40 Days of Birthday: Day Twenty-Six

I’ve been preparing for tonight for over a month. In fact, when I wrote here that for one of my 40 Birth-Days I wanted to ‘Teach a Class’, it was already in the planning. Because of Tatwerk’s schedule, the date of my class kept getting pushed farther into fall. I’ve had some anxiety about teaching again so appreciated the additional time to prep yet was looking forward to getting that first scary session over with. What helped tremendously was observing one of Tatwerk’s other classes, like I did here. I got to see the lovely reality of the students I’d be teaching versus the judgmental, nightmarish ones I’d created in my head. Observing also helped me remember that I do know something about this art that I’ve been studying for over thirty years. I actually am a certified Master of Theatre.

I thought I’d be nervous today but it hit me that I had studied and prepared well. My class was on the training methodology Viewpoints, something I’d taught before and used with casts I’d directed. I was ready. I printed out my notes and put them into new page protectors, collected together with binder rings. I’ve tried to be more bohemian, scribbling my notes in a worn journal, but I like clean and organized better: Be regular and ordinary in you life, so that you way be violent and original in your work—a charge of Gustave Flaubert that I take to heart.

What was off today was how I was feeling. I stayed out too late last night and awoke with my husband’s sore throat. I was able to take a nap while Lennon was at Kita, but I just felt like I was dragging. I kept thinking about who I was physically in grad school, the last time I taught. I was in great shape, I only drank green tea, I ran all the time, I always got enough sleep: my body was a well-oiled machine. I’ve been thinking a lot about my body lately and wondering if it can do now all the things it did in grad school, post baby, forty-five pounds heavier, less fit. I’ve also been considering that I not wait until my body is a well-oiled machine again to engage with my art. Instead of not working because my body is different, or trying to conform to old standards, I’ll evolve my art to fit who I am now. This also means owning the physical shape I’m in and not apologizing for it, as I’ve done so many times in this industry.

My class started at 8pm and I was getting a second wind by then. Regardless, I told myself that I would teach “at sick” if I needed and not try to push beyond what my body was able to do. I learned this term, “at sick,” from my first Alexander Technique teacher, Catherine Madden. She suggested that when we’re sick and we must perform, our tendency is to push not only beyond what our bodies are capable of doing at the time but also what is true to the character we’re playing. We do this to overcompensate for our illness. Instead, she suggested that we play are character “at sick”—we’re still present and embodied in our role but not ignoring what is going on with us physically. By doing this we not only remain true to our work as an artist but we don’t damage our instrument for other performances.

In the studio and focusing on what I was about to teach, I was already feeling better. I had a small group. I sat them down before class and asked them something I’d been dying to know since I discovered Tatwerk: What were they all doing there? I was so curious what made these students want to train and what did they hope to accomplish with it. The overarching theme was they had a love for the process. There were no “stars” in my class—they just wanted learn, work, and create.

Because it was a small group, we flew through two days of material in two hours. They were all very focused and it was hard to gauge whether what we were doing was resonating with them or if they were just hard workers. With about five minutes left, I had them gather for feedback and comments. It was a relief to hear them be so excited about what had just happened. Surprisingly, they complimented me on the structure of the class and my knowledge of Viewpoints. Not that I didn’t believe my class was structured well, it just wasn’t the type of commentary I was used to getting from students. I took it as a sign of their astuteness.

On the way home I experienced a piece of U-Bahn theatre involving a homeless person, a beggar, and young woman who was either a martyr or needed psychiatric attention. I’m not sure the scene would make much sense if I retold it here, but please trust me when I tell you it was magnificent. The photo above is of the beggar, standing, holding the pink blanket that the young martyr/psychiatric patient had given him. She is the young lady sitting, with her back to the camera, her feet perched on the seat opposite her. I tried for a better shot but dared not disturb the unfolding of the story.

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.

