Thanks to the shambles that accompanied the mass redundancies at my most recent workplace it’s been difficult – nigh impossible – for me to get a job.
Not actually because of the redundancy but because of the psychological damage that redundancy does. It took me at least a year to recover and my sense of my self-worth is still pretty much rock bottom. It’s not my first redundancy so I’m rodeo-experienced, but even that last one in 1995, while challenging, wasn’t as bad as this. At least Christchurch Council were pretty damned decent about it. Kindness salves so many wounds.
The way AUT went about it exacerbated the hurt to the point that many of us just bled out, no salve, no kindness, nothing. Considering I’d worked in the School of Hospitality for seventeen years, ‘thanks’, and a cup of tea would have nice. Not just for me, but for all twelve of us. OK, I went relatively quietly, and with my history it might have been anticipated that I’d have a bit to say but, truth is, I was glad to be out of the place. Some of my colleagues had a lot to say, in person, in the corridors, and online, but none of us were granted a forum in which to say goodbye and that was shameful.
‘Hospitality’?
Manaakitanga?
Nope, just a resounding ‘fuck off and don’t make a fuss’.
Hence the grieving –there was plenty of that and its arguably not over – was all done in private, and this keyboard moment is a further example of that.
How hard would it have been for the Head of School to send an email acknowledging the years I’d been there. That would have been nice. Like a simple statement of service. I didn’t need a ‘thank you’, I’ve had plenty of them from past colleagues and students. Just something.
Nothing from the Vice Chancellor either. He said nice generic things acknowledging how the staff had gone the extra mile during Covid 19 – extra bloody marathon more like it and that’s OK, it was satisfying in itself and needed nothing more – but seventeen years and every teaching award imaginable you might think would have been worth a word or six.
But no.
My dean sent me an email which was pretty much what I’d expected, full of vitriol and hate. What a vicious, nasty, frightened, agitated little man. Yes, I know stuff but his attempt to bully me into silence was never going to work. If I’m silent, it’s because I choose to be and there’s no guarantee I’ll stay that way.
I’ve applied for a number of teaching positions, and I have been arguably the best applicant for all of them but, in 2024, if you add age and gender identity to the mix, ‘best applicant’ doesn’t mean very much.
Oh, what a joy living in New Zealand in the twenty-first century really is.
I suspect that all of the roles I applied for went to teachers already employed and already doing the job in those schools and I’m fully OK with that.
To be honest, working in the theatre has never felt like a job to me. Nor has it ever felt like a job when I’ve been working in the broader performing arts – in my world that means dance and music – it’s always been the same. It’s always been an honour, a privilege, and something of an ongoing surprise, to find myself deeply embedded in a long-term career that was hoped for, not planned for, and never taken for granted.
It’s never been about the money for me even though that is important. We always struggle with survival. The pay is poor, it always had been, likely it always will be, for the everyday artist. Not so for those who ‘make it’ and good luck to them, but, for the rest of us, being a performing artist seems to be so much more than a job, especially when having the privilege of working in the profession, rather than as an amateur, is factored in. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an amateur, that’s a joy too, it’s just a different sort of joy, and often a joy with no coffee at the end of it.
I’ve done both and a quick look back over my work at theatres with resident companies: Theatre Corporate, the Mercury, Centrepoint, the Court, and the Fortune, in TV, radio, film, and as a freelance actor/director/teacher. I applaud Raymond Hawthorne ONZM and the Theatre Corporate ethos of career development. It certainly wasn’t universally supported – some hated it – but it worked for me. When I was first employed, I was told exactly where the leadership of the company saw me in the grand scheme of things and I was told what I had in my immediate future. I liked this. I trusted Raymond and with good cause. I’m also really good at doing as I’m told – eight years in the military and a special place on the spectrum has guaranteed that – which doesn’t mean I wont ask questions and challenge any situation.
I knew when I did my first workshop that I had a job. Raymond laid out what would happen to my career. I would do a show as an amateur – a great role in a classic play – directed by an experienced professional. No issue of income, I was still working as a teacher.
Next, another amateur show but this time directed by Raymond himself. Another excellent role and this time working with the resident company. Big learning journey.
Then I joined the full-time company. My roles were fabulous starting small and ending up with leads – career development – and I loved it all. Income went from $400 a week in a role with considerable status to a role with no tangible status and $90 a week. And I really struggled doing what I loved.
But I learned, and nothing is better than that.
That was in 1975.
Now, fifty years on, the practical elements of what made up my ‘career’ have ambled, jerked, faltered, and finally ground, to a halt.
Am I sorry about that? Not at all. Did I plan for it? No. Did I anticipate it? Of course I did. Every bloody day. Will the end of this show, this film, this TV series, this contract, signal the end of my otherwise accidental career?
A big (and oft asked) question, but mostly the answer was ‘no’. Something always came up. Sometimes it was big stuff, a movie, sometimes a ‘bit part walk on’ that filled a gaping hole in my future. There are so many stories of what I call my ‘Polyfilla’ moments, moments that are rich in manaakitanga and instantaneous generosity, stories that beget others, stories that beget even more stories, so much so that I feel like I’m reciting a gospel-like account of munificence, a Moses beget Adam who beget Seth who beget Abel who beget Enosh model and so on and on.
