I met her in the middle of a desert—at an outdoor mall—Jon Bon Jovi playing at an adjacent bar at Happy Hour.
B: Yoo hooo…
M: Who youuu…
I got up from a bench in front of a Sur La Table.
Rouged lips pinched with huge cover-ups on, her hair dyed stick-straight and long flowed in the breeze with her lime-green pants. She had just come from a doctor’s appointment.
B: (sincerely surprised) Is that you?
She was a little apprehensive about doing this, and I sang a little “getting to know you” at sunset in a parking lot with palm tress wrapped in Christmas lights. After all, it was from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The King and I and that’s all we were doing. I didn’t know it would be the only time we would spend together.
Richard Rodgers was also in the theater in 1961 when The Second City had their Broadway debut. Barbara Harris exited the stage an instant star. As one writer put it with a photo of Barbara Harris playing a beatnik: “she makes skyrockets look lackadaisical” because of what happened next.
I saw Richard Rodgers, in my mind’s eye, leaving the theater with an expression on his face, a clear feeling. He would bring Alan Jay Lerner to see her perform six months later off-Broadway in Arthur Kopit’s Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mamma’s Hung You in the Closet and I’m Feelin’ So Sad. They had both lot their respective partners, so these were two of biggest composers of all time teaming up.
She became the star of their upcoming musical that they hadn’t written yet. It would become On a Clear Day You Can See Forever. Harris inspired it—a musical about a psychic who doesn’t know it and goes to a hypnotherapist to quit smoking. He then falls in love with her past self. And her transformation between Daisy Gamble and Melinda was nothing short but “astonishing.”
At the Jacques Lecoq School, I learned that singing was the most vulnerable act one could do. I knew she was a prodigy, which was why I was there. She is considered “a pioneer in the field of improvisational theater,” a Tony Award winner and an Academy Award nominee.
She was amazing even after-death.
I knew she would gather a lot about me and my heart, actually, from my singing voice. And it was playful, fun, I genuinely loved listening to all the music and learning about her work.
I had literally just moved back to the United States from France having decided to pursue it. I had heard about her in a living room in New York…in a floral jumpsuit with pink fluffy socks on…about to continue onto Los Angeles—back to my hometown…
It just so happened that my first gig in Los Angeles was interviewing artists and entertainers for a magazine, which was odd and funny considering I was “getting to know” her work. I really appreciated it and the work of so many that my research brought me to. It was part of why I took it step by step. I didn’t decide to engage for over a year. She was obviously a brilliant idea, but what would I write?
Driving through the desert, she interviewed me—I loved people. I didn’t have a publication…I dropped all agenda, I had none. It was something I said: no agenda. I was very sensitive in this regard myself.
Harris is a ninja, this is what I knew, what I came to know.
I figured whatever happened would be something that would happen between us, which is what happened. If it didn’t, then it didn’t. Meaning, if she didn’t want me to, I wouldn’t. She took a chance on me, too, and it meant a lot to me.
At Houston’s Steakhouse—I started investigating the joint, Barbara Harris bounced. After a stern conversation with the hostesses over what a senior citizen meant with health issues, though I didn’t know the extent of it yet, they were fully booked.
I snapped.
I remembered a story I read about Barbara Harris. She was doing a show on Broadway with The Second City with Severn Darden and Anthony Holland. He was coming out to his parents—Darden and Harris—that he was gay. She left the stage as she had a pause, Darden (full of truth) speaking with his son. She was smoking a cigarette outside. She saw that intermission was ending across the street, so she went to catch her friend in the second half of a show.
Darden and Holland were still on stage—improving, hoping that Harris would return to conclude the scene. “The unreality of the stage was real to Barbara,” he said.
“Mom’s dead,” Darden said.
It was the story, but I wasn’t—well, if you would, I had a different way of navigating: was it true? Anything anyone told me, was it true? Yes, no, maybe so. I was present. I didn’t go in with “knowledge.” I don’t know was my primary approach, especially people, the greatest mystery of all.
It struck me as a word. A foreign one. Belonging?
I took her lead—these four days. She shared only what she wanted to. Her career unfolded naturally in the scenes, so we didn’t go into her personal life. I respected her point of view on fame.
Harris is one of my biggest influences and I am very happy and proud to be able to say that. Yes, Barbara Harris—as a writer, oh yes. As an actress? Yes. I started studying acting at like ten years old. I have major respect for the craft. I couldn’t pursue it, because of the issues that I have now resolved, but writing opened up the possibility of engaging with it; and I really loved it, so it basically saved my life—again.
Who knows what the future will hold? I do not know. I am writing my first book. On the subject of belonging, however, I will probably share the interview I did with a clown scholar…as I interviewed “clowns” about Harris. And Harris was in the desert. The setting was so gorgeous, resonant; the lighting. Every night we spent stargazing on her porch on the precipice of yet another oceanic parking lot.
I studied theater my whole life, so I rediscovered it thanks to her.
Everybody, more or less, brought up “her struggles.” I never did in these four days. That’s why I wanted to use these four days themselves because it was on her terms. She was an extraordinary artist and person. There were so many layers to this.
I received permission from her last remaining relative to begin sharing, so I will.
I appreciate everyone I spoke to who embraced me.
I’ll probably begin posting scenes by the end of the summer, on this page. I’ve put a lot of care and thought into how I wanted to approach it and why I am. The rest—we’ll see. I do not know.
I am excited to share some of these scenes because they are poignant right now.
Someone, one of her friends, said “I feel like I can inherently trust you, is that true?” He just got that feeling. Yes, it meant a lot to me.
I feel completely honored to have this material and to have played a part in it.
Thank you for reading if you are.