Artist Profile of Sebastian “Sebby” Woldt

“And this is my sound corner,” Sebby said proudly, as I looked amidst a small, crowded section of his dorm living room–piled high with music books, CDs, cassette tapes, recording equipment, numerous guitars, a keyboard, and countless empty bottles of Cherry Pepsi. This is Sebby’s work place, when not recording in the sound studio at The Theatre School.

Sebastian “Sebby” Woldt, 19, is a second year BFA Sound Design major at The Theatre School at DePaul University. A Chicago native, he had a privileged childhood living in the Near North Side, just a short walk away from Navy Pier.

“Theatre saved me. If it weren’t for theatre, I would not have made it through my sophomore year of high school.” Sebby went on to explain that, while his childhood proved wonderful, nothing good can stay and by the time he was fifteen things started to go awry. On top of the bullying from his tormentors at school, his parents separated, and subsequently got divorced: a hurt that will sting for years to come.   Shortly after his parents’ separation, the adolescent Sebby experienced a Major Depressive episode; one which lasted nearly eleven months.

“I’m okay, really.” Sebby exclaimed, trying to convince himself as much as me. “I know now that the divorce was not my fault.” Spoken like a true, well-adjusted teenager, right?

They always tell you not to judge a book by its cover, and I tried not to judge Sebby by his external appearance, but his eclectic look and raggedy hair perfectly match his strange personality.   Not everyone knows how to handle strangeness. Teachers and professors have suggested that he might have some form of Asperger’s. When Sebby mentioned this to his therapist (a man who he has been seeing weekly since age ten), he disagreed and replied to Sebby that he is “just a weird kid, who views the world through different lenses.”

Sebby does view the world through a different pair of eyes. Like many, he was raised Catholic and brought up in a household that spoke of an omni-powerful, smiting, God, and for many years he subscribed to Catholicism (even attended a Catholic grade school). But more recently, Sebby has explored differing views of religion, spirituality, and a higher power. Fascinated by the Ontological argument that God is necessary, and “that which no greater can be thought,” Sebby has challenged this with his own idea that God is “that which no more loving can be thought.” When I asked Sebby to give me an example of what this God looked like, he explained to me that when tragedy strikes, as it too often does, he does not see God in the senseless acts of violence, but rather the outpouring of love and support that follows such acts. For example, when 9/11 occurred, Sebby was distraught over what a horrible act of terror transpired, wondering where God was when the planes hit the towers. Upon further thought, Sebby decided to make the active choice to admire the countless service people who rushed to the scene, and look at their torrent of love as an ultimate act of God.

So Sebby’s therapist was right when he called him a “weird kid,” and Sebby himself is the first to admit it. As he described it, his brain is “a crescendo of weird bullshit,” and this persona begs the questions: does being slightly removed from normalcy and reality, grant you a vantage point from which you can view reality and represent it better than a well-adjusted person? Sebby’s eccentric view of the world has helped him to create works of art, in varying media, that a normal mind would never be able to construct. As his parents were working through a tumultuous divorce, Sebby threw himself into the one thing that was able to drown out the depression: creative writing. In a matter of months, his first novel was complete. Proud of his work, Sebby self-published and sold copies to the students at his school, and as we all know, kids are mean… especially to someone who breaks out of the shell society has placed them in. So, the tormenting got worse and Sebby’s depression felt all encompassing.

“I want to take you past my old high school,” Sebby pronounced adamantly during a late-night walk through Lincoln Park. “After all, it’s where my love for theatre all started.” So we’re walking down Fullerton Avenue, half-past eleven at night and Sebby tells me the story of his beginnings in theatre. Like many designers, he started out on stage, before becoming fascinated with the behind-the-scenes work. Exploring different characters on stage acted as a form of therapy, and helped Sebby work through a lot of his own problems.

“There is a difference between using art to solve your problems, and using art to solve problems in the greater community.” And while he started out attempting to make sense of his own personal life, he soon found that creating art for the latter purpose assisted in feeling better about his own.

Sound design fell into Sebby’s lap during his junior year of high school. He began composing music using computer software, and placed some of his work on social media sites and Youtube. Soon enough, one of his Youtube videos had over 200,000 views. Presently, his most popular Youtube hit titled “Rise of the Phoenix” has nearly 400,000 views with only 9 “dislikes” and over 1,500 “likes.” This is quite a feat for someone so young.