I might moan a lot but, in the main, I have been treated incredibly well overall.
When I came back from overseas in 1998 I had virtually nothing. I was living in my studio which was condemned. My relationship was over, I had no money, and I had no work. Jump forward a couple of weeks and I went to the Arts Centre to meet a friend who had offered to buy me a coffee. While I was waiting for her, I ran into Elric Hooper, artistic director of the Court Theatre with whom I had had a vexed relationship for decades but who had stood up for me in recent times. We and a friendly chat which included a discussion about work. When he realised I had nothing in the pipeline, he suggested I go and see him. I did. He told me he was in the process of casting Shakespeare’s ‘Anthony and Cleopatra’ and there was something in it for me if I wanted it. I did. I suggested Mark Anthony would be nice and we both had a giggle about that as we both knew that the late Alistair Browning was to play Anthony which was a great choice. I was cast as Agrippa and cast in shows for the following ten months. Thank you, Elric, I had great fun and will forever treasure your kindness.
Early in 1999 I moved to Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland. I’d being picked up by agent Karen Kay and added to her stable. Karen is a fantastic human being, and the work eventually flowed. Not long after I arrived in the city, I went to a show at the Maidment and ran into Raymond Hawthorne ONZM who offered me an audition for his upcoming production of Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’. I was grateful, turned up at ATC, met with artistic director Simon Prast, signed an excellent contract, and auditioned for Mark Anthony.
Again.
Again, I missed out (as expected) and was cast as Cicero.
Three months of joy watching my heroes do sublime work as part of a fabulous, history-making team.
Thank you, Raymond, most grateful for everything. In your case, ‘everything’ is a massive word and ‘grateful’ doesn’t even start to acknowledge you impact you have had on my life.
Bless you.
All the above makes me feel incredibly humble and proud. I’ve worked with outstanding people, some mid-career and at the top of their game, some at the very beginning, and some at the arse end as I am now, and all have enriched my life beyond words.
I hope I’ve contributed something of worth to theirs as well.
I know I’ve used the word ‘amateur’ but that’s incredibly loaded and I don’t mean anything negative, I simply mean unpaid or occasionally paid which is different. Nothing beats making your own work and I’ve had the privilege of doing heaps and heaps of that. So many great people have opted into joining me on those creative journeys, and I’ll love them all forever.
I now work as an Associate Editor of Theatreview and I’m responsible for coordinating review services in the Auckland area. I love the job for all the reasons I’ve already outlined, and I have such respect for the Theatreview Trust for their attempt, every year, to get the funding they deserve, funding they need to simply carry on. It’s a unique service and without it we lose the most astonishing record of performing arts activity in Aotearoa New Zealand over decades. Managing Editor John Smythe and his team have kept going for nearly two decades through seldom thick and often unbearably thin times.
Artists – well, most of us – know what that feels like and how it comes with its own sense of dignity. I recall an Auckland Star article written about Theatre Corporate in 1976 where Raymond Hawthorne was quoted as saying ‘hungry actors serve the richest fare’ and I’ve never forgotten that. I still have that article which says a lot because I haven’t kept much from those days.
I’ve spent plenty of time paying my dues alone in my garret and I’m strangely proud of that.
When funding is obtained by the Theatreview Trust, I receive a stipend, small by comparison to what might be defined as a ‘normal’ job, but still extraordinary in the performing arts. John, my reviewer colleagues up and down the country, and the Trust have my never wavering admiration. They’re the best of the very best.
We’ve not been well served by successive governments for as long as I can remember, and we know that this current lot will certainly be no different. I have no doubt that they will redirect every ounce of available funding, funding that’s essential for literally everything that’s of intrinsic value in our country, siphon it off to projects that will destroy the environment and leave the artistic and cultural soul of our people bereft. We know this, which is why we continue to stand up to this cruel, destructive, cynical, and contrived austerity.
I’ve been doing it for years, so has John, and it’s absolutely soul-destroying spending hours on funding applications only to find out two days before Christmas that you’ve been unsuccessful.
It’s heartbreaking.
This cynical process also generates a fair amount of unnecessary anger – unnecessary in that it gets in the way of the creative process – and it’s difficult to know how best to channel this in ways that support the many applicants who have been unsuccessful and who have to make unwelcome decisions about their future, decisions that will undoubedly affect people’s livelihoods and ongoing security. If ever that becomes my lot in this wonderful job, I’ll keep doing it anyway as long as what I’m doing is seen as providing a service, is of value, and supports the great people who stand behind Theatreview, and who provide this outstanding service.
There are certainly times in 2025 when being a ‘woke’ working class, radical socialist is ‘something to be’.
Perhaps, even, it’s the only thing to be.
So much so that I’ll share the entire lyric of John Lennon’s iconic song:
Working Class Hero
As soon as you’re born, they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
They hurt you at home, and they hit you at school
They hate you if you’re clever, and they despise a fool
Till you’re so fucking crazy, you can’t follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
When they’ve tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you can’t really function, you’re so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
dykiegirl 