currently exploring the possibilities of temp work and catering, but for the most part (as you may notice from my description thus far) this life doesn't leave much room for a regular job. Nevertheless, I am officially an actress, and I've already had my first paying job.
I found my first job in the actors' tradeweekly, a newspaper called "Backstage," available at any newsstand or by subscription. I responded to an advertisement seeking "American-looking women, 18-25, fluent in Spanish." I assumed this would be for a local commercial aimed at the Latino population here, and I figured I stood a chance at landing the job. The man in charge called me in for an interview, and I went -- with the trepidation that accompanies any trip to a fairly bad neighborhood -- to an office in a creepy building. He hired me then and there, on my assurances (in English) that I'm fluent in Spanish. The "acting job," however, required no acting at all.
My interviewer (we'll call him Brad) informed me that a Barcelona publishing company was holding its annual awards ceremony in the city, and that the organizers of the ceremony wanted four American-looking women to help with the event. I was a bit suspicious, but he calmed my fears by assuring me they wanted us to wear a somewhat dowdy adaptation of a toreador's ensemble: long black skirt, white button down shirt, black vest, and of course, the requisite red neckerchief. Relieved that I needn't fear any Spanish bunny outfits (fuzzy or scanty) I accepted the job, and its $25-an-hour salary, and went on my way.
My fellow gringas and I assembled one evening at the hotel for our instructions. There we learned we would be "hostesses" or "azafatas," whose duties were to carry a large white satin banner bearing the company's insignia while standing on stage for a few hours, distributing a complicated array of prizes. The only acting it would require of me would be pretending that I'm still fluent in Spanish, and smiling as I hoisted the hefty trophies.

We looked less like toreadors than a misplaced flight crew. After a three-hour lesson in banner-waving and trophy-lifting, my cohorts and I arrived early the next morning to do the honors. We laughed at ourselves in uniform, as we looked less like toreadors than a misplaced flight crew. But the real humor was still to come. The activities of the morning quickly revealed the nature of this corporation. The awardees weren't publishing executives at all; rather they were essentially Spanish travelling salesmen-and-women who made their living hawking encyclopedias and children's books. Nothing onerous about that, except the corporation appeared to be something more like a cult. Their leaders, four or five men in dark suits, got up in turns to announce the winners, and screamed themselves hoarse about "visión, imaginación, y dirección" all to the rallying cries of the crowd, who responded with the enthusiasm of soccer fans.
No one batted an eye at the fact that one of the leaders wore CIA-style blue-tinted sunglasses the entire time. Nor did the laser light show, which projected the company's insignia on the walls, or the incredibly loud Western music (my favorite selection was "YMCA") or the inspirational films they showed appear to impress anyone besides the Americans in attendance. I frankly had never imagined that so much over-the-top corporate spirit could be cultivated outside of the United States.

One of the group was convinced that the company was a bizarre cult. After our opening march with the satin banner, held aloft to the tune of the corporate anthem, we settled in to our task. Only the televangelical speeches of the company leaders, the ridiculous soundtrack, and the motivational films interrupted our steady distribution of literally hundreds -- maybe even a thousand -- gaudy trophies. These included faux parchment certificates and metal-cast skylines of a city I must assume was Barcelona (it was definitely not New York). Cheesiest of all were the replicas of the jumping Jaguar hood ornament mounted on pedestals in your choice of gold, bronze, or silver (and about twenty-five pounds heavier than I imagine the original to be). All the while smiling, smiling, smiling, the four of us witnessed singing and dancing to Top-40 tunes, much guffawing and slapping on backs, and a circle dance to "La Macarena" which ended in disaster when a brawl broke out over the distribution of the cardboard boxes intended for transporting the prizes back home again. I can only imagine the hazard those things must have presented in the overhead compartments, but after seven hours of trophy distribution, that was none of my concern.
Beat from our day of standing and grinning, my flight crew and I agreed to split a cab to drive over and pick up our paychecks. One of the group, apparently harrowed by the whole experience, was convinced that the company is indeed a cult and that the melee over the boxes was only a harbinger of violence to come -- violence she was happy to have escaped. She seriously seemed to think the people we had met that day might try to come and get us. For what reason I hadn't a clue, but she declared her certainty that no activity could have been worse than ours that day. Then, as we rounded a corner, we saw proof to the contrary. Our four doppelgangers stood in front of a newly opened tourist-trap cafe, dressed in giant upholstered tea-cup costumes, smiling and assaulting passersby with fliers advertising the new restaurant. My three new friends and I just fell out laughing, and decided we far preferred being stewardesses to tea cups.

