them.
I went with Darren to say good-bye to his parents, quiet, kind, normal folk who lived in Ojai, an artsy, academic town surrounded by orange groves, a big sky, and lovely mountains. A Shangri-la where rich people sent their kids. Darren had been accepted into an exclusive private school there because they expected him to become a force in the literary world. He was a gentle intellectual, hardly battleground material. Nevertheless, off he went to Korea.
I knew by then I wasn’t in love with him, so after he left, I wasn’t sure what to do. Larry and Nettie invited me to stay on while I decided, for which I was grateful and relieved. But I wanted to get out of their hair as soon as possible, and I was determined to find my way in the theatrical world (was there one?) in Los Angeles. The Yellow Pages yielded four playhouses worth checking into. The first three were not for me, but the Pasadena Playhouse was about to start its “Summer Talent-Finder Course,” four weeks of training culminating in a production of Noël Coward’s
Present Laughter
in the Patio Theatre. I scheduled an interview, looked up Pasadena on the map, and somehow found my way there. (I have a terrible sense of direction, but I can read maps like a champ, thanks to my fourth-grade geography teacher.) The powers that be talked to me for an hour, had me read a couple of scenes, and accepted me.
“Lots of film and television movers and shakers attend our plays,” I was told. And they’d had some major stars in the program. Barbara Rush was discovered there. So were Victor Mature, Gig Young, William Holden, Eve Arden, Robert Preston, Eleanor Parker, and later, both Gene Hackman and Dustin Hoffman. The Playhouse had been out of commission for a while, and the building had fallen into serious disrepair, but it was now being renovated, gearing up for a new era. I didn’t care much about all that. I just wanted a good part in a good play with my own kind—actors, directors, and a stage to work on. But it would be on my dime. And I had only a few dimes left and only four weeks to make some money. But where? And how?
A falling-down old hotel on the beach in Venice provided a haven for artists. In the once-elaborate lobby—proud in the 1930s, now decrepit and probably unsafe—art students gathered by the dozens to sketch and paint, earnestly soaking up the expertise of their guru du jour, a guy named Randy. He was looking for new models.
Nude
models. The pay was twice the minimum wage: two dollars an hour. A fortune! Two dollars an hour! But nude, you see.
But
two dollars
!
But nude.
As in
NAKED
.
I brought it up at dinner, and the crowd around the table couldn’t comprehend why I wasn’t jumping at this easy money. Two bucks an hour! Oh, for—
for crying out tears!
“What’s the matter with you, Oklahoma? Jesus, man, get with it!”
“Wow, can you believe this chick? What are you, honey, from outer space?”
Nettie said in her soft voice, “It’s all right, Rue. Sweetheart Darling, it’s
art
.”
Then they all went back to discussing Jack Kerouac.
Ah. It’s all right, it’s
art
. I take off all my clothes, climb onto a platform, and pose
butt naked
for an hour. And I get two dollars. And it’s
art
. An actress is required to expose her innermost being, raw emotions, nothing hidden, I reasoned. This is only exposing my body in front of a group of fifty art students…for two dollars an hour. I visited the art class and watched the proceedings, hoping the ancient ceiling wouldn’t fall in on me. The students were intent on their work, focusing on sketching, while the models, some not in the greatest shape, were supremely matter-of-fact as they shed their robes, took center stage, and tried to strike interesting poses, perfectly immobile for twenty minutes, three poses an hour. As I watched, I thought,
I can do better than that
. After all that dancing, I was graceful, imaginative, and could hold a pose for twenty minutes without
I went with Darren to say good-bye to his parents, quiet, kind, normal folk who lived in Ojai, an artsy, academic town surrounded by orange groves, a big sky, and lovely mountains. A Shangri-la where rich people sent their kids. Darren had been accepted into an exclusive private school there because they expected him to become a force in the literary world. He was a gentle intellectual, hardly battleground material. Nevertheless, off he went to Korea.
I knew by then I wasn’t in love with him, so after he left, I wasn’t sure what to do. Larry and Nettie invited me to stay on while I decided, for which I was grateful and relieved. But I wanted to get out of their hair as soon as possible, and I was determined to find my way in the theatrical world (was there one?) in Los Angeles. The Yellow Pages yielded four playhouses worth checking into. The first three were not for me, but the Pasadena Playhouse was about to start its “Summer Talent-Finder Course,” four weeks of training culminating in a production of Noël Coward’s
Present Laughter
in the Patio Theatre. I scheduled an interview, looked up Pasadena on the map, and somehow found my way there. (I have a terrible sense of direction, but I can read maps like a champ, thanks to my fourth-grade geography teacher.) The powers that be talked to me for an hour, had me read a couple of scenes, and accepted me.
“Lots of film and television movers and shakers attend our plays,” I was told. And they’d had some major stars in the program. Barbara Rush was discovered there. So were Victor Mature, Gig Young, William Holden, Eve Arden, Robert Preston, Eleanor Parker, and later, both Gene Hackman and Dustin Hoffman. The Playhouse had been out of commission for a while, and the building had fallen into serious disrepair, but it was now being renovated, gearing up for a new era. I didn’t care much about all that. I just wanted a good part in a good play with my own kind—actors, directors, and a stage to work on. But it would be on my dime. And I had only a few dimes left and only four weeks to make some money. But where? And how?
A falling-down old hotel on the beach in Venice provided a haven for artists. In the once-elaborate lobby—proud in the 1930s, now decrepit and probably unsafe—art students gathered by the dozens to sketch and paint, earnestly soaking up the expertise of their guru du jour, a guy named Randy. He was looking for new models.
Nude
models. The pay was twice the minimum wage: two dollars an hour. A fortune! Two dollars an hour! But nude, you see.
But
two dollars
!
But nude.
As in
NAKED
.
I brought it up at dinner, and the crowd around the table couldn’t comprehend why I wasn’t jumping at this easy money. Two bucks an hour! Oh, for—
for crying out tears!
“What’s the matter with you, Oklahoma? Jesus, man, get with it!”
“Wow, can you believe this chick? What are you, honey, from outer space?”
Nettie said in her soft voice, “It’s all right, Rue. Sweetheart Darling, it’s
art
.”
Then they all went back to discussing Jack Kerouac.
Ah. It’s all right, it’s
art
. I take off all my clothes, climb onto a platform, and pose
butt naked
for an hour. And I get two dollars. And it’s
art
. An actress is required to expose her innermost being, raw emotions, nothing hidden, I reasoned. This is only exposing my body in front of a group of fifty art students…for two dollars an hour. I visited the art class and watched the proceedings, hoping the ancient ceiling wouldn’t fall in on me. The students were intent on their work, focusing on sketching, while the models, some not in the greatest shape, were supremely matter-of-fact as they shed their robes, took center stage, and tried to strike interesting poses, perfectly immobile for twenty minutes, three poses an hour. As I watched, I thought,
I can do better than that
. After all that dancing, I was graceful, imaginative, and could hold a pose for twenty minutes without
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