Episode 5: The White Model

Actual picture of me in my natural model making state without assistants

So we start getting into the rock stars of the scenic design world: the model. Models are obviously not only limited to the realm of scenic design, but they are an essential tool for communicating and (in a way) proving a design. They are the closest you can get to actually test driving how everything is going to look in real time. As has been told to me many times, “We work in a three dimensional art form and so we should be showing our designs through a three dimensional medium.”

There are many advantages to a physical model. You are creating a tool that can accurately inform you down to the inch if what you are thinking is even going to fit, let alone look good in the space. To put something “in scale” means simply that we can shrink the whole world down by logical proportions to a size that we can put in a box and carry around (although admittedly some scale sized models are still enormous relatively speaking). You take increments of measurement (in the case of America increments of the inch while the rest of the world calmly goes about using metric increments) and simply make it equal to 1 foot in real life. For show models, I tend to work in 1/4”=1’-0” scale. While still tiny (think about it, a person measuring 6’ in real life is only an inch and a half tall in scale), you can get enough detail to communicate the idea while still keeping the whole model relatively manageable in size.

The model is an excellent communication tool, especially for the director. While a ground plan drafted out can be helpful, the model really conveys the whole meaning and consequences of each piece in in the actual space, in all the planes that matter to the performance (i.e. three dimensions). It’s all about the idea of “show don’t tell.” Words are very easy to confuse or misinterpret, but if you can pick up a piece and move it around in the actual space in this tiny world, that gets everyone a lot closer to being on the same page about what the design is shaping into.

White models are a kind of first draft of the space, some designers will even refer to them as “sketch models.” The process is similar to a sketch in the sense that you are trying to rough out ideas and just get something down on the page; only with the model it’s inside a scale replica of the theatre. Despite this designation, white models can be as simple or complicated as desired. They are called white models because they are often made out of white paper materials and don’t have color applied. Some are truly just the simplest shapes while others are works of art showing off all the architectural buildups and detail. However, the usual point of a white model is to get the basic gesture of the set, possibly starting to play with texture and smaller details.

My process isn’t terribly unique for a number of designers working in the industry at present. For models, I tend to draft the pieces in a computer program that I can then print out to cut and install. I happen to work out of Vectorworks, but that’s more a matter of comfort for me personally than any specific advantage the program offers. Drafting things in the computer is a marvelous modern wonder that I’m not embarrassed to admit still amazes me. I can make the piece with absolute accuracy and then reproduce it swiftly and, again, accurately, as many times as I wish. And trust me, for a model, that is crucial.

I make what’s called a model kit. This simply means that I draft the pieces so that they are a flat version of the object that can be built up during the install. Think about a four legged table; now, pretend you smashed that table flat and then fly directly overhead and look down. You would see the table top, and then the four legs sticking directly out from each side. That is what you are trying to draft for each piece, a smashed flat, or disassembled version that can be printed on a flat piece of card stock and then folded or built back into its 3 dimensional form.

Example of White Model Kit for Little Shop

Example 2 of White Model Kit for Little Shop

From these kits, my assistants and I build up the pieces for the model and then install them in the box. Little Shop was a show that saw many incarnations of the white model from the most basic, to the inclusion of buildups and textures. I started exploring this show initially under the idea that the shop could turn a full 360 degrees, stopping on the front view or the back depending on the scene. The white models were mostly built exploring this version of the shop in the space.

The only surviving picture of the very first fully assembled white model made for this show. Truly a “sketch” model.

First model version pieces

Tape for scale

That rectangle on the floor is totally an accurate representation for Audrey 2 (definitely not true, we will get there in a later post).

Next Version, White Model 2.0

Interior of Shop 2.0

Up close and Personal with Shop 2.0

White Model 3.0, getting in a little texture and detail to start seeing how that reads

White Model 3.0 shop interior

Oh yeah, and we have a dentist!!

