Never Quote the Weather to a Sea Lion: And Other Uncommon Tales from the Founder of the Big Apple Circus

© 2013 Paul Binder. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/08/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3190-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3191-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3192-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013905141

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

All photographs not specifically credited as copyright are courtesy of Big Apple Circus archives or from the author’s private collection.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Foreword: Yes, Even You Can Juggle

Opening Remarks: Paul On 34Th Street

Drumroll, Please

Part 1: The Road to the Big Apple Circus

Where’s The War?

Man On Back Of Man On Wire

Law And Order: Europe

Southbound

The Road East

Istanbul

Culture Shock

The Buyout

Zizi Je T’aime

Nouveau Cirque

Cold Water

Mario’s Sports Car

Part 2: Tales from the Ring

Law And Order: Comedic Intent

Lead A Band

Katja, Katherine, And Max

Gypsy Wagon

Rios Trio

The Kid On Jackie Robinson’s Back

Queen Of The Air

An Oaf’s Errand

Mondo Cane

Never Quote The Weather To A Sea Lion

A Message From Grandma

Elephant Man

Howard And Bobby

Triple Whammy

Occupying Staten Island

Crime Of The Century

Two Mayors, One Ring

No Ordinary Joe

Jeff And Pici

Pee Wee’s Cookhouse And Julia Child

Francis Brunn

Wes

Was I Any Good?

Koma Zuru

A Daughter’s Request

A Memorable Opening

You Are Here

Baltimore Storm

Scotch And Soda?

Enough Already

Burying A Dead Man

A Night At The Opera

From The Mouths Of Babes

East Meets West

East Joins West

Closing Remarks: What Did Your Mother Think?

About The Big Apple Circus

About The Author

Dedication

For my grandchildren, Zoe, Maddy, Leo, Marjane,

and Sonya. May you find the joy and passion in your

journeys that I have found in the world of circus.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks go to: my friend and colleague Robbie Libbon for his invaluable insights and writing skills. This book would have been impossible without him. He shared many of my experiences during his several years as Performance Director at the Big Apple Circus. Jon Child and Julie Winter for their inspiration, her Thursday night guided meditation class, and for sheltering me from the cold when I returned to New York every February for production meetings. First-year Big Apple Circus performers Warren Bacon, Karen Gersch, Jessica Hentoff, Phil Crowder, Rosalie Donatelli, Fred Yockers, Randy Stein and Michael Moschen—the only juggler ever to win the MacArthur Foundation’s Genius fellowship. The original Big Apple Circus core company: Jim and Tisha Tinsman, David Dimitri, Marie-Pierre Bénac, Vanessa Thomas, Sacha Pavlata, Barry Lubin, Jeff Gordon, Carlo Pellegrini, and especially Michael Christensen and Katja Schumann who, along with Martha Gold, were first to recognize my skills as a performing artist and director. Guillaume Dufresnoy, my successor as Artistic Director who, over the course of twenty-one years, served as performer, Performance Director, and General Manager. The late Alan Slifka, Founding Chairman of the Big Apple Circus and the more than one hundred other board members who made the nonprofit organization possible and kept it alive through economies thick and thin. (They are listed in About the Big Apple Circus at the end of this book.)

I thank Fran and Tracy Costigan, Rob Johnson, Polly Kornblith and Mike Newman who sat through endless recitations and encouraged each revision of the manuscript of this book. Richard Levy, whose work as a producer, general manager, and friend made the Big Apple Circus possible; his wife, Lorraine Gallard, was correct when she said, Richard is the guy who you’d most want In your foxhole. I salute artist Mimi Gross, who reassured Richard it was an idea whose time was long overdue. Judith Friedlaender, founding Executive Director, and two others who served long and productive terms. Jim McIntyre and Gary Dunning. Jim Russek for 30 years of friendship and marketing support. Employees past and present, production and administrative, whose invaluable services have contributed to the success of the Big Apple Circus. My personal assistants Honora Duncan and Janine Hegarty, The Irish Terror, for their patience and impatience.

I’m grateful to illustrator Eliza Kingsbury, who brought her unique sense of humor and talent to a new field of endeavor. Dominique Jando, for many years the circus’s Associate Director, who made sure I had the best photos available. Joel Pierson, managing editor at AuthorHouse, whose editorial skills made sense out of a confusing variety of times and venues. Eleanor Thadani, for suggesting a workable format. Erica Hookfin, Alyson Bell and Adalee Cooney at AuthorHouse, who asked all the right questions. Dick Berkowitz and Ken Novack, whose negotiating skills freed me of my daily burden, so I could devote the time to writing. Eric Rayman, whose confidence in my stories and knowledge of the legal aspects of the publishing world were invaluable. My kids who had such faith: Max, for his spirit and his computer assistance; Katherine, for her positive and energetic response; Anais, for her encouragement; and Adam, for his upright example as a son and father. Bob and Vivian Glick, and Mark Ackerman, for being faithful fans of the Big Apple Circus. And Shelley Doctors, for her reassurance, inspiration, and extraordinarily loving support.

FOREWORD: YES, EVEN YOU CAN JUGGLE

Glenn Close

I know what you are thinking. You have picked up this enticing and wonderfully titled book and are asking yourself, "Why did Glenn Close of all people write the foreword? What could she possibly have to do with Paul Binder and the Big Apple Circus?" Well, little do you know that there was a time when I joined the circus, and the person who taught me how to do some dramatic moves on the trapeze, how to walk a tightrope and, most important, how to juggle was Mr. Paul Binder himself—the Founder of the Big Apple Circus.

