I recently spent a week with David Shepherd, the father of
improvisation, to attend his tribute and to work on getting his archives in
order. Since I was staying in a cottage
on his property, we had an abundance of quality time together.
David immediately writes down every interesting idea that he
hears (“Otherwise you will forget it!”) on 3x5 index cards. There’s always a stack nearby. Strewn all
over his office, you’ll find cards with a phrase, exchange or just a word or
two that is designed to open up a plethora of improv possibilities.
One morning over breakfast, we talked about a close mutual
friend, who to this day, still mocks me for the amount of preparation I invest
in my workshops. He finds that I put
unnecessary pressure on myself. Considering that I’ve been doing this for over
thirty years, couldn’t I simply walk into a workshop and conduct it off the top
of my head? I suppose I could – but the mere thought makes me shudder.
As David taught me, my plans are written out on 3x5 index
cards. Some are detailed, with the plans broken up into warm-ups, technique,
formats, closure. Others, just a series
of games to choose from, based on the atmosphere of the group. On the back of the cards, I also have a plan
“B” – just in case my original design isn’t working. I even have a plan “C.”
The workshop card is either tucked in my back or breast
pocket for quick reference. Students are
always curious about the cards. More so
when they try to peek over my shoulder to see what was written, and I shield it
from them in mock shock, as if they’ve overstepped a boundary. Sometimes, while looking over a card, I make
it seem like I’m thinking out loud, wondering what to do next; “No, I don’t
have the heart to try this today. Good
God, what was I thinking when I wrote this one down? Okay, this is just flat-out sadism on my part!”
I also use the index cards for student suggestions – handing
them out when I need ideas for themes, phrases, scene ideas, locations, and
characters.
Remember, I’ve been doing this for over thirty years. Unfortunately, I’ve inherited one of David
Shepherd’s notable attributes; I can’t throw anything out.
So, I have boxes of 3x5 index cards of workshop plans and
student suggestions stashed in a closet in my office. I don’t know what to do with them. Make a collage or construct a piece of modern
art with them? Try to find a linear
thread for the world’s longest Harold?
I’ve thought about recycling student suggestions for future
workshops with different groups, but that doesn’t feel right. Every idea should come out of the group
you’re presently working with. It has to
be organic.
When my wife and I go grocery shopping, the list is made out
on a blank 3x5 index card. There are
always fresh ones lying around. One time
while shopping, I noticed that the list was written on the back of a workshop
card. It was an introductory workshop,
something, ironically, I could have done off the top of my head without
preparing. Yet, I exploded at my wife.
“How could you write on the back of this card? This could have been a break-through
workshop!”
“Was it?”
“No! But that’s
beside the point!”
Yes, it is a magical adventure to live with the wonder that is
me.
Another time, a friend picked up what he thought was a blank
index card from my office to write down a recipe for his wife. Later, his wife noticed what was written on
the other side. In very small print was “Lick
my ear,” a line suggested by a student. It
didn’t help my friend that a heart was drawn over the “i.”
Sometimes I fall behind keeping a fresh stack of cards in my office and find myself scrambling when I can’t find a clean one to write on. Once, out of necessity because I was running late for a workshop, I designed a plan on an 8x10 piece of paper.
It didn’t feel right – and I was off my game for that particular
workshop. I needed something that I could just gaze at in my palm quickly,
rather than unfold what felt like an ancient scroll to me. The cards guide me.
As boxes continue being filled with used index cards, I
wonder if they’ll eventually end up in my own archives one day – perplexing
future generations of improvisers trying to figure out the connection between
improv and a grocery list.