The Broken Vase
1992 to 2007, New York and Vermont
By Ariel
To appear naked on television, or not to appear naked on television?
It’s the most life-altering decision I’ve made to date. Six years have passed since that time, and the decision has significantly affected all facets of my life. It jump-started my acting career and tore open my perception of “self.” Then of course, there was my father.
Growing up in Northern Vermont, I spent my childhood in an old farmhouse with my mother and two siblings, and every other weekend went to my father’s small apartment. My mother was overworked and filled with guilt over the divorce, and thus failed to discipline us very much.
After finishing my shift dish washing at the local Italian restaurant on weekends, I would meet up with friends, and we would find a way to get alcohol or drugs (preferably both). Then we’d camp out in a field all night, tripping on acid and staring at the stars. Or we would ride four-wheelers through someone’s cow field. Or dance around to Grateful Dead in someone’s basement.
My mother didn’t ask questions when I came home in the early morning smelling of alcohol and cigarettes. She was tired. She was trying to find a man to patch together our broken family.
Meanwhile, my father was unrelenting with his discipline. When I went out, parents always had to be present, and curfews were strictly endorsed. Which meant that I rarely bothered leaving his apartment, unless an infallible lie could be crafted.
My father was also very angry. I started to get modeling jobs in mall fashion shows and the like. But my father accused me of having too much vanity and would yell at me if I followed through on them. He would yell at me for reading fashion magazines. He would yell at me for not using my brain enough. He knew there were few rules at my mother’s house. He was grasping for control, very loudly.
By the time I was 16, I had almost completely terminated my relationship with my father. It seemed that I would visit his home only to be condemned. It seemed that I could do nothing right. I felt that I was doing him a favor by refusing to visit or call.
Meanwhile, other men were drawn to me. My teachers, my friends’ fathers, men on the street, men at work. They would call me an “old soul” and sometimes come on to me. I placated them, to an extent, then would slip away when they tried to kiss or touch.
At 18, I had escaped Vermont. I was attending New York University’s acting school. It finally felt like I had my finger on the pulse. But things were still strained with my father, as he disagreed with my major, and I felt guilty for being in school.
I needed something bigger to happen, something beyond dorm rooms and dining halls, something that would smash those resilient patterns of shame and unworthiness. So I dropped out of school the summer I was 19 and cobbled together acting representation in order to be sent out on auditions.
A few months later, I had moved to a room overlooking a courtyard in the East Village. As a cocktail waitress at a stylish nightclub, I was earning strangely exorbitant amounts of money for little actual work. My father and I were doing OK, though he did not necessarily “approve” of my lifestyle.
With wads of soggy cash clutched in my pocket, I strode home at dawn, usually through light flurries with numb toes. I felt very alone then, but full of possibility and self-possession. Just as morning was spreading across my bedroom, I would stack the cash on my bookcase, draw the shades, turn off the phone, and doze off.
It was on one of those mornings that I got the call about an audition for The Sopranos. The ringer was off, but I heard a thick female New York accent pipe through the answering machine, saying she had an audition for me. I bolted for the phone.
She warned me that it was a guest star gig containing a lot of nudity and that I should think hard about it before auditioning. The character was a pregnant stripper named Tracee who was beaten to death at the end of the episode.
I had not seen The Sopranos, but I knew it was about power-hungry men, oppressed women, and juicy violence. I was immediately protective of Tracee, fearing that her story would somehow be cheapened or compromised. Turning a blind eye to the nudity, I accepted the audition.
In the acting world, you can respectably do nudity if it is necessary to portray a character. You shouldn’t do it if it’s without logical reason.
In the audition room, in front of David Chase and about 10 or 12 other production people, I just did it. Unzipped the red vinyl halter-top I’d purchased that morning and felt my tits pop out, one at a time. There I was, exposed. Everyone seemed a little nervous. But their quivering eyes relaxed me. I went ahead with the scene confidently.
On the set, I had to do it in front of several hundred people. I was nervous, shaking a little, mostly because of the presence of James Gandolfini. But he didn’t look down, and I proceeded, and it felt strangely comfortable, even natural. It felt like I had a pass, special permission to break this rule that nobody else had. It felt quite freeing and terrifically exhilarating.
When my father found out about the nudity, he wrote me a short note that made it very clear that it was a bad decision. To him, there was no “respectable” way to be naked on television. It seemed that I had finally dropped the biggest vase in the parlor. This one couldn’t be repaired. He was disgusted with my choice. But strangely, I felt relief.
