My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [21]
When I was seventeen, a wildly creative artist who gave me a major push into the world I live in today came into my life, via my favorite medium—the television—and with the help of one of my creative fairy godmothers, my mom. I was watching (at this point, it was more like studying) a children’s show called Call It Macaroni, scoping out the characters and entertainers. One of their regular segments featured a young boy or girl spending a day with a person in a featured profession. And that day, the featured professional happened to be the charmingly named Kermit Love, an accomplished costume designer and artist who worked with choreographers like George Balanchine and helped design and build Big Bird and Snuffleupagus.
I knew kids could get away with making stuff, with indulging their imaginations, but this guy was no kid. I was thunderstruck as I watched him give a tour of his workshop. Kermit Love had a Jo-Ann Fabrics store in his own workshop! He had racks of fake fur and sheets of foam in one area, and in another a stable of sewing machines. After the show was over, I sat in stunned silence as the credits rolled, and then the adrenaline kicked in. I went out in the yard where my mom was playing with some of the daycare kids.
“You won’t believe what I just saw, Ma,” I started. “This man was amazing. Who knew there was a place like his workshop? I mean, I guess they have to build Big Bird somewhere, but it blew me away—I have to see it for myself, Mom, I just have to. This guy had everything—materials, machines, shelves of supplies up to the ceiling…and the puppets, you wouldn’t believe the puppets…and get this, this is his job…he makes a living doing this stuff.” She listened patiently and with interest as my mouth ran a mile a minute, heading back into the house with the kids while I trailed behind, still spewing like someone who’d had a religious experience.
After she gave me the “calm down, Kevin” look she’d perfected, Mom called the local PBS station that broadcast Call It Macaroni. It helps to have a fairy godmother who knows how to use the yellow pages and cut through the switchboard operators and receptionists. After hours of creative wrangling, cajoling, and yarn-spinning about her talented son, she got Kermit Love’s phone number in New York.
We left a message for Kermit, who called back soon after. He could not have been more gracious and encouraging. “So you saw the show! And you want to be a puppeteer? I know a thing or two about that.” We spoke for about ten minutes as I answered his questions about my kitchen-table puppets and the local gigs I was doing. Before hanging up he invited me to come up to his workshop for a visit. As luck would have it, our senior class trip was to New York City, and my teachers agreed to allow me some time for a brief meeting with Kermit.
In person, his Greenwich Village workshop was even more astounding than it was on television. I couldn’t believe that someone could have entire rooms devoted to things like fake fur and feathers. I dreamed of having such a space—I was making more and more puppets, including lifesize walk-around puppets that didn’t exactly fit on a shelf. I could barely carve out a few square feet in our shared bedroom for a workspace, and the kitchen table was off limits by the time I got home from school, since we were either fixing or eating dinner or doing homework. I no longer was comfortable perched in front of the TV—I was close to six feet and still growing, and my long legs took up a lot more floor space these days.
To me, the word “network” meant CBS, not “potential job contact,” but I was so wowed by our meeting that I knew enough to keep in touch with Kermit Love, who—on top of that name, his real one—bore an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus. (He actually appeared in many photo shoots at the time as Jolly Old Saint Nicholas!) Kermit certainly gave me and countless other puppeteers the