I’m reflecting on change after my first 5 months back in the “real world” following a fantastic and frustrating year of study and reflection: my sabbatical from Brooklyn College for the 2010-11 academic year. I’ve returned to the equally fantastic and frustrating reality of running a graduate program at the largest urban higher education bureaucracy in the world, the City University of New York, working with the unique needs and interests of talented and demanding graduate students (http://www.pima-mfa.info), and hungry and committed undergraduate students (http://www.bctvr.org). Also, importantly, I’ve been making art again. My last major project was 2008, and I’m now engaged with a group of collaborators on several new explorations, and completed an exciting project in December that I can best describe as “light puppetry.”

It’s as if my life post-sabbatical is a “sequel,” a long-awaited next novel by an author whose first few books, while mixed, were overall pretty solid efforts. After something of a long hiatus, here’s a new book, not just a new chapter. A lot of things are different, even though many of the characters are the same. But the author has matured; grown, perhaps suffered, and certainly learned.

As Kristin and I accelerate our preparations for Summer 2012, I’m also reflecting on how, for every camper returning to camp this summer, camp will be a “sequel.” As kids, the author of your life-books cranks out new works at an amazing pace. These are not skimpy volumes, either. These are some tomes.

Every year kids re-invent themselves with the help of a tremendous volume of new experiences pouring in at a rate unbearable to the adult mind. That is, until the adult mind gets to experience that kind of flux again, as I am this year. And even then, the thought of that much change and growth for years on end is exhausting. But going through it now, the plunge into vibrant and turbulent life after a year of quiet reflection, I am really relating to what it’s like to be a child of any age: 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. Each one of those years is filled with revelation upon revelation. How intense it must be! How pushed and pulled and challenged every week, sometimes every day or hour can be! Kids, let me tell you: as an adult, sometimes a whole week goes by and nothing worth mentioning happens. Isn’t that amazing? Seems impossible, right? Frankly, it’s sometimes a relief. But this year? Every day of Fall 2011 and 2012 so far has been lived at near-teen intensity, and it’s a good thing for a camp director to experience. As a camp professional who trains and guides new staffers each year, I need to relate to kids. And this has been a great refresher course (as, of course, is having my own children, now aged 5 and 8).

And so all this reflection leads me think about a recurring theme in camping: how every summer kids come back to camp and say, “Camp has changed so much!” And each year Kristin and I really look at camp, and at the traditions (granted, we have fewer of those than most camps), the core philosophy, the activities, and every little detail of camp. And we search for the big changes so many are seeing. The result: we typically just can’t find these changes. Last summer, in particular, after having changed almost nothing about camp (except building the new dining hall and kitchen; that’s really where all our energy went), kids seemed to be saying more than ever, “see how the camp has changed! They’ve changed everything!” We thought and thought and thought. We did change the length of one session, and we supposed that that was something, and finally we decided that maybe we shouldn’t have changed where we sat in the dining hall: perhaps that change of not being in the small dining hall with the older kids, and suddenly being in the large dining hall with the younger kids, created a feeling of great change we never intended. However this felt a little weak as a theory. It was the best we could come up with until a psychologist friend suggested a simple twist: perhaps it is the kids who were changing, and coming back to the camp as new people, re-invented in a thousand ways since the last time they set foot on Ballibay mountain. Things look… a little smaller, a little less mysterious. The camp seems full of… younger kids! New things are noticed: some effort in a thing once thought effortless, some flaw in a thing once seen as flawless.

I had my first day of television aesthetics class on Wednesday, an undergraduate class in which we use film theoretic techniques to analyze contemporary television. I always tell the students, “After this class, you’ll never see TV the same way again. You’ll think about each shot, the lighting, the camera angle, the layers of sound and music. Where you used to sit and passively enjoy shows, now you will actively enjoy them, continually analyzing, continually thinking about all the choices and accidents and work that went into every shot, every edit, every montage. This new understanding of television is wonderful, as it deepens your enjoyment through understanding. As students of television and radio, you need this kind of informed understanding of what you’re seeing. But the one part that’s a little bittersweet is that you can never go back. You can never return to the naïve love of TV you once had. That kind of enjoyment will be forever replaced by a more informed, more mature, more active appreciation.” The “change” kids see in camp is possibly a similar thing. The eyes change, the mind changes, and the beloved thing — dear Ballibay — looks different through this new hardware and software. There is a kind of pure enjoyment that is forever gone, but it is replaced by something entirely new: a deeper, richer experience that may be at first foreign and unappealing.