The whole experience of doing the show was a giant exclamation point on how I wouldn’t ever get it right in his eyes. Making the choice to do the nudity excluded me from his moral code. I found that I liked that exclusion. It seems that there is a lot more space in exile than when you are kept between the walls.
Many things have changed since then. I eventually quit acting and returned to school. I recently graduated from NYU with a degree concentration in literature and film. I earned straight As.
My father is very proud of me. We have long, honest talks about life and truth. We even talk about the past and his anger, and he makes low groaning sounds of regret for that time when everything was upside-down and fearful emotions drove our communication.
Meanwhile, he has reunited with the band he was once in as a teenager, and he is quite busy writing and recording new songs. He often sends me lyrics or plays me tracks, asking for my advice. He even refers his friends’ daughters to me, the girls who want a career in entertainment but don’t know what to do or how to go about it.
I usually tell them to do what I did: let go of others’ judgment, and just let the vase drop. It’s a good starting point.
Ariel is a writer of nonfiction and film in Los Angeles. She also works freelance as a creativity coach and writer’s assistant. The scene she performed is widely known by fans of The Sopranos. To learn more, visit http://www.uvm.edu/theview/article.php?id=1399.
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18 Responses to “The Broken Vase”
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June 26th, 2007 at 5:24 am
That was one of the last episodes of the Sopranos I watched. We were so mad that Tony let the guy get away with killing you. I guess we must have really liked your character - good job! (We just recently found out there was a payback for your death - oops. Guess we should have kept watching.)
June 26th, 2007 at 9:24 am
This was simply magnificent. Thank you so much.
June 26th, 2007 at 9:29 am
I think you reinforce an important lesson. When the fathers are not petty and arbitrary, just tough on the important issues, it pays to hang in there with them.
Thanks again; it was not only moving, but I am still in motion a half-hour later.
June 26th, 2007 at 9:45 am
It makes perfect sense to me that my stories about untelevised, less glamourous abuse, continually are rejected, but the priveleged old soul with the best ass to every appear on the Sopranos gets published.
I quit. The chicks with the daddies and the bodies and the education can have the world now.
June 26th, 2007 at 10:18 am
Amanda B., I read this piece and had the exact same reaction. Who wouldn\’t publish a story if its author had ties to the Sopranos, particularly these ones? If it was just a \”plain\” story of abuse without the Sopranos angle, I doubt it would get the time of day from the editors. It\’s competently written, but that\’s about it.
Guess I\’d better get plastic surgery and some Hollywood connections before I submit my next piece to Common Ties.
June 26th, 2007 at 1:18 pm
To Janet and Amanda…
The idea that this website accepted this story to cash in on the glitzy Hollywood angle makes no sense to me. First of all, I doubt if “cashing in” is number one on the agenda of any literary website anywhere.
Secondly, there was no glitzy Hollywood stuff going on in this story. If anything it comments on the awkwardness and absurdity of the whole thing. And the frailty and uncertainty of a young girl whithin that monolith.
I don’t think that fact that this story has an element that is in the public eye make it any more or less interesting nor does the “show business” stuff discount this event in the author’s life into one that’s not worth writing about.
To me your criticisms are shallow, unfounded and lazy. The very things it sounds like you’re accusing this story of being. We all have our lives to live, to draw upon and to try to make sense of. It seems to me that’s what the author of this story has done and is doing. Maybe you should do the same instead of looking for conspiracies.
Or at least consider getting that plastic surgery on the inside.
Fo-Diddle-Ee-Ah…
June 26th, 2007 at 1:53 pm
I remember the “University” episode as being one of the most visceral and disturbing of the entire run of the Sopranos. The part of Tracee was flawlessly played, as well. I particularly remember the disingenousness of Tracee offering
Tony (her boss’s boss) some homemade loaf cake, and the way she kept asking her lover if the PopTart was ‘alright’…like, how do you improve on a PopTart???
Yes, I hear both sides of the criticisms and I have to say it’s ironically in direct opposition to the poignancy of that particular Soprano’s episode to showcase this story. It’s well written and entertaining, but it is in no way comparable to Story Corps (for whom I am a volunteer) or This American Life (to which I have contributed).
It’s very similar to what we can see and hear on other quality mainstream media sites. The protagonist is young, thin, pretty and white, and the ’story’ is an all’s-well-that-ends-well anecdote from an enviably conventional and successful life.
I ‘ve written submissions for this site that were turned down, and believe this may be one reason why - not every personal story is right for this site, no matter how compelling or well written.
