Sometimes life comes full-circle. Sometimes you get to repeat what you thought was a once-in-a lifetime experience. Sometimes dreams come true….
Since the age of two, I have been fascinated with the music of Paul Simon. Back then, I insisted on being introduced as Paul Simon, especially at physical therapy visits. My poor mother would have to check-in at the drive-thru intercom and announce that Paul Simon was here for his appointment, because if she did not, the screaming child in the backseat would correct her. The staff got used to this, and I would pay for it years later when some of these therapists would run into me--and with huge smiles on their faces-- say, “How are you, Paul?”
“Graceland” was the only present I asked for when recovering from surgery when I was four. “Graceland” had “You Can Call Me Al” and “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes”, songs which had great childhood significance. When I was two, I had to go to speech evaluations. I would verbally complain all the way there and then clam-up on arrival. My mother was sick of being listed as “in denial”, so she decided to trick her uncooperative child.
“Sing a Paul Simon song,” she begged.
I threw my head back and belted-out this verse at the top of my lungs:
He looks around/around/He sees angels in the architecture/Spinning in infinity/ He says “Amen! Hallelujah!”
The Big Night--
My mother sat at the edge of my bed waiting for me to wake-up. “Kris, what would be better than going to see Paul Simon?” To a six year-old who had the man’s face plastered all over his walls, the answer was “nothing,” and I told her so, my voice rising in panic. She quickly realized she had chosen her words unwisely.
“Honey, I meant you get to meet him…”
Unbeknownst to me, my mother had been writing letters to Paul Simon’s representatives asking them if it would be possible to meet him at his upcoming concert. There was a bar that would have obscured my view in the wheelchair section of the arena. She was hoping that Paul would shake the hand of his youngest fan. Little did we know that this meeting would change my life forever….
Of course, someone who is about to meet his hero must dress properly for the occasion. I was dressed in a smaller version of my hero’s characteristic black suit and white shirt. The black suit was harder to find than you might think, but my mother was once again up to the task.
January 10th, 1991-- the time was finally here. We arrived early and mingled with the band. When Paul entered the room it was like we were old friends. We traded glasses with each other, and it wasn’t long before I had an identical pair. Then he asked what interested me.
“I want to know how they make cartoons.”
He took my Disneyland autograph book and jotted down the name of the animator who worked on his “Boy in the Bubble” music video, Jim Blashfield, who happened to be local.
By the time we were done, the show had been delayed half an hour. We needn’t have worried about that bar in the wheelchair section, Paul arranged for front-row seats. After the show, Paul signed more autographs and then picked up his miniature double and carried me around the empty stage, telling me the names of all the exotic instruments. He was as gracious and kind as any hero could be. From that night onward, my life would never be the same.
I toured Jim Blashfield Studios soon after. I watched his demo-reel of music videos for artists like Joni Mitchell, The Talking Heads, and Michael Jackson. I asked questions and posed for a picture with my favorite prop. Towards the end of the meeting, Mr. Blashfield asked me:
“So, does this sound like something you’d like to do?”
Now was the time to reveal what I thought was my biggest stumbling-block. My father and I had experimented with some beginner animation exercises, things which are considerably less fun when someone else puts them together.
“I can’t draw.” I confessed.
“Neither can I,” he said.
That problem was solved; the next hurdle came when we tried to find an animation class. The minimum age for applicants was twice my own. Mr. Blashfield called to see what we had found. When he heard about the age obstacle he said he would find me a private tutor.
I began work on a one-minute cut-out animation film about--what else?--my meeting with Paul Simon, aptly titled, “The Big Night.”
I entered a film festival and won. Fresh from this victory, my tutor decided I should enter a contest for a prestigious scholarship. She didn’t emphasize that I would be competing against college students. I don’t particularly remember the interview. However, the way my mother tells it, I was being grilled. She tells me that she had her eyes locked onto the back of my head and that she wanted to wheel me out of there and scream,
“He’s only seven years old!”
I won that contest.
Usually when she tells how scared she was for me, I feel proud of myself and wish that I could summon that type of confidence today. Now, I feel proud of her for resisting the temptation to “rescue me.” Trying to shield someone from frustration--even failure--will only ensure that it occurs.