How could we complain -- even if they did call us "Spanish Barbies"? And how could we complain? We received $250 for the day, and we got the perk of a catered breakfast and lunch. And even if they did call us "Spanish Barbies" on the check memo, I made a few new friends and picked up some tips about acting in New York -- a few of which I'll share with you here. But first let me offer this encouragement: since that job, I've landed a role in a play, grounded myself firmly with an acting school and a singing teacher, and found a good dance studio. So things are ever-improving.
Some advice for Internet-savvy actors: There is currently a small but burgeoning industry of Web sites which, for a fee, will post your head shot and résumé on the Internet along with some basic information about you as an actor. How many agents have enough time to tool through the sites looking for new talent? I honestly don't know. But here is the best-known address anyway: "Buzz" can be located at www.buzznyc.com.
I also learned from this job that fluency in Spanish is a great boon to actors (and anyone else for that matter) in New York, and that there are specific agents who will work with you that might not without language skills. There is also an organization for Latino actors called HOLA, which has apparently been of great help to the three women I worked with at the awards ceremony.
Break a leg!

Dara Yomtov Herman, 23, graduated from Brown in 1995 with a rather pointless degree in American Civilization. After spending a year in New Orleans, and a hellish summer in an industrial town in Michigan as a theater intern, she moved to New York City to pursue the acting life.
© 1996 Tripod, Inc. All Rights Reserved

