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I was born in Tomball, Texas, a suburb of Houston to a single teen mom. Tomball is like a magnet, a place where most people either stay from birth to death or return to after a few years at college. Like many other fine art students born into small towns, I knew from a very young age that I wanted to explore this world and what it had to offer; new perspectives, lasting memories, meaningful relationships. My first love, theatre, came into my life unannounced. My best friend at Tomball Memorial High School begged me to go with her to an open crew day so that she wouldn’t have to go alone. At times, I’m extra thankful for her unwavering persistence. My freshman year, I worked a little in every discipline, trying to build an arsenal of foundational skills.  My sophomore self asked to stage-manage a production and to my surprise, my technical director agreed. Stage management had become a position that I frequently desired. It was tedious, organized, and most importantly, there was clear structure, something that I often lacked in my childhood. Eventually, my director asked if I’d want to design production. Honestly, I was terrified of designing. I didn't even consider myself a creative being and didn't know if I had the emotional capacity to contribute to such an expressive art form. However, my love for the art overshadowed that fear and I designed. Theatre has consistently been the medium that has encouraged me to take a deeper look at who I was and who I wanted to become. It was theatre that encouraged me to attend the University of Texas at Austin. Within the first week at this university, I was welcomed into a program that held immense optimism for future generations and viewed every student as having the potential to be extraordinary. I’m ecstatic to continue this experience and to see what doors I go through in the future.

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This is a clip from my high school's production of A Piece of my Heart. This production was the first time I ever had to navigate through an artistic process with theatrical sound design as my medium.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/15ACZRquHYfW4aPC7KeJJ_PwZNewSeHEy/view?usp=sharing

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To me, learning how to give and receive constructive criticism is the majority of collaboration. I heard recently that collaboration is being “direct lovingly”, which I feel is the perfect description. Most of my collaborators come from different backgrounds, have different experiences, and they will probably interpret pieces differently. I think the first step in successful collaboration is to look inward. You should form your own opinions on a project, decipher what you want to bring into the project artistically, and then directly share that. But not direct in a way that is a matter of fact or impossibly stubborn. Direct, meaning that you state what is important to you with an open mind, a listening ear, and a willingness to compromise. When you do this, you’re not only more concise and clear with your wants and needs as a collaborator, but you begin to build a relationship of respect and trust. Having these sentiments now, are more important than ever as theatre is drastically evolving. Making these connections are difficult in person, but expressing your ideas, literally in a box on a computer screen, is much harder, especially with new challenges such as technological difficulties, the lack of intimacy on-screen, and worst of all, bad wifi is prevalent. Multiple times throughout Performance as a Collaborative Practice, I’ve worked with a group of the same people. In the beginning, we struggled to effectively articulate our thoughts into words. It became messy and time-consuming. Ironically enough, I realized that, at times, all four of us were all attempting to say the same thing, but had different ways of communicating that idea or theme. However, once we acknowledged our own unique attributes and began to build that respect, we were more understanding and patient with each other, ultimately making the process smoother in moving forward, even into new cohorts with completely new assignment parameters.

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Originally, I felt as if my artistic process was like a rollercoaster and now, after working on multiple productions since then, I believe that that vision is more relevant than ever. I begin with the script, nervous, but confident, ideas racing in the back of my head. I creep forward with the most important themes that I want to convey in my mind. I start to bring my design to fruition as I go over the first peak. It’s exhilarating. I’m finally producing something and making moves in the right direction. But, then I stop. Sometimes, what I had envisioned in my mind doesn’t have the effect or send the message that I had hoped for. That’s when I've encountered a loop. I rewrite and redefine. One step forward, two steps back. The loops happen a couple of times. Once a few loops have occurred, I see the finish line, all the puzzle pieces have been fit together. That’s the final product, opening night. The moment where I reflect on the journey that it’s been and get ready for the next rollercoaster. I like that there is a combination of linear and nonlinear moments. In the future, there are a couple of habits I want to form and break on this rollercoaster. Firstly, I want to set attainable, small goals throughout production, so that the process is less intimidating. I feel like I usually go at it face first and it gets overwhelming. For the Cohen New Works Festival, I worked on a musical podcast, where each week, a new episode had to be mixed. This forced me to set daily goals so that I could very easily meet deadlines with little stress. Secondly, I’ve realized that I have a habit of falling in love with ideas. It’s scary to have to go back to the drawing board and brainstorm something completely different. I nurse an attachment until it saddens me to part with it. In the future, I’m going to make a constant effort to be excited about ideas, but to be more adaptable, recognizing what is necessary and what is not despite my own personal feelings.

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This heartwarming picture was taken before a UIL One Act Play competition and effectively displays the camaraderie of a collaborative team. Although the cast and crew were nervous, we all took the time to share some positive encouragement and laugh together.

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In high school, my technical director, Mr. Page felt that the most important thing for a designer was to know who you were and what you wanted to incorporate into a piece. He often questioned, “if you are unable to form your own opinions, beliefs, and reflect, then how are you supposed to take a stance when designing?” The first time he ever explained this to his students was in his theatrical design class on the first day of school my sophomore year. The next day, he instructed our class to write a “who am I?” paper for homework, a description of yourself without the use of external factors. So, I couldn’t talk about how I looked or my friends or even my hobbies. Honestly, it was intense. I was fifteen years old and I was just trying to navigate high school. I definitely didn’t know who I was. I left class that day, more confused than any math lecture would have ever made me. Eventually, I struggled and broke down, but then I saw myself clearly. I was the person that was stagnant in my own life. I allowed my environment to affect me and I accepted what I was told. It was after that day that I made a conscious effort to find my own perspective. We continued to write a “who am I paper?” at the beginning and end of every school year. It kept me aware and more importantly, it made me reflect as I grew and evolved. At the start of this year, I didn’t write the paper, but I know it would’ve discussed my excitement for the endless possibilities that I felt were just around the corner. Looking back on that, I feel drained and tired from the virtual reality I’ve had to endure. But, I’ve realized that it’s okay. It’s just more experience that I can use to shape my perspective and gain a better understanding of my peers, my world, and most importantly, myself.

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This is a picture of myself and a couple of fellow technicians with Mr. Page, the technical director who assigned the "who am I?" papers.