The Day I've Been Visualizing for Years

By the time I got to iO for the first day of the summer intensive, the cabaret was already packed. I wasn't late; I think the other students were merely enthusiastic and nervous. As was I. We gather, do some paperwork, and get a little intro and pizza, which of course I can't eat. In the paperwork, I see that I'm in section six (whoever they are). For the entire intensive, we stay with our groups. And each week (corresponding to five advancing levels) a different teacher works with us. I don't recognize any of the names of my teachers, which concerns me somewhat. It just means I won't be getting any of the "superstars." Fine. I'm just thinking about my team, and I can hardly focus on a face in the crowd because it makes me too scared to think about which ones will be the most important people in my life for the next five weeks.

After a long delay, the joker in the booth starts playing some sort of royal march (or perhaps it was the theme to Masterpiece Theater.) And Charna Halpern owns the stage. Literally and figuratively. The teachers are lined up behind her, and as she hops up on stage, she goes down the line, punching each one in turn. Then she turns to us, her eager and presumably adoring audience, holds up her middle finger on each hand in a salute, and playfully yells, "Fuck you!" And then she says with obvious pride, "Welcome to my home." This, ladies and gentlemen, is Charna Halpern.

She is smiling, though flustered, as she explains that she has just moved one significant step closer to owning a new home for iO, a bigger theatre that they will move into in a year. We are privy to the grand announcement first! She introduces herself as the "only, living longform creator," which makes me wonder how David Shepherd would feel about that, not to mention Keith Johnstone. She gives a brief introduction to iO and their philosophy, echoing what David Pasquesi told me in our interview,  "We take our scenes nice and slow. One line at a time. We listen between the lines." There is some skittering in the audience, and Charna calls out to her dogs. She has four though only two are at the theater with her that day. The dogs have their own theme song too as they join her on stage.

Dame Charna Halpern
and the backend of one of her dogs

Finally, we are dismissed to meet our sections. Each section is meant to have 16 people. We have 15, and I shyly peek at them as we bake outside the theater waiting for our teacher to take us to our off-site classroom.  It's an eclectic bunch in ages and appearance. They all look pretty cool. But can they improvise?

"This will undoubtably change your life," our first week teacher, Lyndsay Hailey promises in her introduction. She seems very cool with a vibrant energy of positive enthusiasm that puts me at ease in her hands. She is a gentle, strong force that guides us forward during our time together.

We circle up on the floor. Going into the intensive, my biggest worry was that I wouldn't get a good team, people at my level. I was worried that too much of my precious time in Chicago would be wasted watching new improvisers stumble their way through scenes. (Bitchy, I know. But the truth nonetheless.) The class team is important at the intensive. Like boot camp or even just regular summer camp, we are meant to bond strongly with these people, establish unbreakable trust, and genuinely get pleasure from each other. I notice that there are three other women on the team, a willowly blond from Finland, a young actress from NYC, and a dark-haired improviser, newly arrived in Chicago, who looks just like the "This one time, at band camp..." girl from the American Pie movie. For some reason I'm unperturbed by the gender imbalance. The guys look kind and open, and something in my brain says, "Good. This will be a good chance for you to stretch and learn to play better with men." After we do the first exercise in which we share our most embarrassing moment stories (just imagine stories with lots of poop, pee, vomit and menstrual blood), I'm pretty psyched to discover that I genuinely like these people. They are each one of them Good Folk, kind-hearted people who I could be friends with. Phew. But can they improvise?

Finally, we're up on our feet. We launch into learning how to do the "Opening" of a Harold, which is an organic group mindmeld - pretty experimental theatery looking - as we work together to spontaneously create a soundscape and a human "machine" that will reveal the theme of our show. Afterwards we do a few scenes, cycling through the group. I become increasingly ebullient to discover that all these people are GREAT improvisers who know their shit. HOORAY!!!!! Aside from our weakest link, an older man named John, every single person clearly has studied and performed a great deal of improv. In fact, miraculously enough, they all seemed to be at the exact same evolutionary stage in their improv as I am with mine. (Insert the triumphant music and happy dancing here.)

By the end of the class at 5pm, I am walking on air. My dreams have been answered, and I'm eager to dive back into more improv with these new friends. After a brief time at home to shower and bolt down some food, most of us meet up that evening at iO for the all-star cast who do The Armando show, which is red hot that night in front of the eager, packed house of mostly students. I mean, they killed it. I can hardly sleep that night at all because my body is pulsing with improv joy.