The Infamous Nina Nightshade
Burlesque Performer, Producer, and Instructor
Nina Nightshade Productions LLC
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Inspirational (and slightly scary)

9/24/2018

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“I had an inspirational teacher at my junior school: Peter Nixon. He was enthusiastic, knowledgeable and slightly scary - a good combination for a teacher.” -Stephen Mangan


My junior year in high school I had an honors English teacher named, Mr. Black. Junior year English should have been freaking amazing. It was all epic literature. It was steeped in medieval folklore and fascinating dystopian novels. After my first week with Mr. Black, I loved him. He was my kind of person. He was slightly cranky, but also highly focused on artistry. It should have been a so much fun.

It wasn’t.

Mr. Black had high expectations. Higher than any other teacher I had ever had. While his lectures were fascinating, his homework was monstrous. Miss two days of at-home reading for theater practice and you were buried. I distinctly remember our test on “Ivanhoe”. It was four pages of questions where I asked myself more than once if I had read the wrong book. Then, there was a bonus question at the bottom: “Did you enjoy this book?”

I don’t pick fights often, but when I do I lash out like a caged tiger. After four pages of frustration I answered that last question way too honestly, “I would have if I had been given the time to.”

I can tell you from this experience, if you ever really wanted to be noticed in a class this is a sure fire way to do it. I became a focus and a target in every class.

I dreaded going to my English class. The results of my test on “Ivanhoe” almost got me kicked out of the play. I had to try harder or give up theater. The next few weeks were rough.

However, as the school year went on something happened. I started to see things from a new perspective. I started to understand metaphors on a whole new level.

By the time we got to the dystopian novel, “We”, I was seeing the bend in the road before it was on the horizon. After getting through the book (at breakneck speed), we were asked to write a poem about something from the novel. I wrote a metaphorical poem about a crystal and how it represented both light and dark. After turning them in, all but mine was handed back to the class. The next assignment he had planned was to take the poems which he assumed were going to be literal context from the book and turn each line into a metaphor. I had somehow fulfilled the lesson before he had the chance to teach it and he didn’t know what to do with me. Eventually, he asked me to draw a picture that represented my poem. (Because, you know, letting me not have homework was out of the question. Jerk.)

We finally got to the end of the year. I was doing pretty well in that class, but I was thrilled to never have to do it again. I was free from the stress of being “on” for his class. I was free of the workload. I was free of being the target.

Summer came and went in a blur and it was now senior year. I had an awesome teacher for English, Mrs. Strong. Along with literature we learned scandalous things from her like why fancy restaurants are always dim. (Less chance to see wrinkles when on a date.) Why so many teachers didn’t have children. (We already have to parent countless kids for other people, why would I want to go home and do the same?) And, the biggest scandal of scandals, why Victorian romantic authors love to talk about the sky and the leaves on the trees so much. (What position do you have to be in to be looking at the sky and the underside of the trees? Hmmmmmm?)

One day in the middle of the year Mrs. Strong was out sick. No big deal. High school days with substitute teachers are some of the best. It was basically a day off. Even if the teacher left notes on what needed to be taught, the substitute usually didn’t really understand it and could easily be distracted. Not this time. This time our substitute walked in from the back of the room and strode up to the front of the class. Mr. Black!

My heart sank and my stomach tried to tie a knot around it. Before he had reached the front of the room he was telling us to open up our books to a poem called “The Naked and The Nude”. He gave us ten minutes to read the poem.

I read the poem. I was so nervous that upon reaching the end I realized I had no idea what I had just read. I read it a second time. I started reading a third time when our ten minute allotment was up. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the words. You could have given me “Humpty Dumpty” and I wouldn’t have made sense of the words in front of me.

Mr. Black walked to the front of the room and wrote the words “Naked” and “Nude” on the board. By this point we were accustomed to Mrs. Strong’s blunt teachings, so there was less tittering that you might expect from a bunch of high school students. That being said, there was still some snickering at seeing the words written on the board by a teacher. That is until he turned around. The look silenced the whole room.

“Who can tell me what this poem is about?”

Silence. No one moved.