Some 3.0 Pieces

Shop 3.0

Upstage surrounding pieces for model 3.0

Splay wall pieces for model 3.0

Exhibit of White Model pieces….or at least what made it through the great sudden studio clean out and move out of COVID19

While lacking in some of the more fleshed out details, white models are an awesome way to start communicating the broad ideas of the world before investing too deeply in details. Again, I’m always in collaboration with my director, and I find that if I can start with showing broad strokes, then my conversations about those structures with the director will really start to clarify the details. I like to try and develop models that make clear my thoughts and ideas, but still provide a lot of flexibility for us to tease and tweak, moving forward together with ideas that will serve the aesthetic and the performance. White models are just another tool for successful collaboration, a way to shift forward towards a more detailed color model as the process continues.

Episode 4: The Sketch

How I feel when I’m sketching….reality often looks a lot more like a hunched Gollem creature muttering to itself with hands covered in graphite and eraser shavings falling out of the hair. Oh well, this is how I feel on the inside.

There is something that feels almost secret and wonderful about the joy of a sketch. The digital world has opened up an incredible wealth of tools that has allowed for so much accessibility for people to express themselves artistically. Digital mediums are a wonder and I delight in having such things at my disposal to use in my own work. All that being said, the secret delight (although I know that it’s not so very secret really) of the sketch is that it is simply accomplished with very mundane tools; pencil and paper. There is something inherently thrilling about looking at the strokes of someone’s pencil, seeing the way they capture things in their scratches and eraser marks. Truly, a sketch is a wonderful thing.

Now that I’m done waxing rhapsodic on this particular subject, let me get real; the sketch is a useful tool in some respects, but it definitely is a fluid and interpretive piece of information. In the case of a scenic design, a sketch can lie in certain ways. It’s often capturing only a very rudimentary view of the scenery (everyone is always sitting in perfect sight lines right?) , and scale is relative at best. A sketch allows a vast degree of squeezing and scraping and tweaking of perspective that isn’t always in compliance with the laws that govern reality. Compared with the granular accuracy that can be achieved with an in scale live model, or even a 3D rendering in a computer program, it’s a wonder that a sketch is still utilized at all.

Despite all this, I know that for me personally a physical pencil sketch will always be useful. I’ve had some kind of drawing thing in my hand since I was little. Too many things inside, had to get them out and fixed in stillness somehow. It’s still very much like that. After the research, I have to order the vast ecosystem of ideas into some semblance of stillness that will even stand a chance of making sense to a director, and even to myself. Before I can move into a ground plan or model, I have to order objects loosely, investigating if they even make basic sense in a sketch.

Think of the process like steps in the recipe; you don’t just take the raw ingredients, throw them in the oven and expect to get a cake. You need to go through the procedure. Every recipe makes a different treat, but all treats require similar steps of somehow combining raw ingredients together to create something different than the original. The sketch for me is the combining of the raw ingredients of the research and mixing them into the base batter/dough of my design. I can take a quick taste from that batter (you all do it, smile in solidarity and don’t judge) and tell if I need another dash of this or that before putting it in the oven. The sketch is the first taste test to show the director. Sometimes, you make multiple and you pick the one you like best. In this case, I drafted one set of sketches because I knew that we had to shift pretty quickly into the model.

Sometimes, the sketch can be pretty loose to start, only a rough gesture vaguely larger than thumbnail. I may occasionally show this type of sketch to a director depending on the situation, but often this type is reserved FDEO (For Designer Eyes Only)

Example of a loose sketch that I did for Act 4 of The Seagull

In the case of Little Shop, we went with a slightly more formalized process.

My sketch process is actually a hybrid of analog and digital. I start with a picture of the model box of the theatre with a scale figure and usually a piece of model furniture. This will help me establish a scale relative to the human figure (usually made at 6ft. tall because, you know, basically most humans are that height…..sure) and the model piece will help me establish my horizon line so I can keep my perspective (fairly, mostly, it’s chill) accurate.

