40 Days of Birthday: Day Fourteen

The hardest part about writing today is that my (to-be)revised dissertation proposal glares at me when I open my computer, reminding me of the enormous amount of work I need to do just to dig myself out of my current rabbit hole. I could just close my dissertation document—or write my blog on a typewriter—but then I might ignore it altogether. This past week, I’ve put in several hours a day reworking this proposal that I’m meant to hand into my advisor sometime before we meet a the end of the month. Each day I’m more confused than I was the previous. I try to believe that all this confusion means I’m on the precipice of revelation and not doom.

After a frustrating day in the Theatre Studies world, I kissed my family and headed out on my own for adventure. I’m set to teach a performance class in a couple of weeks at Tatwerk, an acting studio here in Berlin, and I asked if I could sit in on one of their regular courses to get a sense of the students’ skill level. The class starts at the incredible hour of 8pm which left me time to buy fabric for the Halloween costumes I’m making for a couple of small humans. I’m building cozy animal costumes for Lennon and his upstairs neighbor and friend, Otis. Also, Otis’s birthday is next week and his mommy is throwing him an animal themed costume party. Guess who will be the best dressed?

Fabric is expensive in Berlin. It’s days like these that I long for Fabric Outlet in San Francisco. I’d even settle for a JoAnn. For my limited searching in Berlin—I buy most of my fabric when I’m in the U.S. and haul it back on the plane—the best bargains can be found at the markets. When you need something specific, however, the markets can be hit or miss. Stoffland is where I headed this evening. The prices on their small, awkward online store seemed reasonable. They claimed to have fuzzy animal type fabric in their brick and mortar outlet, and while they were wildly out of the way of where I lived or where I was going tonight, I made the trek.

Once there, I spent about an hour pondering over fleece versus velour, the difference between auburn and light brown, and how dark a grey I should purchase. Additionally, I started sweating trying to convert my pattern from yardage to meters. The woman who cut my fabric did her best to help but my poor language skills made it rough. I went with my instincts and got slightly less off the bolt of each color than was called for. These are very small humans after all. I came in under budget, stuffed my “Stoff” in my backpack, and headed into the downpour that began as I was being rung up.

My years in Seattle taught me to never forget my umbrella.

The real star of today was the class I observed, however briefly I discuss it here—I’d rather not say too much for fear of diluting its deliciousness. The group was small, just a handful of students, improvising in an open space. The studio looked magical at night and any reservations I had about having to teach at this hour vanished. This was clearly the most ideal time. There was a lot of fruitful discussion and challenging work. I was grateful to have contributed. Really looking forward to not just observing, but teaching. Will be going back again soon.

Stage Fright, Part II: {J}oy

“You just have to not care,” she said.

Callous words? Maybe, but they are true and helpful. After an entire year and a half of grad school, performing nearly every day and night, I was still nearly paralyzed with fear that one of those times the words that I had rigorously and thoughtfully memorized wouldn’t be there for me. I only found happiness after a performance, after the show had closed, knowing I was done for the time being with my pre-performance ritual of repeating every line in one long, frantic monologue over and over until it was my time to enter the stage. Not that that it ever helped my jitters, as you know.

The idea that I could simply not care about what I was presenting was absurd. These people paid money to see my very best and how dare I not deliver on that promise. Maybe she meant that I shouldn’t care about Failure, which I think is different than caring if a thing is good. Being human and working in a dynamic, live medium, there are a thousand unforeseen things that can cause the best-laid plans of mice and men to fail. If they should…so what? I am terrified of Failure, but let me attempt some reason: If I put forth my best effort, I am delivering quality, even if a well rehearsed line is forgotten along the way. If only logic could cure me.

Before the Traumatic Terrible I didn’t care about Failure. I didn’t take myself so seriously as I do now. Before, theatre was just my passion. Now it’s become my life’s Work. It’s not just about me doing something I enjoy; it’s now a thing I bring forth to the world. It’s heavy, Man. That bulk, that effort—it burdens what should be a free-flowing expression. Calling it my life’s WORK really is telling, no? That word is filled with drudge and toil and tiresome must-dos. I’m getting rid of that word. I really hate it now. Work is ironing dress shirts, filing taxes, putting on a duvet cover, moving house. I’m involved in artsy stuff. There must be a more inspiring word for what I do. By the way, I’m not touching on what we all know about art—that it takes skill and practice to honor its creation and that does take Hard Work indeed. This is not what I’m negating here. Once one has achieved a level of expertise, however, Joy must come in to play.

In talking about the first solo piece I’d created in grad school, I told my colleagues what a joyful experience it had been.

“I mean, making theatre is always joyful,” I explained, “but the ‘J’ is usually silent.”

This was the first time a piece had been fully imagined, built, and realized by me alone and with what I was experiencing in that moment of my life, however messy. I brought my expertise to my Joy and the process became effortless. That’s what I want to harness. That’s what will help me replace the word Work.

But how is all of this a solution to the moments where I’m standing backstage cycling through lines like an automaton? How does it make me love being on stage? I suppose I could only create theatre pieces that are text free.

(Incidentally, the solo piece I refer to above had no text, save some letters I read on stage. There were no lines to memorize and then remember. Brought me Joy, that.)

Not caring, not Working, and involving Joy are about the best possible words of advice I can offer myself regarding this problem. The trick is to get them out of my headspace and into the nerve center of my body. I need to live them to make them real. I reckon this means I’ll need to make and do, be messy and fail, in order for this to happen. Until then, I remain stuck in Part II of the saga. I’m hoping to get to Part III over the course of my PhD. What worries me most about where I am at the moment is the concern that my fear is coloring my decisions as an artist. More and more I’m interested in the directorial, educational, and academic side of theatre. I have the worst feeling that terror is subtly pushing me off the stage.






Photo: Fellow sufferer, Sir Laurence Olivier, Source found here.