“I’m not One Direction and I don’t want to be, so 400,000 views is a lot for me.” At the café later that evening, Sebby told me about some of his other work that he has placed on Youtube in more recent months. His most recent piece, “Corday-Duperret Theme”, has over 20,000 views and rising, Sebby does not think this is much of an accomplishment.

Sebby’s root beer float arrived, as did my chocolate milkshake, and Sebby discussed the importance of a proper root beer float. “Finally, a good quality root beer. The Student Center’s MUG root beer just doesn’t do it for me. When I was younger, about nine or ten, I used to sneak into our refrigerator late at night and bring cans of root beer back to my room. I had a plastic bin that I stored them in under my bed, and I would have one, sometimes two, late at night when I couldn’t sleep.” His late-night soda habit continues to this day, as Sebby prefers working at nighttime. “I find I am most creative during the night hours. During the day, I’m just imaginative.”

“What exactly is the difference between imagination and creativity?” I asked.

“Well, imagination is the thoughts that ruminate in your head. They are all up here,” he said gesturing to his brain, “and have no physical substance to them. Creativity is when you take your imagination and make something with it.”

Sebby certainly is making something with it. Currently, he is the sound designer in the depths of the design process for The Phantom Toll Booth, a children’s theatre play which will perform this October through December at the Merle Reskin Theatre. Directed by David Catlin (of Lookingglass Theatre Company fame) this is an incredible opportunity for Sebby. He is gracefully rising to the challenge of this massive show, and composing a complete underscore to support the production. With many locations, moods, and emotions throughout this 75 minute play, Sebby has an exciting task ahead: to create a wide variety of music and sound that still remains cohesive throughout, and ultimately incorporates thematic elements of all the numerous locations into a single work.

On multiple occasions, Sebby has talked about the piece that he is most excited about working on. Pulling inspiration from Eric Whitacre, he is creating a song that is representative of a lullaby, titled “Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog,” written for a choir, cello, and piano. Over chicken fingers at the Student Center after class one day, he pulled out his computer and opened up the score to show me. He boasted that his friend in the School of Music told him that the cello part is playable, a task which becomes more challenging in the age of technology. With modern computers, a composer can create any collection of notes with the click of a button. The problem is when a musician goes to play the music that is physically impossible to play. With more experience composing, this is occurring less and less, a proud accomplishment for Sebby.

Back in his sound corner, where some of his most creative ideas have sparked, he sits drinking a Cheery Pepsi and riffing on a guitar. He talks of his plans to start a theatre company, to write an opera, to work as a Broadway sound designer, and to ultimately convey various realities on stage through the use of sound. Sebby comes from a privileged background, but even with the outward appearance of opportunity, there is great turmoil behind closed doors. Even so, his experience makes him who he is: imaginative and creative. His ability to see the world in a different light is what makes Sebby such an integral part of any production, and thus allowing his brilliant “crescendos of weird bullshit” to occur.

 

Kitchens are for Dancing

So this is the beginning of a piece I’m working on.  Having struggled with an eating disorder for the majority of my life, it’s become extremely important in my recovery to reclaim what once controlled me.  For once, food will not be abusive or destructive, and memories surrounding it won’t be miserable and depressing.  So, let me know what you think so far!

Kitchens are for dancing

Not crying over calories.

The oven is for love,

Not baking the next binge.

Beds are for jumping on,

Not shedding tears of loneliness.

And showers are for singing,

Not cutting deep in skin.

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There is no Consolation Prize in Rape  

“It could have been worse” doesn’t quite do the job of supporting a survivor. Nor to comparisons to situations arbitrarily deemed “more” or “less” traumatic.

“At least it was by a woman, because a man would have hurt you more,” I’ve been told… only to retort through tear flooded eyes that I couldn’t walk for two days after she fucked me with her fist.

It’s been explained to me by some that knowing your rapist makes things at least “a little” better.

Others will argue that stranger rape is easier to stomach, because it’s easier to excuse a crazy man on the street than someone you once willingly allowed into your life.

So… uhm… we’re excusing rapists, now, are we?

Rape has no consolation.

It could not have been worse.

Mine is the worst for me.

Yours is the worst for you.

There is no consolation prize in rape.

