Backstage Writers - Think Hope Do

I got into doing make-up because I knew nothing about it. I’m a process person. I enjoy listening to the faces I dress. I study them from all angles, at nose distance or from the hallway looking into the loge, while rehearsing or in different lighting. If I know the actor’s going to pout at some point, I attenuate here, amplify there. I add a touch of charcoal or burgundy. Amazing what one can do with a dash of burgundy. I’m so full of my own science that they call me an artist.

They don’t have anyone else.

I wonder how many people have ever really looked at Jacques’ nose. Like azaleas in the spring or cheetahs giving chase, Jacques’ nose is the raw beauty of a privileged moment. I run my fingers over it. He says nothing. I always stroke his face before I start, very lightly so I can go from barely feeling it to being almost painfully aware of it. I call this prepping his skin. If he knows I’m making things up as I go along, he doesn’t let on, and I continue, very slowly. He seems to like the way I let my fingers trace the side of his nose then out over his cheekbones where the only indication of aging are the three faint lines as perfect and neat as I would have drawn them myself. His skin has just the right amount of roughness to it, a few tiny broken vessels, tan, but not weathered, the beginning of crows’ feet, but no heavy creases or sagging. His cheekbones are just salient enough to provide definition. They feel firm. I love that little junction with the jawbone. And, of course, nothing would work if there was anything domineering about his mouth and chin. As with the rest of his face, Jacques’ mouth and chin are a harmonious mix of curve and prominence.

I guess the difference between me and a pro is speed. The pro can hide an ick or create a shadow within seconds. I fumble and adapt as long as it takes to get what I want. Jacques plays the disgruntled husband, the tired accountant, the unlikely lover. When I do Jacques, I’m not only out to make him look older or younger or meaner or nicer. I want him to resonate under those lights. I want to bring out every fine curve, every defining line so when Jacques enters, we get that moment that strikes everyone in unison. This is somebody. Not another actor, another stage. Not a well-chiseled face that could have been drawn for a comic book. Jacques would be the reason they ventured north away from the boulevards into the neighborhoods where the graffiti is life-size and the color of blood. And as to the fight spreading outside that they’d had to slink by to reach the box office, they would understand why they ran that gauntlet. Jacques has strong features whose tiny irregularities create mobility. He’s such an agitated man in real life and his face bears this constant turbulence. His nose, two slight curves on the descent, lean but not pointed, nothing like a hook nose but imposing nonetheless. I’m studying this perfection as I smooth lotion over my favorite spot right here by his temple. I let my hands carry their light smoothing down under his jaw until I reach his ear. Large, flat, and regular, nothing greasy or smelly about them. I’m not fond of ears. I don’t like what they say about a person. Jacques’ ears have only a few hairs. Clean ones, thank God. I have no reason to touch anyone’s ears, but today Jacques’ ears have got my attention. I realize I can’t look into both of them at the same time, and for some reason I feel like doing so. I look at him head on and try to imagine Jacques with both ears in front. Not a pretty sight. Thank you Picasso for making us appreciate the natural placement of our ears. Seen from the side as they should be, Jacques’ ears make his nose triumphant. They are the coil of a striking snake, a series of complimentary, but slightly warped curves, roots giving way to branches. How could Jacques’ nose have any other ear? I trace my finger across the bridge along his cheekbone and over the curve of this ear. I can feel the tension in his face as I glide across, the tension that starts in his brow and continues contracting every muscle in his face, neck, shoulders. He’s sitting too straight. I do something I’ve never done before.  I’m behind him now. I have no reason to be back here, but he’s OK. I feel him scoot back. I lay my hands on his shoulders. I feel them slacken slightly, but still, there’s an obstacle. He’s fully dressed. How can I soothe the agitation when I can’t feel myself connecting to him? I try, kneading slowly, but I’m soon at the base of his neck because I need the contact of his skin. My fingers seek the source of tension, the place at the base of his neck where everything’s bound up, making his neck feel like it belongs on a bird, taut, almost electric, ready to flit his head around at the slightest sound then lead the body in flight. I’m kneading that spot with my thumbs. Bohemian Rhapsody is playing in an apartment across the alley. Didn’t mean to make you cry… I reach around and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Relax, Jacques.