I do a main sketch on trace paper by hand over this picture of the box; keeps everything within relative proportions. I then create multiple trace paper sketch layers of different set pieces that move in and out of that main sketch.

Base picture of my model box for the Jorgensen Theatre that I will trace over to establish fairly accurate proportions for the sketch.

Main Base Sketch for Little Shop, Skid Row envelope (pre-final Photoshop)

Shop Exterior sketch layer (pre-final Photoshop)

Shop Interior Sketch Layer (pre-final Photoshop)

At this point, I scan all the pieces into the computer and then begins the Photoshop magic. I won’t pretend I’m a marvelous expert in the world of all things Photoshop. However, I use the ten tools I do know to excellent advantage. I’m a mixed media girl at heart. I always say that you should use the best medium for the thing you’re trying to communicate. The basic forms and shading of my scenery is best communicated through analog materials of pencils and marker and then digital tools are remarkably good at emphasizing what is important about those forms in a format that reads beautifully across multiple platforms. I am often sending this information to my director and team digitally, so it is imperative that I do everything possible to ensure that my work is clear and effective when being seen that way.

In this, the sketch is wonderful because I can place the viewer exactly where I want. Sometimes photographing a model can get tricky because I can’t always get the camera exactly where is most ideal. In a sketch, I have full control over the viewpoint and that is a huge advantage, especially at the early stage.

For Little Shop, I built three sketches; the base envelop of Skid Row, the shop front, and the shop interior.

Final Sketch for Skid Row

Final Sketch Exterior

Final Sketch Shop Interior

I had a lot of fun building these. The sketch is one of my favorite parts in the process because it gets at all my favorite things about the way I make art; pencil to paper, mixed media, and then building composite collages of the pieces to make something new. The sketch does have its limits, but it’s crucial and dear to me in both my professional and personal artwork. I mean, come on, who doesn’t love a sweet little drawing?

Episode 3 (Part 2): My Own Research for Little Shop

My personal research process in 2020 (obviously I started this project in 2019, but semantics) usually starts with a Pinterest dive. Please don’t cringe! (that’s mostly for my mentor if he ever reads this, please give me a chance). Pinterest is a deep abyss of image overload and I find it useful for the initial “falling” as I like to call it. I just wind my way down, through, around, and I don’t sensor my impulses for a couple hours. I use it to generate hundreds of “sparks” or potential “paths.” I am not looking for a particular “door” at present, I am just running through as many as I can to see which will offer a working world.

After that first dive, I select things that sing together, that all appear to cohesively look like they belong together. Then, I try and source those images; is this from a certain artist? Can I search more of their work specifically? Did this one come from a book? Can I find that book in one of the many libraries I’m apart of? etc.

On the hunt for images, books are worth their weight in opals. Books are already collections of related things gathered together in a single place so you don’t have to go to the trouble of building from scratch (and funnily enough, a lot easier to make a citation for later in an MFA Project). Still, it can sometimes be tricky to find that perfect book. Even spending hours perusing our art section in the school library isn’t always fruitful; hence why something like the internet or Pinterest, which will sometimes list that book title or artist name to start can be magical.

But, I don’t just use images. I really love to understand the worlds we are trying to build. What is it about the 80’s in American cities that’s special? What actually is Skid Row? What did life look like for people like Audrey and Seymour in a city in that time? For myself, I read a number of articles, but I also respond to audio research. Specifically for this production, I listened to the podcast 99% Invisible’s episode titled Containment Plan. This episode was about the original Skid Row out in LA, and how the city and a group of activists came to an agreement that the Skid Row area (its residents and services) would be kept to a certain few blocks and not spill into the surrounding neighborhoods. This particular piece fascinated me because, while we were definitely going with a more East Coast NYC styled place, the whole idea of people being “contained” within this small piece of the city informed so much of how I wanted our Skid Row to feel.