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WORK & MONEY THE ACTING LIFE FOR ME by Dara Yomtov Herman Published December 12, 1996	It seems ironic to attempt to offer practical insights on being an actor in New York City -- that most impractical of all pursuits -- but I hope to enlighten, or perhaps entertain, at least some small few who care to hear my confessions on the subject. After all, it's less dear than a therapist, no? I moved to New York about a month ago, after spending a year in New Orleans discovering that most theatre outside a few major cities occurs on a near-volunteer basis. I chose New York over Chicago and Los Angeles, the other two biggies, for a variety of reasons, including an innate suspicion of Los Angeles and all other synthetic cities, a lack of friends and contacts in either Chicago or L.A., and the famous cold of Illinois winters. Most of my time and energy here in New York I spend on furthering my career as an actress: taking classes, auditioning, doing "mailings" of my head shots and resumes to potential agents and other interested parties, and generally hustling. I supplement my income by babysitting and doing random jobs. I'm currently exploring the possibilities of temp work and catering, but for the most part (as you may notice from my description thus far) this life doesn't leave much room for a regular job. Nevertheless, I am officially an actress, and I've already had my first paying job. I found my first job in the actors' tradeweekly, a newspaper called "Backstage," available at any newsstand or by subscription. I responded to an advertisement seeking "American-looking women, 18-25, fluent in Spanish." I assumed this would be for a local commercial aimed at the Latino population here, and I figured I stood a chance at landing the job. The man in charge called me in for an interview, and I went -- with the trepidation that accompanies any trip to a fairly bad neighborhood -- to an office in a creepy building. He hired me then and there, on my assurances (in English) that I'm fluent in Spanish. The "acting job," however, required no acting at all. My interviewer (we'll call him Brad) informed me that a Barcelona publishing company was holding its annual awards ceremony in the city, and that the organizers of the ceremony wanted four American-looking women to help with the event. I was a bit suspicious, but he calmed my fears by assuring me they wanted us to wear a somewhat dowdy adaptation of a toreador's ensemble: long black skirt, white button down shirt, black vest, and of course, the requisite red neckerchief. Relieved that I needn't fear any Spanish bunny outfits (fuzzy or scanty) I accepted the job, and its $25-an-hour salary, and went on my way. My fellow gringas and I assembled one evening at the hotel for our instructions. There we learned we would be "hostesses" or "azafatas," whose duties were to carry a large white satin banner bearing the company's insignia while standing on stage for a few hours, distributing a complicated array of prizes. The only acting it would require of me would be pretending that I'm still fluent in Spanish, and smiling as I hoisted the hefty trophies.
We looked less like toreadors than a misplaced flight crew.	After a three-hour lesson in banner-waving and trophy-lifting, my cohorts and I arrived early the next morning to do the honors. We laughed at ourselves in uniform, as we looked less like toreadors than a misplaced flight crew. But the real humor was still to come. The activities of the morning quickly revealed the nature of this corporation. The awardees weren't publishing executives at all; rather they were essentially Spanish travelling salesmen-and-women who made their living hawking encyclopedias and children's books. Nothing onerous about that, except the corporation appeared to be something more like a cult. Their leaders, four or five men in dark suits, got up in turns to announce the winners, and screamed themselves hoarse about "visión, imaginación, y dirección" all to the rallying cries of the crowd, who responded with the enthusiasm of soccer fans. No one batted an eye at the fact that one of the leaders wore CIA-style blue-tinted sunglasses the entire time. Nor did the laser light show, which projected the company's insignia on the walls, or the incredibly loud Western music (my favorite selection was "YMCA") or the inspirational films they showed appear to impress anyone besides the Americans in attendance. I frankly had never imagined that so much over-the-top corporate spirit could be cultivated outside of the United States.
One of the group was convinced that the company was a bizarre cult.	After our opening march with the satin banner, held aloft to the tune of the corporate anthem, we settled in to our task. Only the televangelical speeches of the company leaders, the ridiculous soundtrack, and the motivational films interrupted our steady distribution of literally hundreds -- maybe even a thousand -- gaudy trophies. These included faux parchment certificates and metal-cast skylines of a city I must assume was Barcelona (it was definitely not New York). Cheesiest of all were the replicas of the jumping Jaguar hood ornament mounted on pedestals in your choice of gold, bronze, or silver (and about twenty-five pounds heavier than I imagine the original to be). All the while smiling, smiling, smiling, the four of us witnessed singing and dancing to Top-40 tunes, much guffawing and slapping on backs, and a circle dance to "La Macarena" which ended in disaster when a brawl broke out over the distribution of the cardboard boxes intended for transporting the prizes back home again. I can only imagine the hazard those things must have presented in the overhead compartments, but after seven hours of trophy distribution, that was none of my concern. Beat from our day of standing and grinning, my flight crew and I agreed to split a cab to drive over and pick up our paychecks. One of the group, apparently harrowed by the whole experience, was convinced that the company is indeed a cult and that the melee over the boxes was only a harbinger of violence to come -- violence she was happy to have escaped. She seriously seemed to think the people we had met that day might try to come and get us. For what reason I hadn't a clue, but she declared her certainty that no activity could have been worse than ours that day. Then, as we rounded a corner, we saw proof to the contrary. Our four doppelgangers stood in front of a newly opened tourist-trap cafe, dressed in giant upholstered tea-cup costumes, smiling and assaulting passersby with fliers advertising the new restaurant. My three new friends and I just fell out laughing, and decided we far preferred being stewardesses to tea cups.
How could we complain -- even if they did call us "Spanish Barbies"?	And how could we complain? We received $250 for the day, and we got the perk of a catered breakfast and lunch. And even if they did call us "Spanish Barbies" on the check memo, I made a few new friends and picked up some tips about acting in New York -- a few of which I'll share with you here. But first let me offer this encouragement: since that job, I've landed a role in a play, grounded myself firmly with an acting school and a singing teacher, and found a good dance studio. So things are ever-improving. Some advice for Internet-savvy actors: There is currently a small but burgeoning industry of Web sites which, for a fee, will post your head shot and résumé on the Internet along with some basic information about you as an actor. How many agents have enough time to tool through the sites looking for new talent? I honestly don't know. But here is the best-known address anyway: "Buzz" can be located at www.buzznyc.com. I also learned from this job that fluency in Spanish is a great boon to actors (and anyone else for that matter) in New York, and that there are specific agents who will work with you that might not without language skills. There is also an organization for Latino actors called HOLA, which has apparently been of great help to the three women I worked with at the awards ceremony. Break a leg! Dara Yomtov Herman, 23, graduated from Brown in 1995 with a rather pointless degree in American Civilization. After spending a year in New Orleans, and a hellish summer in an industrial town in Michigan as a theater intern, she moved to New York City to pursue the acting life. © 1996 Tripod, Inc. All Rights Reserved