Page 38 of Love Is…?

“But Grace is very good about my fame. She understands that it’s part of the deal. However, I’m still aware that there are those in the world who would seek to play with her emotions, her psyche. I won’t have it, and a security detail can’t combat that at all. Hence a chaperone. Tessa is not simply a person to accompany Grace to her activities. She is a confidante, if needed. I like to think that Grace will talk to Sam and me without hesitation and yes, she does. She’s always been able to, in person or electronically. But Tessa is here. Right here, and sometimes being able to access a safe person immediately is essential for a teenager.”

My observation that parenting is sometimes fraught with elevated emotions is met with a bark of laughter. Abigail tosses her hands in the air as if to suggest that elevated emotions are inevitable, then she taps the table, and I absorb the intensity of her gaze.

“You’re not wrong. It’s quite phenomenal. You’re in a constant state of…of living at the extremities. A fear for your child, the pride in them, a love of them. It’s fierce.”

The word reminds me of Abigail’s expression, her ferocity, which was plastered across the news the year that Grace was held hostage in the Melbourne Museum. Abigail claps her hands once, points across the table, and leans back in her chair.

“Melbourne museum! Yes! Oh God. At the time, I wasn’t thinking about how many news bulletins broadcast that whole event, me, across their screens. I didn’t care about the focus on me. I had my focus elsewhere. That day was terrifying. You know? I’ve never been able to replicate thatfear and fury on camera, in character, even if the script called for it. Oh, I’ve come close. I’ve been believable. But that pure fear when you are suddenly confronted with the idea that your child may be killed is impossible to duplicate, impossible to share with an audience, because it’s very specific, and comes from a place so deep in your soul.”

I ask if sharing her emotion with an audience is the same as manipulating their emotions, and Abigail leans on her elbows and nods.

“That’s an interesting perspective. I suppose that’s true, but I manipulate my own emotions for my job, obviously. That specific fear? As I said, it’s hard to duplicate, therefore impossible to share, therefore no audience is going to experience the depth of it. The utter rawness of it. Because I draw from an emotional well to whatever depth I need, an audience makes their own interpretation of that emotion, such as fear, based on their own experiences. That’s what makes it specific to them. That’s great character development. Great writing. But some emotions are just so bone deep, aren’t they?”

The topic has filled the air with a dense melancholy. Abigail looks at the ceiling, and I wait for the cloud to lift. Then she smiles into my next question regarding love and its depth inside a person’s bones, and I find myself on the end of a pointed finger.

“Yes. Absolutely. In all its nuances.”

Abigail contemplates her hands and, apart from the hum of the stainless steel refrigerator, we sit in silence. I ask abouther parents, Gretchen Porrati and Jonathon Taylor, and their connection with those nuances. She gives a small nod.

“Like I said, it’s the fiercest love, and I was enveloped in it for two decades. Losing them both in that car accident was very challenging. That’s a silly descriptor. Challenging. How euphemistic. It was devastating. I was twenty and suddenly without a navigation system. They never got to see Grace, which I feel a great sadness about. You want your parents to meet their grandchild, don’t you?”

There is a hint of tears in her eyes and I instinctively reach across the table. Abigail seems to appreciate the gesture, patting my hand, then pulling away. She smiles sadly.

“Of course, they didn’t meet Sam either. They would have loved Sam. My father, particularly. They share a similar sense of humour. Oh, his was more ridiculous, and Sam’s sense of silliness is observational. Very present. We both, Grace and I, love it. I do receive a lot of fathering from Eric, Sam’s dad. He’s very protective, but I’m sure at first it was because he wanted to make sure Sam was safe. Not just physically, but safe in her heart. That her love was returned.”

She looks down, and exhales at the table.

“You know? My father was a delightful man. He had a personality that lets the world stroll past, but every now and then he’d invite an experience, a person, an event to step off the footpath and sit for a while so he could absorb its wonder. My mother was almost the opposite. She chewed great bites out of life. She was ferociously charismatic. An absolute force.It took people a while to realise why they were drawn to her. Why they were swept up in her presence. My father adored her, and she cherished him with every part of her being.”