Mr. Black scanned the room of slouched teenagers. An executioner searching for a victim. His eyes found me trying to melt into my seat in the back of the room.

“Nina!”

I suddenly found perfect posture.

“What do you think this poem is about?”

Through my terror of once again being a target, I found that words fell out of my mouth before I even knew I was talking. I don’t remember what I said exactly, but somehow I spewed out the basics of the poem. Somehow my brain was running overtime in the background while I was trying to melt away from sight, mulling the meaning. My subconscious was sussing out that Robert Graves was making an argument that while it was commonly believed that “naked” meant lewd and “nude” the socially acceptable term, it was actually “nude” which worked in darker places.

I spit out the answer before I even understood the words I spoke. Mr. Black had literally scared me into knowing the answer.

He raised an eyebrow at me in appreciation, “Very good.”

I sank back into my chair with an exhale to rival the president at the end of every apocalyptic action movie.

We spent the rest of the class period discussing each phrase and why the author chose the words he did. I was thankfully left alone for the rest of the time.

This is a moment in my life that has stuck with me. A moment Mr. Black probably doesn’t even remember. So why can’t I let it go? It wasn’t some major turning point in my life. I didn’t learn in that moment I was destined to write poetry or become a teacher. But it is burned into my memory.

Perhaps the reason is this, Mr. Black was an inspiration in my life. Maybe in some way he still is. Perhaps he got more out of me because he never expected less, never allowed less.

While many of the people who inspire me have proved to be kind and loving humans. There is a certain kind of inspirational person who has terrified me. As much respect as I may have for them, that respect includes a certain measure of fear. They have made me become better than I am, but they still scare the bejeezus out of me.

Now, I’m not talking about the kind of abusive, you-are-never-good-enough person who breaks you down with fear and holds you to expectations that are always just out of reach. I’m talking about the healthy, keep-you-on-your-toes angst that holds you accountable.

Mr. Black may have been terrifying and his expectations may have come with a certain amount of stress, but he did more than most of my teachers ever did. Not only did he teach me the lessons the school expected him to, he opened my mind to a new way of thinking. He taught me to expect more of myself and expand my view of the world.

So, thank you, Mr. Black, wherever you may be now. Thank you for being inspirational and slightly scary. (But, don’t expect me to ever like Ivanhoe.)


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Who Will Buy? Valuing Art

9/1/2018

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     Who will buy this wonderful mornin’?
     Such a sky you never did see.
     Who will tie it up with a ribbon and put it in a box for me?


     So I can see it at my leisure whenever things go wrong.
     And I would keep it like a treasure to last my whole life long.


     Who will buy this wonderful feeling?
     I’m so high I swear I could fly.
     Me, oh, my, I don’t want to lose it.
     So what am I to do, to keep the skies so blue?
     There must be someone who will buy.


Many years ago a young Nina traversed to the city of San Francisco for a summer internship to complete her degree. While there she had the luck to live with the most endearing woman, Katherine, in Sausalito. Katherine in her younger years had travelled across Europe with little money and spent most of her time staying with friends of friends (A.K.A. strangers) who were kind enough to take her in. Katherine paid it forward by taking young Nina in as the daughter of the student of a friend (A.K.A. stranger) who needed a place to live for the summer. She was truly remarkable.

One of the things Nina and Katherine loved to talk about were performing artists and, most especially, singers. During one of these talks Katherine told our young Nina about this lady she knew as her favorite waitress at one of her favorite restaurants.

As the story goes, Katherine and the waitress had a good customer/worker connection. Upon being asked by Katherine what she was doing that coming weekend, the lady said she was going to be singing in a Jazz club. Katherine, excited about this side gig of hers, went to the show.

Upon seeing her perform, Katherine was in absolute shock! Absolute. Shock. Paula West (at this point in the story she has a name now, not a title) was astonishing! A real professional.  According to Katherine, she had a voice on par with Ella Fitzgerald and a stage presence that couldn’t be ignored. What was she doing waiting tables?! Her talent was being wasted there!

Even young Nina couldn’t help but utter a small, bitter laugh. This woman who drove a BMW, owned a condo in Sausalito and was the “poorest person she knew” couldn’t see what all Artists know all too well.