I’ve made five films altogether, the last two were commissioned by HBO Family Channel. The first commission included a trip to NYC. I didn’t know it then, but I’d be back in New York eight years later to complete my journey.
I started college and one of my classes was playwriting. I learned just how different writing for the stage was from writing for film. While taking this class, I pondered a question I often do. “How did Paul do this?” To answer that question, I played the album from his ill-fated Broadway show, The Capeman. This time I listened to it with older, more educated ears and loved it. I had to find out more about this show. I read every article I could find, and I wrote a paper about how misunderstood it was. I hoped to use the paper to get into a restricted archive to view a tape of the show. On this quest I would make friends with enemies. I found an article that wasn‘t very flattering to Paul Simon. Something told me to look around the author’s website. He had written a book on Childhood Hero-Worship which I read, and it resonated with me as no other book has.
Years would pass and I would put the paper away many times, only to chip at it again and again. (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and Hero-Worship don’t mix.) It turned out to be very fortunate that I didn’t let it drop. While looking in a database, I stumbled upon a recent article. The Brooklyn Academy of Music was mounting a concert-staging of The Capeman. I called BAM and the receptionist began his spiel.
“Paul Simon’s performing in it, too? I sputtered.
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, I can’t breathe! I’ll call back.” I meant it.
I still had the number to Paul’s office, and I had recently learned that a woman who remembered me from 1991 often answered the phone. She told me she’d try to arrange a meeting.
April 5th 2008 was a night I realized a dream. The concert-staging was brilliant; it featured many performers from the original production. I am quite sure that I was the most enthusiastic clapper in the auditorium, and it took every ounce of restraint I possess not to sing along. The show received a standing-ovation, and I was overwhelmed with joy because not only was my hero’s masterpiece given the reception it deserved, but I had the honor of watching it happen.
We went to the stage-door and I saw Claudette Sierra, an original cast member who now got to play the female-lead. I excitedly rattled-off everything I knew about her; my voice rose several octaves and came dangerously close to a squeal.
“Can I hug you?” I asked.
“Of course!”
We were ushered back stage. Paul came in. The room fell silent. I shook his hand.
“Absolute genius,” I gasped, referring to the show.
“Thank you for saying so,” he said with stunning humility.
I reminded him of our first meeting. He remembered! He signed my CD and my original playbill. When he found out we had flown cross-country exclusively to see him, he raised an eyebrow in genuine appreciation. We took pictures. Most importantly, I got to thank him in person for the first meeting and tell him what sprung-out of it. We said goodbye and Paul went to greet others. I mingled with the other people backstage, and we took a moment to curse the critics who had so savagely killed the original production.
We had been told that we would never get a cab that time of night, but we did and as the Impossible Cab drove us through the Brooklyn night, I called my grandparents. I was drained. I spoke in an awe-struck whisper that can only come from someone who has witnessed a miracle.
The next BAM concert focused on “Graceland.” I used to watch a performance of “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” on Betamax incessantly. I would force whichever adult was unfortunate enough to be near to dance around me, and I would make sure that they got the “ooo-wahs” just right. (An early indication that I’d be a director, perhaps?) It was during one of these “dance sessions” when my younger-self said something I have yet to live-down. I pointed to Paul on the screen and said, “Don’t I look good up there?”
On the BAM stage, Paul was surrounded by Ladysmith Black Mambazo in that same high-kick pose. I couldn’t resist. I whispered to my mother, “Don’t I look good up there?”
I realize now that it’s a calmer event to meet your hero when you’re young. Words come easier. Still, there’s something to be said for meeting him when you’re older…you understand the significance immediately. I feel incredibly privileged to have had both experiences.
All of this has made me believe whole-heartedly in destiny. When I look back on all that has happened to me, it no longer feels like chance. I have parents who never made me feel that I was unable to do something, and I will never finish thanking them for that. Especially when I think how daunting a thought it must have been that their young son with a disability wanted to try such a physically demanding art-form as animation. They allowed me to dream, and I learned that dreams come true. Paul Simon saw something in a child who was a stranger to him, and he helped me find my lifelong passion. There are few gifts greater than finding your purpose early. Things come together, most often on their own. You just have to learn to stand back far enough to let them.
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