It was at thePolar KineticsChristmas party when Gretchen Porrati, a leading software engineer with the boutique IT company, was introduced to Jonathon Taylor, a data management specialist with the company’s subsidiary in Silicon Valley, and they very quickly fell into a relationship that resulted in marriage. The pair moved to Melbourne when Gretchen jumped at the opportunity to lead the team establishing the Oceania office. It was at that time when Abigail was born. With the conclusion of Gretchen’s secondment, the family relocated back to Los Angeles, and quickly discovered their daughter’s creative passion. It is well known that both Gretchen and Jonathon played a significant role in fostering her career.

“They were instrumental in establishing the Abigail Taylor package; roles they took on with such pride, such love. But as a small child I don’t remember thinking about acting. I was convinced that I was going to be a vet. However, veterinary school was not the place for creative, interpretive theatre, and besides, I didn’t have the sort of smarts that the profession required. But apparently I could act. When I showed some semblance of talent, I was encouraged into drama school, extracurricular theatre groups, every production that my high school mounted, even the musicals in which I was sometimes given a solo. Unfortunately, not every audience member appreciated the head teacher’s artistic choice. Oh, my acting was fine. Terrific, even. However, my singing was appalling. It still is.”

Abigail chuckles, rests her elbows on the table and cradles her chin in her hands.

“Brian Killington, the producer ofCopy, Paste, Kill,watched one of my performances when I was a student at the Santa Monica School of the Arts. I was twenty-one, and still grieving. I’d basically turned my head to life’s bigger picture. He was pushing to have his film green lit, which it was, then based on his encouragement and belief in my abilities, I was able to land my debut role in that movie. Everything escalated from there. I’m forever grateful to Brian for his faith in me, and I’m very aware that only a very small percentage of twenty-one-year-old actresses leap into blockbuster movies from relative anonymity. So, yes, I’m forever grateful. I love encouraging young people to seek the essence of their creative soul, to explore their artistry. To stretch as far as they can. Just like I was able to do.”

Was this passion, this almost parental quality, the impetus for establishing the scholarships when she rescued the Melbourne Theatre Company?

“Ha! That makes me sound like a superhero. I’m not at all. I just believe in chances for everyone, but particularly children. Just like my parents did for me. And Sam is the one who ran with the scholarships. They’re her babies.”

Abigail tilts her head towards the forgotten plate of biscuits, and raises her eyebrows. The biscuits look homemade, and I ask if they are.

“Grace made them. She’s quite good at baking, and Tessa is helping her expand her repertoire. This was a team effort.Dark chocolate chip orange-infused shortbread. Please eat a couple, because they really need to be gone from this house. They’re too delicious. In fact, take a box.”

She gestures again at the plate, and I laugh at the wide-eyed desperation, so I try a biscuit. She’s correct. They are delicious.

The interview pauses asCulture’s styling team arrives to shoot the cover and supplementary images for the spring edition. It’s crowded, the space noisy with instructions and suggestions, and Abigail grimaces, then stands, her height evident even in bare feet. She holds up her hand, and instantly the group freezes. She glances at the simple wooden clock on the wall—the time piece is stylish, yet functional, much like the rest of the furnishings—and smiles at the group.

“I’d like everyone to wait a minute, please. I haven’t finished my interview. Let’s start in ten?”

It is clearly Abigail Taylor’s show, as there are head nods, a few, “No worries,” and some scattered, “Sure thing” in the agreeable mix as everyone steps back and busies themselves with their equipment, wardrobe rails, and murmured instructions. Abigail reclaims her seat, and I nod in appreciation.

“Of course! Your time is as important as anyone else here.”

It is actually her time, and Abigail chuckles.

“Yes, but you do all the leg work and polish the text. All I do is talk. I’m paid to do that. But this isn’t a fluffy chat show, so this profile needs due respect. This topic, love, needs due respect.”

---