June 26th, 2007 at 6:39 pm
Hey, Dylan:
Please re-read my post. I have and found no mention of “conspiracies,” “cashing in,” and “glizy Hollywood stuff.” I don’t know where you got that interpretation of it, but it seems as “shallow, unfounded and lazy” as you accuse me of being. As for being ugly on the inside, I think we both are for using this forum to take anonymous potshots at other posters. At bottom, you’re no better than me.
June 26th, 2007 at 8:28 pm
Hello All,
Thank you for responding to my story. I am sorry if it has caused discomfort for anyone. I completely understand the frustration of not being able to access the resources to share your art with the world. What my story doesn’t talk about is the hundreds of auditions I have been on that went nowhere, or went to someone who had an ‘in’ that had nothing to do with talent (in my opinion), while I worked three service jobs and spent all my extra time in acting class or rehearsal. The Sopranos was a very lucky break that I am very grateful for, but it really was the only ‘yes’ I got during my three years in the business, which sort of proved that I should probably move on. I wanted to share my ‘moral dilemma’ because I thought some people might relate to it, or learn something from it, or at least enjoy reading about it -as I have felt privileged to hear others’ stories on this site.
Throughout my life I have always written stories, essays and scripts, hoping to ultimately make a living this way, and I do admit to writing a flashier story in hopes of being heard. I don’t know if my smaller details can shine bright enough to also be publishable, it is harder to trust those, but I’d like to get there. I hope that you each find the perfect venue to share your talents and I wish you all the best of the best.
June 26th, 2007 at 8:59 pm
Bravo Janet! Usually I am very moved by the stories on this site, unfortuantely, this story is as unmoving as the mob here on Staten Island, New Jersey, and the rest of NYC. Oh well! Thanks Sopranos for making Italians look fatter than ever true. This story was the first boring story I’ve read, but it’s been a boring day. Who knows! Congrats regardless on the publication–just lovely how death appears so clean and revitalizing for you and yours.
June 26th, 2007 at 10:14 pm
I agree with Jay. Great story, Ariel!
June 27th, 2007 at 9:20 am
It was gracious of the author to address these comments. Thanks.
Writers and actors learn to deal with rejection, or they give up. This story, much like many of the Sopranos episodes, unwittingly perhaps illustrates there are worse things than rejection. There is being accepted for the wrong reasons, and being misread and misunderstood.
All you can do is keep telling the truth and let go of trying to control how people see it.
June 27th, 2007 at 12:06 pm
I applaud you, Ariel. I thought your story was beautifully depicted. I could relate to this piece on a literary level as well as a personal one. The line I read and reread a few times was,
“I felt very alone then, but full of possibility and self-possession.”
That is me. Best wishes to you and I hope to read more of your work.
June 28th, 2007 at 1:55 am
Excellent story. Inspiring, dare say.
Much success to you. I hurt with every blow you received in “The Sopranos”..That episode was unforgettable. You’ve got talent, and the “affect” you portrayed, along with whatever nudity was involved..fit the story-line to a tee!
(nudity, without logic, i recently learned a hard lesson about.~~
http://sexyandallthat.blogspot.com ~~I’m “exposing” you to this,
in the hopes that the “errors,” of my own ways, may shed light upon
the success of yours.
bless you,
Janet…and all great things ahead. I’ll be looking for you on the big screen.
You’ve put me to shame.
xx,b.
June 28th, 2007 at 1:58 am
Whoops!
I meant to refer to you as Ariel…
sorry.
July 19th, 2007 at 7:39 pm
~~Well. Now, all I have to do is get \”exposure\” of a more literary type.
You see: Blogging can be detrimental to your health.
~~Cheers, sweetie. ((big hugs)), of luck. Roses, always.
xx,b/adam.
July 23rd, 2007 at 7:54 am
I enjoyed the story. Your life is very different from mine, but we all have common emotions and desires–the “common ties” that this site looks for. I appreciate the fact that we have such various ways of approaching life, and yet even people who have achieved some form of fame have the same longings and hopes the rest of us have. I, too, have submitted stories that have not been accepted. I am looking for what works in those that are here, instead of whining about my own lack of success. We all have things to learn.
July 23rd, 2007 at 11:06 am
wow, i’m appalled at the childish reactions of those couple of folks above. give me a break! if your story doesn’t get published, it might just be because the story isn’t what common ties is looking for. you have to get to know a market. honestly, though, the blatant cry-baby attitudes displayed by those two… just proves to me they really aren’t writers; instead, they seem to be wanna-be-in-the-limelight types who think success should be handed to them. sherry has the right idea. look for what works. as for the “criticism” of amanda and janet, well, we all recognize sour grapes when we taste them. come on, ladies, writing is work. try it.
i liked the story, by the way.