As I navigated my parents' living room on Christmas morning, nearing the end of 1999.  I tried unsuccessfully to find a place to situate my  feet among the crumpled wrapping paper, toys, stuffed animals, handmade quilts, fourteen children, nine adults, holiday treats and a misplaced cup of coffee. It occurred to me that this was the place that the seed had been planted, the most gratifying part of my job, the need to create order out of chaos.

My father used to say "Prior proper planning prevents a piss-poor performance," he would then back it up by telling the story of the doctor who had but  three minutes to perform life saving surgery, he takes two minutes to decide how best to do the job and one minute to complete the actual task. There is nothing more gratifying to me than graciously coordinating the scheduling of the set dressing aspect of my shows. Nothing hurts more than someone who has given it little or no thought, questioning the results and rolling their eyes and walking away.

I have what the executives call "one week" to do a show.  There may be eight sets, there may be twelve.  I could argue about the week, I could argue the number of sets, but then again, what would be the fun in that.  The adventure begins when I try to create an organic environment for each of these sketches,  trying to support the material, making it functional, meeting deadlines, staying within the budget, irritating as few people as possible, and still be satisfied with the outcome.

I would imagine that breaking down the script can be a big problem, but both the production designer and art directors that I have the pleasure of working with realize the importance of sharing information.  Their ideas are clearly mapped out, floor plans distributed, colors discussed, concerns are voiced, camera angles plotted and inevitably mistakes are made, and promptly smoothed over, oft times by me and as some have witnessed, with the finesse of a sledge hammer.

My conversations with the prop master are few, usually done on a cell phone or in a whisper in the production meetings. Our map for cooperation was set in stone a very  long time ago, we seldom deviate from those lines. The fast pace of the production has eliminated the possibility of friendly chatter.

Having moved my way through the Art Department, I then set out to negotiate with wardrobe. This conversation serves three purposes for me: 1) preventing the actors from blending into the furniture, 2) bonding with another department that I rely on for support, and, 3) gossiping with Frances Hayes, somehow we can still do this and work at the same time.

Monday armed with a very extensive list containing all of the valuable information I have gleaned, my self confidence and my very own sense of style, I head for the prop houses that I have come to rely on for everything. These prop houses exist in an invisible circle that my clock will allow me to travel in. I start at the stroke of eight at Lennie Marvin's with a cup of coffee from McDonald's,  then proceed to travel in this arc, through the San Fernando valley, hoping to finish at  Practical  Props before my one o'clock production meeting.  This leaves me time to update my list before the end of the day, call the vendors I have already been to and update my orders.

Tuesday morning finds my crew, list in hand, complete with purchase order numbers, doing the valley pick ups while I tag in tinsel town. Hopefully by now I have a plan and I have shared it with my gang. If all goes well, the pick ups will be done by three o'clock and we may actually be able to start dressing a set.  The problem comes with those unusual  items, those ambiguous chocolate telephones that throw a wrench into the works. What do you sacrifice, which set do you neglect, what do you put on hold so you can find  that special piece of set dressing? The answer is simple: Nothing. You simply have to find a way to complete the picture, finish the environment and tell the story completely.

The crew shows up with three or four 5 tons of set dressing, ready to down load them on an already too full stage, you thank god that you are organized, because there is no way that the scenics are ready for you, the electricians won't even be there until tomorrow and you have lots of little surprises for the grips. The aisles must stay clear for the fire marshall, the camera aisle for  everyone else, furniture must stay away from the unpainted sets, only practicals and walldressing can be preset before the lighting department arrives, entrances and exits must remain clear, precautions must be made to prevent damage to equipment and dressing. You have a production  meeting first thing in the morning and  they expect those sets to be dressed shortly afternoon. The tension is mounting, no one is ready and the only thing you can do is pick up your script for the next show.

Wednesday morning,  the electricians start pre-hanging, making an educated guess as to where they should start. The scenics continue with their brushes and paste. The grips and carpenters make those lost minute changes. The set dressing crew is making what progress they can. At 8:30 a.m., the director, the production designer, the art directors, the lighting designer, and a team of producers have a lighting meeting, now of course this is the first time this week they have all been on the stage with this particular bunch of sets. Hopefully they are happy with what they see, luckily they usually are. Nine-thirty, time for another production meeting, the time ticks by very slowly, I just want to get back to the stage and make some progress, but missing the meeting means that I will lose valuable information for the next show and any changes for this one. By eleven a.m. I am back on the stage, but now I actually have a rehearsal schedule for the afternoon, they always seem to start with the set that isn't done being painted yet. The race is on, we know who is coming and when. We almost make it, but never are we quite ready when the stage manager and the actors arrive. They start to rehearse and the slightest noise seems to sound like a jack hammer to the actors who are learning their marks and trying to remember their lines. At this point we are all trying to remember our motivation, it stopped being money sometime on Monday afternoon. We do what we can, as quietly as we can.

Thursday morning, all is calm again. The technicians all arrive. We quietly finish whatever dressing needs to be done before we start shooting. Alterations are made as the day goes on. Two members of my crew stay with the shooting crew, while the rest of the crew starts to clean up and put things away. Maintenance is performed around the cage.  Last minute pick ups are arranged. We solve some of those lingering problems. Catch up on paper work and find out how much money we actually spent in the last three days. I start to breakdown the script for next weeks show, while watching this one on the monitor, running to the stage when I see things that I am not happy with.

Friday morning there is a sense of calm that I know won't last.  Most of my crew won't be in until we wrap late that night. I am working on the next script, but I also know that things will still go wrong and problems will need to be solved.  I start to deal with some of those chocolate telephones. One crew member wraps up each set as they finish shooting it, trying to keep things in order for the rest of the crew, relieving and assisting the other on set. At lunch time I try to go out and tag whatever I can. As the afternoon rolls around the fans start to line up on the sidewalk, by the time I leave the line reaches around the block and snakes around the sound stages. I find it gratifying that I have been a part of something that so many people will enjoy.  The sad part is that most of my crew will never experience what those people on the stage will, the applause, the laughter, the pay off,  the interaction of a live audience.

The November 1999 issue of Architectural Digest, had a photo layout of Senator Edward Kennedy's New York apartment. In the study resting on a chair is a needlepoint throw pillow which reads " THE ONLY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THIS PLACE AND THE  TITANIC IS THAT THE TITANIC HAD A BAND," the image of that photograph is ever present in my mind as once again we have navigated our way through the satisfaction of another week of production.
 

[originally published in Spring 2000 issue of SDSA Newsletter ]