When all else fails,

and gratitude is too far away, I try to write a list of things that make me smile. So today, as I sit here home sick with a stomach flu, I am thinking of things that make me smile… here are a few:

  1. My beautiful girlfriend, Ella
  2. Her our dog, Kip.
  3. My family’s dog, Scout
  4. Fuzzy hats in the winter
  5. Hot coffee on a snowy day
  6. DAVIDsTEA (the best tea place there is!)
  7. my ability to express myself artistically

To be continued…

Drama Queen  

“Stop being such a Drama Queen,” Dad would always scold me, as the tears would continue streaming down my face. So I worked extremely hard to fight back the tears—hold them in as long as I could, until I was nearly bursting with sorrow and shame.

Quickly, though, I learned the Rules For Life:

  • Anger is a bad emotion
  • Sadness means you’re too dramatic
  • Meeting your needs met is selfish and burdensome
  • Happy? Take a chill pill
  • Yelling is one-sided—only dad is allowed

I’d be told to:

“Just cheer up!”

“Choose happy”

“Other people have it worse”

“It’s a learning lesson”

“You shouldn’t feel that”

“You’re not over that by now?”

This was the childhood I experienced. And as I moved forward into adolescence and adulthood, these rules remain true. Here I am, twenty-one year old Caroline—emotionally bursting. Spiritually and lovingly bankrupt.

Into The Battlefield, Part I

A warrior. A fighter. Ten-year-old Caroline is gearing up for battle. She places the heavy armor upon her shoulders (that almost seems to swallow her whole) and prepares to fight the hardest battle she will never win. She chooses her weapons carefully: a shield is necessary to combat the awful critiques of her body, and a sword is required to attack her lover, Ed.

Externally, Ed is everything that one would want in a partner—tall and handsome. But like most, Ed has a dark side. Ed knows her worst fears. He knows everything about her. He is a perfect stranger, and he is a best friend; a collection of inconsistencies held together by the knowledge and power that Caroline allows him to have.

A battle cry is heard. The lone solider prepares to fight against the army of evil. Walking toward the battlefield, she sees her enemies. Standing alongside Ed are all of his accomplices: Ms. Perfectionist counters him… skinny and beautiful. Caroline notices how peculiar it is that even in battle clothes she looks stunning and together. Next to Ms. Perfectionist is an Ocean of Depression. The waves of this ocean are vast and commanding. Every wave that crashes on Caroline feels like a tsunami attacking her. Once it blows, all the light feels depleted from Caroline’s world, and nothing but bleakness and sorrow live on.

A ship in the ocean holds Ed’s other, less prevalent cohorts. On the ship stands Mr. Hopeless and Mrs. Helpless. They are an older couple, married, and to Caroline, it almost seems that something is wrong with their faces, since they appear unable to smile.   Even Ed feels happiness occasionally (when Caroline listens to his demands, that is). But not this couple. They seem to be in a constant state of despair. But still, there is something compelling about them, and they often manipulate Caroline into having her join them on their ship just for a “short while” that seems never-ending.

Across the ocean are the sirens that live on the Manic Mountains that Caroline loves to visit. Unfortunately, in order to get to and from the Mountains, one must brave the Ocean of Depression. Caroline always wonders: “are the Mountains worth the Depression that it takes to get to them?” Although deep down, she knows the answer is “no,” the mountain’s songs are majestic and compelling… it is hard to not give into their melodies.

Caroline takes a moment to notice all of those confronting her. She doesn’t know where to turn first… who or what to fight. She can’t attack Ed yet. Not with all of his friends around him. Ed is the leader of the pack, and you can’t go straight for the leader. In order to properly fight a battle, one must kill off the leaders companions first. She decides to strike up a conversation with Ms. Perfectionist. After all, words are the most powerful weapon.

She can barely get two words out before Ms. Perfectionist exclaims that she is wasting her time. That Caroline will never be good enough, or pretty enough, or smart enough. Using her shield, she hides from the critique, but no amount of armor can protect this young girl from the damage that has been done.

Caroline sulks away. She hears the distant calling from the couple on the ship. Mrs. Helpless’ voice piercing through the crisp air, “Caroline!” she exclaims, “you’ll feel better if you join us. Just for a short while.” The internal debate begins. Should she join the couple, knowing they could bring her to the comfort of the Mountains, or should she retreat? She decides to risk the waves of depression, for the pale glimpse of joy that she may feel when she reaches the Mountains.

Caroline calls back to Mrs. Helpless, “I’m on my way!” She turns to Ed for approval. He nods and smiles, proudly… knowing what Caroline is about to endure.

