top of page
Search

Episode 64: It's Not Over Until the Fat Lady Sings

Writer's picture: Kristin LindstromKristin Lindstrom

Along about the time of the brownie debacle, I was contacted by a friend of my mother’s, Jean, who worked at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. doing makeup and costumes for many troupes, among them the Washington Opera. She was short a staff person for makeup and asked if I’d fill in. This turned into a three-year gig.

The Kennedy Center Opera House.


I was bored, I wasn’t dating anyone, and though the money wasn’t fabulous -- $35 a night, whether you’re there one hour or six—it was just enough extra to make it worthwhile.

Jean gave me a quickie rundown of what was required. I’d be working with the chorus rather the stars. First up was to make sure the singers had put on their face base of makeup, covering faces, ears and then hands. If this was forgotten, the body part in question gleamed a bright white on stage, and repercussions followed.

Then I added eye liner, eyebrows, and then definitions of noses, foreheads, cheek bones and chin lines. A little highlighter here and there and I was done.

One of the first shows I worked on was MacBeth. Theater folks are terribly superstitious about this production, and you are never to mention it by name in house. The costumes were rented from the famed La Scala in Italy and when I first saw them, I was shocked at how cheesy they were. And the first time I laid eyes on them was when four or five chorus members came through the make-up room singing, ‘Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.”

The costumes were hideous. The singers were done up in orange and brown velvet plaid kilts and shirts, with beaten and dirty copper breastplates. Their shoes appeared to be men’s slippers spray painted copper.

“I feel like I’m wearing upholstery from a cheap mobile home,” said one.

Aside from these horrible outfits, there were other problems. A supernumerary, or super, fell off the back scaffolding and broke his leg. During dress rehearsal, the dry ice backfired and instead of looming moodily in the background of the stage, it flowed over the orchestra and into the audience.

Finally, a featured singer, a very large woman, was supposed to float down through a trapdoor carrying a baby (doll). As she stepped down, she grabbed the baby by its neck and held it out to the side feeling for the edge of the trap door with her other hand. It wasn’t a good look.

There was also the super whom everyone tried to avoid. No one wanted to do his make-up because he sweated a good deal. It’s almost impossible to put make-up on a person if they are sweating heavily. I managed to dodge him until Jean saw him coming one night and ran for the bathroom.

He settled into my chair and gave me what could be called a gimlet eye. I was trying to wipe his face down while he told me his tale of woe. His wife had divorced him, and he won the chance to be in the show. He hoped to get out and meet more people. Yeah, don’t look at me, Buster. I finally swabbed a reasonable amount of make-up on him and sent him on his way.

That night was the dress rehearsal, and this fellow was literally in a crowd of dozens at the back of the stage. Overcome with nerves, he threw up on his breastplate.

Who knew that vomit would prove to be such a great copper cleaner!

The main part of his breastplate was as shiny as a new penny. The costume people pulled it off him and ran outside, looking for a patch of dirt to rub it in.

Next: Who’s out front?


12 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page