The act of walking is, to be physically precise: allowing ourselves to fall forward and catching ourselves in each step. Through long experience, and a difficult period of trial-and-error we blissfully don’t remember, we trust ourselves to walk; we trust that we can fall face-forward towards the ground and that our legs will 99.9999% of the time catch us flawlessly and propel us into the next tiny fall that we call a “step.” Perhaps moving forward in life is a kind of falling that we have somehow learned to trust in the same way. We have to fall out of every comfortable place in which we find ourselves, and fall into something unknown. But we do it moment-to-moment, day-to-day. We fall out of camp one August, fall into school, fall from week-to-week until we fall into a holiday, maybe we fall into illness, and then back into health, maybe we fall in love with a new interest, a sport, a band, a friend. And then maybe we fall out again. And a year later, in June, we fall back into camp. But the same place is now different to us because we’ve been moving all year and it has been staying still, under snow, waiting for the new us to arrive. And we whisper, “wow, camp has changed so much.” And camp whispers back, “wow, you have changed so much. I’m impressed.”

A slight change in the direction of my writing, and my second blog post will now be about cookies. Well, not exactly about cookies, but prompted by my baking skills. After a failed attempt at baking a new easy recipe for peppermint cookies, I was left with a pile of unservable cookies for a cookie exchange, and only sixteen of my two dozen quota filled. Feeling very defeated, I started complaining to my friend, Jenn, about how this was a perfect example of why I never cook/bake. I am terrible at it, and I have to be honest, I do not enjoy being in the kitchen. It is frustrating coming from a long line of amazing cooks to realize that I just don’t have the chops…but even more so, I just don’t really have a desire to become any better. As someone who loves to improvise movement and create dances, I should love the idea of being creative with recipes, right?

It was something Jenn said to me today that actually prompted me to change my blog topic. She told me to stop beating myself up over the fact that I was not great in the kitchen, and just accept the fact that I do not enjoy cooking. I laughed when she continued on about not everyone being able to dance, and that I did that well…. but I got the point. There are times when we just have to remember it is ok to have different like and dislikes, and to absolutely celebrate those around us that can excel at something we just can’t seem to get right. That’s why I surrounded myself with great cooks and people who love being in the kitchen. I am a great helper, a great taster, and a great dishwasher; I’ve decided it is now time to be ok with the fact that I am not a great cook.

Similar to adult life, camp is a place where you don’t have to be good at everything, and it’s ok to be ok with that. And it’s ok to do and try things that are new or that you are not good at. No one will judge you, and everyone will think you are cool for trying. School seems to expect us to be good at everything, and in school we’re “brave” to try something we don’t know that we’ll be good at. At camp you don’t have to be “brave,” because you’re not facing criticism for failure (in fact, we just don’t talk about failure: if imperfection is part of learning, and learning is success, then failure is just not that useful a concept!)

Luckily for me I get to spend 2 months every summer eating great dishes by our chefs and kitchen staff. I don’t even have to think about going into the kitchen to start cooking, I just enjoy the creations of the chefs that have a true passion for what they do. I also watch campers and staff try new foods, and we have a collection of success stories when it comes to picky eaters. Even more so, I observe some campers find a new passion for food. Spending their time in the garden or with our food education staff in the kitchen, the campers have a hand in the preparation of our snacks and meals. Our food education program has become an integral aspect of camp, and I am thrilled that it continues to grow (like our garden) each year. In fact, Sarah, our food ed/garden staff last summer took it to a whole new level. Check out The Garden Movie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8rGk5f3gIc.

Campers trying new things, staff finding ways to expand programs, and a genuine enthusiasm to celebrate small and large successes are the day-to-day aspects I love most about camp. For many campers, Ballibay becomes about discovering their own path in the arts, which may be very different than the one they originally thought they would take. It is about new experiences; finding their voice to say I tried this once and would rather pursue something else, or, I love this and would like to spend most of my time here taking in every ounce that I possibly can.

I re-watched The Garden Movie tonight, and it brought a huge smile to my face because it took me right back to the campers, staff, and surroundings of my summer home. It reminded me that Ballibay is always full of unexpected discoveries about oneself, many of which can be carried out through the year and applied in different situations. Tomorrow when I head back into the kitchen for my second attempt at those cookies I take a refreshed attitude, and an attainable goal. I just need 8 more cookies.