She begins the walk towards the ship. With every step she takes, the depression gets closer and closer. First, the waves wash up at her feet; soon the waves are crashing upon her legs and fingertips. The depression begins to worsen. It’s not too long before she is standing knee deep in the ocean, with the waves plummeting upon her.

Caroline climbs onto the ship and feels a rush of isolation wash over her. The gentleman looks at her wearily. In a monotone voice he states: “we’re so glad you could join us.”

“But he doesn’t sound glad,” Caroline thinks to herself.   Caroline takes a seat on the ship. Her legs feel drained after her journey through the ocean. Momentary calm passes over her. Caroline looks out into the distance and notices a dark, menacing storm cloud headed toward the ship. Hurricane like in structure, the cloud feels overbearing and soon engulfs the small ship. Torrential downpour ensues. The cold rain beats against Caroline’s armor and with every drop, her self-esteem depletes even more. It takes, what feels like hours to make it through the storm. Slowly, the rain begins to lighten, but the destruction to Caroline’s self-worth has already been done. As the sun begins to emerge, Caroline notices that the “far off” Mountains are not so far anymore. Any moment and the ship would cast ashore. Caroline’s excitement begins to grow… the mountains are so close, she can taste them.

(To Be Continued…)

An Open Letter to Those Who Do Not Understand:

I was not raped because I was drunk;

I was raped because they were rapists,

Predators.

Perpetrators

Contrary to what I’ve been told, my rapes are not “learning lessons,” not to “put myself” in “situations like that” again.

I’ve grown up in a society being taught how to not get raped:

-Don’t walk alone at night.

-Don’t leave your drink unattended.

-Don’t wear anything too revealing.

-Don’t let them get the wrong idea.

How come, in middle school self defense classes, the boys learned to protect through physical violence, while the girls were taught to “look confident?”

So you’re telling me that these scrawny boys are being taught to defend with violence, while I, an athlete, am being told to “look confident,” and have a man walk to me to my car?

When my fifth grade class was split into genders for “the talk,” I sure as hell know those boys didn’t get talked to about rape, while us girls were told all about the dangers of staying out too late or drinking too much.

“Better safe than sorry,” I’ve been told over and over again; so don’t go anywhere by yourself, don’t tempt men with an attractive skirt or red lipstick, in fact, just live your life in fear, with the hope that maybe, just maybe, you won’t put yourself in a situation that will get you raped.

So, please, stop teaching women how to not get raped, and start teaching people not to rape.

Signed,

A survivor

I survived

My name is Caroline.

I am twenty-one years old.

I am a theatre artist.

a daughter;

a sister;

a lover;

a friend.

And I’m a feminist.

I’m not a feminist because I’m a lesbian:

I’m a feminist because love is love, regardless of my sexual orientation.

I’m not a feminist because I’ve been raped:

But because consent is sexy, and sex without consent is not sex.

I’m not a feminist because I am a woman:

But rather, that I believe in equal rights for all people, regardless of my gender identity.

I’m not a feminist because I’m an idealist:

I’m a feminist because I do believe in a future where my daughter can one day walk down the street, without fear of harassment.

I need feminism.

I need feminism because my rapes are not “learning lessons.”

Because my thirteen year-old body was not a sex object, to be glorified by older men.

Because I should be able to feel comfortable walking alone at night, without pretending to be on my phone, so as to avoid unwanted attention.

Because cat-calls are not, and never will be, compliments.

Because the hair on my body is not a sign of poor hygiene.

Because my body is not your playground,

and my shorts are not too short, who are you to decide?

A survivor and a victim are not mutually exclusive.

I am a survivor.

I am also a victim.

I have been victimized by my perpetrators.

I have lived to see the other side.

So yes, I survived (but not before being a victim)

I carry shame with me:

The constants in my assaults were not the perpetrators…

It was the liquor,

And it was me.

I carry guilt:

What did I do wrong?

Where was my fault?

What was my role?

If it was a friend who asked me this, my answer would, undoubtedly be:

You had no role.

You were a victim,

And you survived.

Saying “yes” because you were threatened-

is not consent.

Saying “yes” after an hour of “no,”

is not consent.

A drunken yes

is not consent

The absence of “no,”

is not consent

Coercion-

is not consent

Unconsciousness-

is not consent

Sex without consent

is not sex.

Sex without consent

is rape.