I wandered the highways and byways of the internet, paged through articles about hostile architecture, listened to podcasts and ultimately, pictures began to emerge. If I were to show you the whole lot of images I initially flagged….well I’m not so no worries. Below, I have curated some of the best and the brightest, the ones that I kept coming back to over and over as the design progressed. They are divided into categories of Skid Row, the Shop, and the Dentist’s office.

Skid Row Research Collage 1

Skid Row Research Collage 2

Shop Research Collage

Dentist Office Collage

I think it fair to disclose that I made these collages recently. They are compiled from images that I found initially in the first research pass, as well as those I collected along the way as various adjustments were made through collaboration. In case it didn’t read clearly throughout these posts, I love this phase. It’s a joy to go on the hunt for the exact visuals that give you the information you need to build the show. Especially in this present time where I am blessed beyond all measure with a wealth of information and resources that I have the privilege to access and utilize to further my art. Truly, what a wild time to be alive.

Episode 3 (Part 1): Research

When you hear the word “research” it might bring to mind flipping through pages and pages of books and articles, grabbing paragraphs and sentences that you can appropriately cite in your bibliography of a very organized paper. Or perhaps you consider it more scientifically; running trials and experiments, gathering data to support your hypothesis.

For a designer, research is somewhat like that. Books are often involved and there is definitely a lot of reading. We are also on the hunt to gather data to prove a hypothesis; in this case, that a design thesis can work. However, we aren’t building a bibliography, but a planet. For the scenic designer, we are mostly looking for images that resonate with what we are thinking about for our “vision” of the play.

Think of each script kind of like that moment in the movie Monster’s Inc. where Sully, Mike, and Boo come through the conveyor belt and see thousands upon thousands of doors before them. Each script holds a multiverse of options, or doors, that the team can open and explore in order to communicate the story. Researching for the designer is the moment where we can gleefully open a whole bunch of doors and explore their possibilities, finding the paths that will ultimately serve our needs best for this project.

Image from the movie Monster’s Inc. (Disney and Pixar)

Now, it’s very important to understand that in American theatre the vision is very heavily influenced by one individual; the director. The relationship between director and designer is absolutely crucial for creating a cohesive design. For me, my focus is making sure that I am an ally to the director, that I am doing everything I can to listen to their wants and needs and then translate that into a design that will satisfy aesthetic and function.

In the case of Little Shop, Dexter was very clear about two things from the beginning:

-He wanted the show to be set in the 80’s

- He was very strongly inspired by B-Movies, particularly horror movies from that era. He also said he really liked the aesthetic and feel of the Netflix series Stranger Things.

80’s Horror Movie Poster Collage (not original to this post’s author)

Stranger Things Poster used for Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights (not original to this post’s author)

So, now I toddle off my merry way to research. Not only is researching necessary for me to start moving my own thoughts on how things should look and feel, but this is the way I can start sharing language of the world with my director. It’s always an interesting dance because as a designer, I can see the world in so many potential pictures moving at a thousand miles an hour for every moment; endless possibilities and doors. For the director, they need a way to see what I’m seeing so they can decide if what I have to offer can work with how they want to move bodies in that space. We have to find a door into a world that works for all; so I look for images that accurately portray the paths I think might work, and then the director picks which one we will walk.

Lost and Found (A "thesis" story)

OFFICIAL DESIGN ASSIGNMENT OFFER

This was the email I’d been waiting for.

To briefly to introduce you to the circumstances I’m an MFA candidate in Scenic Design at the University of Connecticut. Part of the deal is that I’m technically a designer in residence for the Connecticut Repertory Theatre for the academic year. Myself and my fellow grad students, and sometimes undergraduate, are often the ones designing the various aspects of the shows that are produced by CRT outside of the Nutmeg summer shows. In our third year of grad school, one of our show assignments also acts as our MFA Project (which we refer to as our “thesis” show even though technically it’s a Master’s Project). In addition to fully designing a realized production in the season, we produce a “book” that catalogs our whole process and all the pertinent materials necessary to our design. We then have to present that documentation and discuss our work with a committee that then formally determines if we have successfully accomplished our Project.