Young Nina responded to Katherine’s outrage with a single word, “Surviving.”


     Who will buy this wonderful mornin’?
     Such a sky you never did see.
     Who will tie it up with a ribbon and put it in a box for me?


     There’ll never be a day so sunny.
     It could never happen twice.
     Where is the man with all the money?
     It’s cheap at half the price.


My response now wouldn’t be much different.

I have had the unique privilege to know many Artists from a wide variety of Art forms. Some of them are able to completely sustain themselves within the Art realm. Most of them have a side gig outside of Art. Many have a full time “muggle” job.

Paula is waiting tables because she has bills to pay. She is living in San Francisco (or close by).  She too wants to be able to enjoy a night out with her friends. To buy a gown for her performances. Maybe she’s getting voice lessons. Maybe she’s renting a studio to practice. She is waiting tables because no one is paying her enough in her Art to pay for those things.

Some of us keep the non-Art gig so that we never lose our love of our Art, so that it doesn’t feel like a job. Every Artist makes Art because they love it. However, I think it’s safe to say a majority of us would be thrilled if we could make our living solely from our Art.

Artists are notoriously poor. The idea of the “starving Artist” is so common it’s a trope in movies and stories. (Which, I’d like to point out, are written by Artists.) There are exceptions to the rules, the celebrities who “make it”, but for the most part the life of an Artist is not paved in gold.

Thus for the majority, the life of an Artist is either a life of constant financial struggles or a life with a non-Art job. And let’s be honest, for many it is both of these things.


     Who will buy this wonderful feeling?
     I’m so high I swear I could fly.
     Me, oh, my, I don’t want to lose it.
     So what am I to do, to keep the skies so blue?
     There must be someone who will buy.


Art is undervalued. I see it every day. Someone doesn’t want to pay for the music they download. Someone seeks out a “cheap” tattoo Artist. Someone balks when there is a cover to see a show at a bar. Someone looks at a custom costume piece and says “I could make that so much cheaper” knowing they never will. Someone asks their Artist friend to get them into the show for free.

We’re told to “do what you love and it won’t feel like work”. But when what we love is Art, we’re told to “get a real job”. I just went to a conference this week for the “muggle” job where the speaker made the comment “I was a theater major. And then I got a real job.”

My friend who works 2 “day jobs”, produces shows, performs and teaches was once told by a wealthy audience member, “If you are struggling, maybe you need to give this up and get a job.” He didn’t even see what she did as a job at all. He is there in the audience, a consumer of the product of performing Arts, and he doesn’t see what this person is doing as work.

How is Art supposed to be valued when even the consumer doesn’t understand they are buying a product. Yes, it’s a labor of love. Yes, we do it because we want to do it. Yes, there are other payoffs and reasons to do Art. (That’s a whole different discussion.) But it is also work. The end result is a product. Whether that be a physical painting, a wearable costume, a song you listen to or a dance performance you watch; it is the PRODUCT of WORK.

Yes, I understand that some of the undervaluation of Art can be explained through simple economics. There are a LOT of people who want to be an Artist in some way. The more people there are in a field, the less someone has to pay for that labor. But I would also argue that many trade jobs are well paid because of skill and training. I don’t see this payoff for skill and training as often in Art.

Art requires talent. Art requires skills. Art requires a lot of hard work. Art requires love.

Art may not require monetary value, but it would be damn nice if people did see it that way.

The day after Katherine told me the story of Paula West, I went online and sought out her music. There was only one song I could find. A sultry, jazzy version of “Who Will Buy?”. I love it. I’ve listened to it for almost 2 decades now. (I’m even incorporating it into an act this year.) I looked her up recently and found one album available from this decade. (Yes, I bought it at full price.) Paula is still making her Art because she clearly loves it. But I wonder, does she still have to make ends meet outside of her Art?
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    Nina Nightshade's Random Thoughts

    Random writings regarding the Art process, the emotional roller coasters of being an Artist, character development and anything else that comes to my mind.

    If you are here to judge punctuation, spelling or run-on sentences.... perhaps this blog isn't for you. If you are here to read thoughts from the heart, sometimes flawed, sometimes at odds with themselves, then enjoy!

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