Again it is my grad students at Brooklyn College who inspire me to blog about arts camping! One of the requirements of the M.F.A. program that I direct is an “Experimental Ensemble,” a group that meets weekly for a year in order to build a strong collaborative performance ensemble made up of artists from various disciplines. We often begin the class with a warm-up, and last week, at the end of the warm-up session, when the energy was good and everyone was feeling excited, one of the students (who is himself a theater director with many years experience in the professional and education worlds) proposed we play a round of “best friend, worst enemy.” The rules are like this:

From the group,
Pick a best friend!
Shhhh!
Pick a worst enemy!
Shhhh!
When the game begins,
Stay as close as possible to your “best friend”
While remaining as far as possible from your “worst enemy” 

This game had us, within minutes, running, spinning, smushing into each other, circling, and dodging. We formed clusters, or orbits, or clumps that hung together and then broke apart only to re-form in new, exciting configurations. We played several rounds and by the end were out of breath, excited, and laughing our heads off.

The conversation turned to adult things: flocking behaviors, chaotic systems, multi-agent systems, and in fact I made a promise to the students that I would model the “best friend, worst enemy” flocking behavior in software for their interactive multimedia class, which I did and blogged at my Visual Programming Blog: http://blogs.pima-mfa.info/jannone/?p=3

But the free and joyous energy that flowed into us from that playing this child’s game was exceptional, and I was reminded that this is how children interact much of the time, fully present in navigating a complex world of emergent relationships and deep unknowns. The fact that we, as adults and experienced artists, see so much value in finding ways back to that childlike state reminds me what an incredible thing it is to be an artist and a child! This is why arts camp is, at its best, not a preparation for being an “adult” or “mature” artist. It is the real thing. As adult artists, all we can do is try to get back there, try to be that connected, that imminent in the brilliance of the moment of doing.

So I offer this to all arts camp directors and our staff: let us never try to make little professionals out of our charges. Let’s instead remind ourselves that there is a purity to the child’s experience that is very much like the best art, all the time. It’s full of imagination, rich complexities, deep mysteries, excitement, and a wild emotional terrain.

That said, there are other ways in which all summer camps are a wonderful step in preparing for adulthood. Camps foster the growth and development of personal responsibility for one’s actions, decision-making skills, social tools, an understanding of diversity, and independence, just to name a few. But when it comes to the kind of freedom of mind and spirit, and connectedness of mind and body, that we as adult artists seek to maintain in our professional lives as we age, it is illustrative to notice it there in the kids, all the time, every day.

When John and I decided to write this blog, we thought it would be relatively easy to find opportunities to connect our non-camp lives with our lives as camp directors. After John’s first post, I figured I would have a great story about something that happened during one of my classes or meetings, and although I probably could write about one of those moments, the topic that has weighed most heavily on my mind has been audience etiquette.

At Ballibay every performance starts off with one of the counselor House Managers coming out prior to the start of the performance and reminding the campers about proper Ballibay theater etiquette…I can almost hear the speech that is repeated several (or more) times a week about not shouting out campers’ names, clapping respectfully, and not shining flashlights in the performers’ eyes. (The last one is probably just camp specific). Furthermore, throughout the performance, counselors in the audience or those of us standing in the back make sure that the campers are not talking or being disruptive. Luckily we have great campers, who for the most part, are supportive and respectful of their peers on stage.

After many summers of instilling this etiquette, I am starting to notice that maybe I have become hypersensitive as an audience member when I am away from Ballibay. I am the one who can hear the candy wrapper being opened from across the aisle and become so consumed by the noise it is all I hear. I am the one who will tap someone on their shoulder and ask them to please put their cell phone away. Last weekend at a dance festival concert, I was one again reminded that theater etiquette is sometimes lost.

Spending my life as a dancer I have attended hundreds of different types of performances: recitals, informal showings, concerts, dance competitions, etc. At this point I understand that the etiquette at each one might vary slightly; but how does the audience know that? For example, at an informal showing you may be able to take out your cell phone and film the dance your child is performing, but at a recital you are most likely prohibited because the studio is having it professionally recorded and wants you to purchase the DVD. At a professional dance concert you would show your support for the dancers by clapping, yet at dance competition calling out dancer’s names is completely accepted. What happens, however, when a dance competition team performs in a dance concert?

I truly believe the competition team should get the opportunity to perform in various settings; it helps them to grow as performers, it allows them to show their dances outside the competition circuit, and as an audience member who doesn’t normally go to competitions, it enables me to see what kind of work the students at that studio are doing. I have to say, last weekend I was quite impressed by those studios, except for the fact that I had to listen to, “get it girl” and “work it” being shouted from the audience (and backstage) as the dancers took the stage, danced the piece, and exited. Immediately I thought about camp and how if that behavior were going on (other than on one of our Rock Band Nights), someone would quickly be at the side of those campers reminding them to please be respectful.