Little Shop of Horrors presented at the Harriet S. Jorgensen Theatre by the Connecticut Repertory Theatre, is my MFA Project. The email above was the official confirmation of that assignment. I smiled wide when I got it. Little Shop holds a warm place in my heart, and I knew it would be a “thesis” worthy challenge. Plus, there was some fun history with the director that I will reveal in later posts. I knew it was a beast of a show. I was already anxious about whether I could actually meet the demands it required. Still, I’d wanted it badly. It was mine, and I was going to do my utmost to make it amazing.

Obviously….some things are different now. I find myself in the place of many of my fellow theatre artists. Our show is canceled as a complication of COVID19 prevention measures. This is painful. The creative team has been working actively together on this production since November 15th of 2019; some of us had been working on it since April of that same year. We had just gotten to the point where we had first rehearsals and we were just beginning production of the scenery and other elements. It was going to be a really good show. The cast was excellent, the production facilities new and ready to handle the scale of the show, and the designs…..they were all quite stellar. Another casualty among the myriad of consequences that I’m sure we will still be navigating years from now.

I have mourned for that unrealized piece of my work. I was deeply excited to see it in motion; more excited than I’ve really admitted even to those closest to me because I cry ugly and I prefer to to do that in private. Now, though, what’s left? Actually, quite a lot.

See, I’m really lucky. I’ve done a huge amount of work, all the creative team has. We’ve been living with this show since November (design process at CRT is quite long), and for me that means I’ve produced 3/4 of the materials that I would have ultimately needed for my show in full. I have pages of research images, sketches, a veritable graveyard of model pieces, a fully colored (and darn good looking) color model, a completed drafting package, detailed paint elevations, and miles of photographic proof that this design was real. I’m sad that I won’t be able to include pictures of the pieces coming to life full size. I won’t be able to gasp in delight as the actors interact with the world we made, but, all is not sadness.

My Project is safe (i.e. I can still present and graduate on time) because thankfully it’s set up to be flexible. So long as I did the work (and oh I most definitely did!), I can’t be penalized for something as unprecedented as a pandemic. “In fact,” my mentor told me in a phone conversation not long after the school moved to online and the show was canceled, “documenting and responding to this event will make your thesis probably more interesting and unique than what anyone would have imagined previously.” I heard the subtle message intertwined in his already blatant encouragement; this is a rough situation that could prove a unique opportunity, use it.

And so, I am. I’m taking this space to open up my process. I’m going to walk through the wild places of how the scenic design for this show came into being and show you, to the best of my abilities, what that design would have looked like had you had the opportunity to see the production. Obviously, no paltry model photos or orderly drafting will ever equal seeing a production. However, I would pose these questions to you; how often do you really get to see the design process showcased? How often does a designer stop to really show all the pieces that went into the model box in the display case at the end? Also, how often do we find ourselves with a little more time to actually explore that process in such detail?

This journey is not just about me. It’s also about my collaborators. Sure I want to show you the process of my design, but more than half that process is inextricably tied to the relationships that I share with my collaborators. We have our specialties, but we are an ecosystem where every design decision profoundly affects everyone else’s choices. How we make those choices together and as individuals is what makes our art form unique. This team was amazing and I want to use this showcase to give you a glimpse of how the way we work together is really the thing that makes our work something worth seeing.

I will be showing and telling in detail. I hope you can see how hard we worked to bring you something wonderful. Even though this is a shadow of a thing deferred, this is the way I want you to see my work. This is my MFA Project, a culmination of three years of grueling labor to become better at my craft. I am proud of this. And so, from here, the posts will showcase parts of the process and the people in that process. Welcome to the Shop!