Andrew Zox

Q	Briefly describe your background/training.
A	My mother initially exposed me to acting and its power within a community. We were both members of The Capital District Psychiatric Center Mental Health Players, an improvisational troupe, in Albany, NY, where I grew up. The company used role-playing and audience interaction. So, at age eleven I was performing at drug rehab centers, AA meetings, mental health facilities, boy-scout dinners, high schools coping with loss, university classrooms, etc. Our skits reflected the issues of each group. The audience would advise us, the actors, on how to cope with a problem, and by so doing, indirectly address concerns they themselves were dealing with or might potentially confront. Often, they’d forget we were actors. It was the most palpable and immediately rewarding performing I've ever done. I have a B.A. in theater (directing & acting focus) and sociology from Middlebury College. I'm trained in Suzuki Method from the Berkshire Theatre Festival and pantomime from Synetic Theater based in Washington, DC. I'm now studying in NY with Wynn Handman, founder of The American Place Theatre. He's 86 years old and a living legend. I think talent is like potential energy that must be honed and cultivated. And it takes time. In my immediate family we have a filmmaker, photographer, musician, chef, sociologist, feminist, radio host, fine artist. As a boy my father brought me (on a school night!) to the Troy Savings Bank Music Hall to hear a late night jazz rehearsal session. He'd cook dinner for Chinese social workers. My mother tugged my brothers and me around to every museum in Paris and got us into Le Crazy Horse for top-notch burlesque. My parents exposed me to life.
Q	How old were you when you knew you wanted to be an artist?
A	No one I respect ever told me the life of an artist is not a worthwhile pursuit. I never had to work against that notion. Some people do. I never felt I possessed some original artistry (I wasn’t consciously looking) until I reached college. I performed a Sam Shepard piece and stunned myself. The part developed and magnified a latent part of my personality I rarely exposed. I didn't recognize myself. The act of acting is therapeutic, sexual, cathartic. I forgot about myself, Andrew, when I was acting. Time passed onstage. Acting was a welcome respite from me. It's unselfish. I don't completely know me yet and as long as I have a curiosity in humanity, which I don't suspect to ever cease, I will continually be interested in acting and art. In this sense, acting continues to elude me because my own personality is limitless as are the personas in the world. With each new role I live through the life of someone else. It can be a burden and it can be beautiful; it always serves the purpose of the story.
Q	Who is your greatest professional inspiration and why?
A	My brothers — their thoughtfulness and relentless constructive criticism. Robert Wilson — he turned the mundane, habitual, and stark, into profound. Klaus Kinsky — he was madly obsessed with acting. David Mamet — a wordsmith. Mac Wellman — a word deconstructionist. Isabella Huppert — a nuanced actress wholly absorbed. Michael Haneke — his films address social taboo and the underbelly of human thought.
Q	How do you manage wearing different 'hats' as a self-producing artist? What are your strengths? What are your weaknesses?
A	My strength is bringing together the most appropriate people for each project and convincing them to believe in my idea. I’m an adept trouble-shooter. I expect chaos and when it comes I attempt to quickly and quietly figure it out. Either you’re in or not and if not, and that’s o.k., I keep right on going. No one’s ever getting paid enough so each person’s time is essential and needs to be respected. I have conviction in my ideas and try to be resistant to discouragement — people ask you to change your work, actors drop out. The more dangerous the idea, the harder it becomes to produce. Often, art on the margins or fringe isn't comfortable; all the more reason to express it. So I try and surround myself with advocates but always listen to critique. I will never jeopardize my message. When I feel unsure, I return to the source of my concept — that initial image from which everything budded. Mounting the show is the priority and if I have to make adjustments, I will. Directing is tough when working with friends. I can’t be a good friend and effective director at the same time and expect to do that actor justice. This is hard for me.
Q	As a self-producing artist, what qualities make for a good show idea in your opinion, and what is typically your first step in realizing your artistic vision?
A	If I can’t stop thinking about an idea I know it’s worthwhile pursuing further. I’m interested in work that takes a political stance. If I find myself upset with a current event or obsessed with a visual image then I’m compelled to comment/instigate. I want to abstract, distill, and unveil what I consider the truth. I start off with visual imagery or a fragment of dialogue or semblance of a relationship. I don’t sensor any ideas. I carry a notepad around just in case. I’ll begin to build an entire visual, aural, political, sociological motif. And not necessarily linear. I don’t worry about a story line at first.
Q	How much material do you prepare for a show, and what percentage of it typically makes it into the final performance?
A	I'll edit a script up until opening. That means many drafts. I'll also start a piece without a finished outline to leave room for improvisation. Making good theater requires time. You need time to let your ideas fester, morph. Solidifying a concept too early is deadly. Yet, moving into a rehearsal aimless, is dangerous. I like to provide my actors with all my homework so that we're all on the same page. I'm honest about what I have and what I don’t yet know. I set the tone and chart the trajectory so that everyone knows what to expect. Most importantly, I must instill faith into the cast.
Q	Speaking as a spectator, what do you look for in performance?
A	If I can identify an honest perspective on life, humanity, then that’s a worthwhile performance for me. Something that hits me in the gut. Is dirty. Doesn’t apologize. Takes its time. Uses silence. Plays with form. Unconventional. Honest (which doesn't necessarily mean natural).
Q	Describe the most unusual experience you ever had onstage.
A	I shattered ten champagne glasses across a gigantic proscenium stage during a production of The Cherry Orchard. First my stomach seized up and my face probably betrayed me, then I acknowledged the million pieces of glass, was super still and calm, and kept going, because you can’t really riff on Chekhov. Maybe the audience thought fractured flute glasses was beautifully Chekhovian or something — tragically symbolic.
Q	What makes your work unique?
A	It’s politically oriented and addresses social mores. It’s not linear. I don’t bow-tie up the end. It’s slowly suspenseful. My silent work is full of vivid imagery that evokes a mood and sensation. It’s cerebral and visceral. Superficially, its simple, but underneath quite crafted. Every detail — scenery, clothing, stage props, make-up, musical landscape — is symbolic. No detail is arbitrary onstage. It's allusive without being didactic. I don't shove the message in your face. The audience must search for it. My shows tap into the gesticular codes used by people to disguise their secrets, decrypting how we cover up what we wish to hide.
Q	What does 'success' mean to you?
A	Having the most talented people making art with me and the resources to produce what I want. Having my ideas spawn a debate. After my Fringe show at the Kennedy Center in ‘07 we had a debate with the audience. At that talk back, comments were vehement and feedback was contradictory. I was thrilled. It was proof the piece had real value in the community. I couldn’t compensate my actors but this talkback was priceless. People were angry. People found solace in the piece. The reaction spanned the spectrum.