But then I also thought about those moments at camp when a performance ends and campers in the audience jump to their feet with applause and exclaims of excitement as their peers take their bows. How enthusiasm for a job well done fills the theater just moments after the final blackout and continues all the way back to the cabins as they settled in for the night. So back to the dance concert last weekend…. although I am still left with the question of how the audience is supposed to know how to act and/or to know what is appropriate etiquette for a particular performance, maybe I should just celebrate the fact that the audience was enthusiastically showing appreciation for the artistry and athleticism of the dancers. There is something to be said about knowing the audience is completely engaged in your performance, and feeling their excitement as you look out from the stage into the blackness.

I am sure between now and the summer I will attend many performances, and will probably think back to this blog. Is it me or is theater etiquette lost at many performances? That question may never have a definitive answer. I do know for a fact, however, that when I get back to Ballibay I will look forward to that pre-performance speech and just be thankful that we do not allow the campers to have their cell phones and the evening snack happens outside during intermission. I will also look forward to the sincere congratulations the kids express night after night to their fellow campers.

I decided to begin writing this blog (I’ve had it in my head for years to do so) not because of anything specifically to do with camp, but because of my graduate students at Brooklyn College. I’ve returned from a year away from teaching to an inspiring group of students who, although already experts in their own fields in many cases, have come together to temporarily put aside their individual work as artists and become part of an experimental program in interdisciplinary artistic collaboration and performance (Performance and Interactive Media Arts, an interdisciplinary M.F.A. program that I designed and direct). In order to truly collaborate with each other, these adult artists must be willing to be child-like: they need to possess a genuine blend of trust, openness, eagerness, and curiosity. While the goals of camp and grad school are very different (At camp, the goal is safe, healthy fun; by contrast, I conceptualize my program as a training ground for highly effective artistic teams, able to make good artistic and practical production decisions in short time frames with limited experience working together), the conceptual bases of creating good arts camps and a good graduate programs (at least in the performing arts) have some fundamental similarities. I’ll introduce one of them in this post that has come up several times this semester with this outstanding cadre of students.

Doing and talking about doing
One key similarity I see between camp and grad school are the multiple balances that need to be struck between “doing” and “talking about doing.” Kids in the arts need to get to doing things quickly: after very limited and necessarily incomplete discussion, the paintbrush, instrument, script, or gardening tool needs to be in hand, and something needs to be happening. But kids also need time to reflect and talk about how an experience felt for them, what it was like to do something new, and what they imagine doing next. Even more than kids, adults have a tendency to want all the information before diving in, particularly in a new endeavor. More than that, there is a strong impulse in adults to try to have the whole conversation up front: how something might or will feel, and what might or ought to come next.

At camp, getting things moving is aided by the typically short time frame of activities: a rock band has less than two weeks to get songs together, a play has one to three weeks, an installation or puppet show might require a week of intense work, &c… At camp there is a lot of incentive to get started. With my students, this short time frame needs to be orchestrated. For instance, the two-week project given last week:

A 5-minute site-specific dance incorporating:

• One extreme tempo change
• One costume change
• One silence
• One list of objects
• One absence
• One moment in which everyone dances
• One foodstuff

Even though some specifics have been supplied, many decisions need to be made by the collaborative groups quickly and decisively so work can begin. With two weeks to produce, and limited opportunities to meet in person, they have to hit the ground running. This simulates the kind of “short time-horizon” projects that are common at arts camps, and gets the “doing” started while limiting too much “talking about doing.”

A major factor in allowing this to happen is trust. And kids, wonderfully, have a well developed instinct to trust. They possess a healthier trust than adults, who have become cautious, and often over-cautious with age and experience. This is one of the reasons my M.F.A. students, and particularly this cadre, impress me so very much. They are allowing themselves to trust strangers in a very personal and well developed context: the context of their artistic selves. Because of what the program asks of them, it must in return be a safe space for them to explore. In short, it must be like camp; and specifically like an arts camp. As at arts camps, the environment must be such that trust is an appropriate response to a new challenge.

Once trust is in place, some brief discussion can lead to quick decisions that get the ball rolling.

A: What’s this piece about?
B: Birds
A & C: Ok.
A: Blackbirds.
C: Why is a blackbird not bad luck, while a black cat is?
&c…

In seconds a group of three have a starting place together: images, associations, perhaps stories. This process of quick agreement is known in improvisational theater as “accepting an offer” or “yes, and…” It emerges out of trust: trust that the ideas contributed by others are as valid and as good as one’s own, and trust that one’s own ideas, when expressed, will be valued in the same fashion by the other members of the group.