RELEVANT

For the past week, my son has been teething and has woken to nurse every other hour throughout the night. This has afforded me an envious amount of nighttime organizational thinking. The unfortunate side effect of this is that sometimes I unearth a pressing thing, tragically misfiled in a forgotten corner of my brain, keeping me awake until the matter is resolved. The other night, as my mind wandered through so many disparate memories and should-dos, it landed on an ancient fear that unexpectedly sent a bolt of panic through my bones:

How will I stay RELEVANT as an artist?

I’ve seen this one before, thought I’d made peace with it. But it looked different this time because now it found me in my new role as a mother. It had only ever known me before as a dedicated artist. Now, it approached a woman who was questioning her degree of dedication. I imagined an extreme scenario, ten years into the future: My career has left me behind because I’d spent the last ten years solely focused on family and raising children. I’m no longer creating IMPORTANT work and whatever I’d made before has become outdated. My skills have become rusty. My colleagues have forgotten me. My industry no longer cares. I am irRELEVANT.

I searched my internal trouble-shooting guide for answers. I was pretty sure this subject was covered there, but what I found were just more disturbing questions:

If I don’t stay RELEVANT, how will I face all the people who’d been my competition all those years? If I don’t stay RELEVANT, how will I face my mentors who’d written me letters of reference for serious pursuits of theatrical academia? If I don’t stay RELEVANT, how will I justify all those hours of work and study? If I don’t stay RELEVANT, will I still be an artist?

At a moment like this, my husband is the best sounding board, but he was asleep, and while his generous soul probably wished I’d have woken him, there is no way I would have. The Interwebs became Plan C:

I started reading a post by Glennon Melton. Her blog, Momastery is my secret, dirty habit. For my money, I find her trademarked catch phrase full of spoon-fed inspiration and her writing to have such a broad relatability that I sometimes feel like I’ve just wept my eyes out over a phone company commercial when moved by her posts. Regardless, I am moved by her posts and often. However she differs from me in style, she pretty much nails in heart. She is articulate, kind, and unapologetic and for this she has my respect. What I read that night was a letter to her readers where she offers an alternative to self-destruction:

“When you start to feel . . . do. For example – when you start to feel scared because you don’t have enough money….find someone to give a little money to. When you start to feel like you don’t have enough love. . . find someone to offer love. When you feel unappreciated, unacknowledged . . . appreciate and acknowledge someone in your life in a concrete way. When you feel unlucky, order yourself to consider a blessing or two. And then find a tangible way to make today somebody else’s lucky day. This strategy helps me sidestep wallowing every day.”

Wallowing—I’d found a name for what I’d been doing that night. After reading the above, I found my ego cowering in the corner, shamed by the bigger issues that had just entered the room. I shut myself up and I went to sleep.

In the days following, I tried to write about that night and faced a lot of confusion. Truth be told, I’ve struggled since the moment I became pregnant with how to be the very best mother while still being IMPORTANT to my art. IMPORTANT means that I want to work in a way that contributes to the DNA of theatre. I know there are other ways to participate without giving so much of one’s soul, but that’s not been my calling. My son and my husband make it surprisingly effortless to see where my heart wants to be, but it doesn’t erase my charge as an artist, however much I wish it did some days. Nonetheless, I think maybe I stumbled on an answer the other night (thanks, Glennon.) Bare with me now as I try to be coherent:

If I can let go of the to-impress, to-please, to-satisfy parts of being an artist, what is left is just the GIVING part. Glennon’s post reminded me that GIVING is BEING RELEVANT.

The solution still lives in the esoteric and I don’t actually know how it all will work, but I did create the below steps as a map for myself. A three-pronged approach to staying artistically RELEVANT (working title.) I reckon it could also be useful in my role as a mother, especially given that Lennon is an expert at making his wants clear:

A: I’ll know what to GIVE by listening closely for what is needed from me.

B: The only thing that is required of me is to respond.

C: If I do so with truth, love, and energy, I will stay RELEVANT.

Then there’s this excerpt from a letter that Martha Graham wrote to Agnes DeMille:

“There is a vitality, a life-force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate YOU.”


Good night and sweet dreams.







Photo source found here.
I first read the excerpt from Martha Graham's letter here.