THE HIGH SCHOOL OF PERFORMING ARTS
We are celebrating the 60th Anniversary of the High School
of Performing Arts,” this year. It was the brilliant idea to teach
drama, dance and music on a rigorous professional level to New York
City kids. It was my high school long before it was celebrated in the
movie “Fame.”
Our celebration is bitter sweet because the school as I
knew it really no longer exists. In the ‘80’s it was moved out of the
19th Century building at 120 West 46th Street into a brand new home
near Lincoln Center and merged with the High School of Music and Art
into La Guardia High School.
La Guardia is a terrific school in its own right. But it’s not P.A.
We were a teeny school compared to most. There were about 172 kids in
my graduating class. You had to audition to get in.
And
for most of us P.A. was a life saving experience. It was a safe haven
where artistic kids, with kooky ideas could experiment in a positive
and creative way. Many of us had big ideas and big dreams that seemed
strange to the kids on our block in the neighborhoods where we grew up,
ideas that were often out of whack with our family’s expectations.
.
And we gave people plenty of opportunity to find
us odd. I went to school riding the bus and subway from my home in
Queens, in the dead of winter, wearing only a leotard, tights and boots
under my olive green winter coat. I remember Stacy the drama student
who said that when he went home at night to Harlem he put on an ascot
and a smoking jacket that he bought in a flea market and read
Shakespeare aloud. There was Pam the dancer who sat in our English
class holding her stomach in so tight that she always had a
belly-ache.
Our studio classes were professional. We were treated as
adults and criticism from our teachers and fellow students was often
unsparing. If you didn’t measure up, you were asked to leave. But that
was okay. You learned. You grew.
The school was also about our building. It was funky and
fit its mission perfectly. We assembled in a big open space on the
ground floor with lockers way in the back. We also gathered here during
the lunch break on cold and rainy days, and danced and laughed and
watched each other’s fabulousness. Some of us were too cool dance. I
remember walking around with Peter who observed the dancing looked like
mating rituals. Snotty but not far off. It was where we gathered for
fire drills, and at the time bomb shelter drills. Peter, Lewis, Sig and
I refused to participate and stood in the front while our classmates
lined up in neat rows ready to follow instructions for the end-of-time.
The same space was used by the drama department for
studio classes. Big grey wooden boxes were our only props. We studied
plays, scene by scene breaking down our motivation line by line. It
was simple and clear. We created characters. We learned to watch and
observe people, the streets and the world around us in order to bring
character into the classroom. We chose animals, watched them carefully
and played them for our classmates. The amazing thing is that we chose
animals that were pretty close to ourselves. Beautiful blond Donna was
a doe. On her long thin legs she wobbled tentatively as though she
truly might get caught in the headlights. Alan was a seal, barking in
a bray that was pretty close the voice he used for real. Giggly Debbie
chose a donkey. Now me. I was a cat, and peacock and I practiced the
animals on my front lawn in Laurelton much to the amusement of my
neighbors. But the craziest choice was the closest. I went to the
Central Park Zoo and locked on to the Mandrill with the big red
behind. I was furiously nutty at that time, and it was a perfect
fit. All this may sound strange, but the idea was that when you were
playing a person, you could bring that telling animal detail to your
character.
Dr. Marjorie Dyke, the head of the department had a tiny
office tucked away nearby and she would appear from time to time her
piercing blue eyes taking it all in, listening and watching. Her
formidable presence was felt everywhere in our universe.
The small cafeteria was also on the ground floor but it
doubled as the dance studio for drama students. The office was on the
second floor, and it too had classrooms used for the drama department
where we learned voice and diction and to substitute the sound of New
York City for something called “Eastern Standard Speech.” The
auditorium where we had serious performances, in all the disciplines,
was also on the second floor.The third floor was all academics, the
fourth for music and the very top for the dancers. On the floors below
you heard the music as the musicians played and the floors shaking as
the dancers moved.
All of this came floating back to me this past weekend
as we celebrated the anniversary and I emceed a cabaret program of P.A.
graduates in the old building, which has been renovated and no longer
resembles our school. We honored the teachers who taught us so much.
Those who stood out for me were Majorie Dyke, Rosalind Shein, Michael
Howard,
Florence Schweger, Shirley Katz, and Belle Kaufman. There were
others but these are the teachers I knew best. And it was nice to see
them and to have the chance to say thanks.
As I remember more, I’ll add to this.