It was a new year—1980—and the Original Broadway Company of the Cy Coleman/Michael Stewart/Mark Bramble musical, Barnum, was gathering in the magnificently frayed and musty ballroom of a rather rundown hotel off Herald Square. The enterprising producers had found a space big enough, with a ceiling high enough, to accommodate all the complex rigging for a high wire with landing platforms, trapezes, clowns on stilts, a giant faux-elephant, acrobats and musicians, canons, banners, and circus wagons. The stained and faded damask-covered walls, the pock-marked dance floor, and the tarnished and wounded giant chandelier were an eerie evocation of the Gilded Age when P. T. Barnum worked his humbug and created what eventually became The Greatest Show on Earth.

So we gathered—producers, composer and writers, our brilliant director, Joe Layton; our star, Jim Dale; and perhaps the most talented ensemble I have ever worked with—young performers who could play at least two instruments, were trained acrobats or clowns … or both, who could sing, dance, do intricately timed moving stunts, walk on stilts and even toss batons up into the shadows and catch them behind their backs. I was just an actress.

We were told that we were entering a kind of boot camp—that we would be following a fierce and uncompromising schedule for the next five weeks. Scenes would be rehearsed. Circus skills would be honed and songs would be learned. The play would be blocked in a space matching the exact dimensions of the stage set, defined by carefully measured tape on the ballroom floor. We were told that circus is a skill and that you had to be in top shape and had to maintain that shape in order to make sure that no accidents occurred. We would have an hour-long warm up every day before rehearsals started and continue those warm-ups for the run of the show. If you didn’t warm up, you didn’t perform.

The man who directed us in our circus skills training was Paul Binder. Actually, many of the company had already been in training with him. I was thrilled to meet him, knowing that he would be my personal teacher. You see, I was to play Charity, Barnum’s very straight-laced, New England wife. In the musical, she is always throwing cold water on his dreams. She wants him to be steady and dependable. She wants him at home. (It was rather daunting to be the one character dressed in gray in a production full of vivid color!) But Charity truly loves him, so, as a metaphor for her final acceptance of all that he is, she juggles three balls for him, tosses him the balls … one by one … and magically disappears. It is actually a rather touching moment and a lovely way to die. But I didn’t know how to juggle! I had never juggled in my life! Now, I not only had to learn how to frigging juggle, but I had to do it while singing, sitting on a platform on a dark stage, in a spotlight, in front of a critical Broadway audience! So, I was freaking out!

While I felt like screaming my way out of that seedy old ballroom, hailing a cab back to my very humble apartment and lying in the fetal position for the rest of my life, I just smiled and shook hands when it was time for my session with Paul. I don’t remember exactly where it was—maybe in the pantry or coat check room—but we started and … he was brilliant. He was handsome, funny, and full of exciting energy, and he was able to explain the mechanics in a way that I understood. We started with one ball and the simple flicking motion that you make with your wrist when you toss a ball up. Flick … catch. Flick … catch. Flick … catch. Let it burst up from your fingers. Flick … catch. Then, after several days of that, the simplest of motions, he gave me a second ball and showed me how to toss the two balls up from one hand to the other. Flick-flick … catch-catch. Flick-flick … catch-catch. Then you toss them higher. Flick-flick … … catch-catch. Flick-flick … … catch-catch. Of course it took weeks for me to start feeling comfortable. To begin to feel the elegance of the movement. To be able to focus completely on just the flying balls, the rhythm, the sound they made as they softly slapped into my hands, the weight—tossed and recovered, tossed and recovered. Slowly, during my sessions with Paul, I began to feel the magic of the circus. Not in any lights or colors or clapping hands, not even in the music. The magic of the circus first captured me when I gained control over an object as simple as a rubber ball, and it became part of me.

I eventually mastered the three balls. Mastered is actually too fancy a word for my level of skill. It’s more honest to say that I started succeeding more than I failed and started being able to work the motion of the three magic balls into the emotions and music of my final scene. Opening night came. I pulled off my juggle, tossed the balls to Jim, and faded from sight. After the grand finale, it was evident from the roar of the audience that we were a bone fide hit. And there, coming backstage—I would like to think that we pulled him onstage with us during the curtain call—was the true ringmaster, the man of the circus himself, Paul Binder.

My husband and I took our grandkids to the Big Apple Circus last year—thirty-three years after Paul taught me how to juggle. The oldest was five, and the youngest not even one. I watched them more than I watched the performers. I watched the wonder creep into their little, upturned faces. I listened to their gasps and their delighted screams and laughter. I saw them mesmerized by the skill and timing and energy. And they weren’t looking at a screen! They were looking at real people who, if you passed them on the street, would seem no different than the people sitting beside us. But something happens when they step into that ring. They are able to do a series of motions, in different positions, with different rhythms, with simple objects. And they have a grace and a beauty and a command that takes your breath away. And then, of course, there are ropes and cables, big nets, swings, curtains, colors, animals, music and costumes, and … always … laughter. The everyday world fades into the shadows … and the child in all of us looks up into the enchanted light.

Thank you, Paul.

OPENING REMARKS: PAUL ON 34TH STREET

M y mother often wondered—sometimes with consternation, sometimes with pride, but always with bewilderment—just how I’d ended up running a circus. But it was really her doing; without realizing it, she’d given me my start in show business.

My mother loved a parade. We lived in Brooklyn, and her favorite, naturally, was the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, a New York institution since 1924. Originally, the Macy’s parade featured a few floats, lots of store employees dressed in colorful costumes, professional entertainers, bands, and live animals borrowed from the Central Park Zoo. In 1927 the live animals were replaced by large animal-shaped balloons (headlined by Felix the Cat) made by the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company. But it wasn’t until the following year that the balloons were filled with helium, allowing the growing cast of characters to float above the crowd like angels.

In 1942, the year I was born, the parade was suspended because the country needed helium and rubber for the war effort; it didn’t