Where the sidewalk ends…

This semester was a mess. A beautiful wonderful mess. Every upperclassman last year warned me that sophomore year was going to be a shit show. Did I believe them? Yes. Did I have any idea what they meant by that? Not one bit. Nevertheless, I braced myself and was ready to charge forward headfirst. What did I find? SOPHOMORE YEAR IS SO HARD. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. This year pushed me and stretched me and beat me and scratched me and poked me and every other percussive tactic there is in the world. But it didn’t kill me, I am alive, I am so alive and more ready than ever to keep living my life as an artist. Sophomore year reassured me that this life is where I belong. I am an artist, right here, right now.

So how did I come to this conclusion? A mixture of Constantin Stanislavski, a splash of Proof, a pinch of Doubt, a hint of Fast Girls, and a sprinkle of Michael Chekhov on top. Last year when we read Stan, I thought, “this guys pretty cool, he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.” I never really applied him to my process because I was so jaded in thinking that I had to focus on winning, being perfect at everything, getting a “good job” from my professors. I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t possibly think of Stan at that moment. But what I didn’t realize was that I was so overwhelmed because I wasn’t relying on the technique to guide me through. I also wasn’t taking the analysis as seriously as I should have. I thought it was an added bonus to do the analysis, not the basis upon which I would be developing a solid character. So then came my first scene, Proof. I sifted through the book, I did some counting, some givens, some “if-ing” and thought, this is good, yeah? Nope. I really love Catherine too; I think it’s a part I could play at some point, so why didn’t I dive deeper into the analysis? This paper wasn’t to impress my professors, it was for me, but I had yet to see it. I was still too focused on “playing my ending.” I wanted to have it all figured out right away, I wanted the A, I wanted to be perfect. (Side note; this was also the semester I admitted to myself that I am a control freak.) So I went through the process of Proof without any real “process” and came out in the end wanting more. Something didn’t feel complete about the scene, like I hadn’t done enough. Yeah, I received the A I fought for, but I didn’t feel satisfied.

Then came Doubt. I’ll admit, I panicked, I didn’t know where to start, so I took everyone’s advice and started with the text. From there, everything else just took off. I started counting page after page, looking up symbol after symbol, researching about Catholicism left and right, and soon I was in. The play was speaking to me and I was creating the Heather-Sister Aloysius connection. I let the play inform my life even, and I discovered so many things about not only my character, but my own life. Who knew a play could be so life changing? After creating a strong basis to build my character on, I was ready to win and get that A this time! Little did I know that wasn’t what I was looking for. After every showing I felt empty still. I was missing something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t until after all of the showings were over when I got it. Lori didn’t send out grades. I had no idea what grade I got. HOW MUST I GO ON? Foolishness, that’s what that was. It all came together in that moment, because I had to go on. Not for the grade, not for the sake of even letting down my next scene partner, but because something inside of me wanted to go on, I needed to go on in order to be satisfied. It doesn’t matter what the grade is, it doesn’t matter what my peers think, it doesn’t really even matter what my professors think, the only thing that matters is how I feel. And I wanted to FEEL it. In order to do that I had to get out of my own way, I had to surrender Dorothy…shocker, it’s not like any of us have ever gotten that note before.

This wasn’t going to be easy, though. I started digging deeper into Stan and really trying to rely on the technique to guide me through. I really focused on finding the super objective of the play, and then my character, and then breaking it down in the scene, etc. I tried to gather every given I could possibly think of. I tried to use the magic ‘if” to launch me into my imagination. I tried to rely on and affect my other. I was applying all the technique I could think of, but I still would get a note regarding some area of the technique that I missed. But above all, I was still in my own way; I was still too focused on playing my ending. In rehearsal we would go through the text and lay out each beat and it’s specific objective. Then we would take the scene beat by beat and fight for our objective, but for a while we weren’t really fighting. So then we took each beat and tried to layer in our given circumstances so that we knew what we were fighting for. But the fight wasn’t real, so then we did exercises like tugging on a jacket, or running around the room throwing things at each other to find the fight. That still wasn’t getting us there, but why not? I had never been so frustrated with a scene in my whole life. Approaching the scene I thought that it was going to be great, a “home-run” even. Yet it wasn’t there. 

At the time I didn’t know it, but I know now that I was not letting myself reach the state of “I Am.” However, in order to reach that point, I had to LET GO. I wasn’t letting go. I wasn’t letting Lucy’s given circumstances inform my life. I was fully aware of what they were, but they weren’t real to me.

Along came the day of the final showing of this scene. Everything that could have gone wrong that day went wrong leading up to the showing. I mean everything. And it was a gift. I was so mad at the universe that I wasn’t thanking the universe for its gift. I was so frustrated with everything and focused on my frustration that I finally got out of my own way. It took me a couple beats to get there, but I did it. That was the first time that I could care less about what anyone else had to say about the scene. All that mattered was that I felt great. I felt so great and happy with the art that I had just created with Anna, I couldn’t have asked for a better way to let out my frustration. That was what I was missing all year. Better late then never, I guess?

I’m still not done, and it certainly is not over. I have a long way to travel in order to fully be out of my own way. However, it is progress, and the more I head in this direction, the more I am going to get the hell out of the way. And what a better time to begin reading a new technique to keep my process refreshing and not stagnant? Talk about the text speaking to you, I did not choose this text; this text most definitely chose me.

On the Technique of Acting by Michael Chekhov is very similar to that of Stan’s technique. In fact, he refers to him often in his text. Chekhov, however, expounds upon some specific techniques that really resonate with me. His chapter on Psychological Gestures is so interesting. Maybe it’s because I myself have psychological gestures such as twirling my hair or biting my cuticles, but it really spoke to me. He states that “Every psychological state is always a combination of thoughts (or Images), Feelings, and Will-Impulses…Therefore, the psychological state in which the actor finds his character gives him the full opportunity to see it as the Action or (Gesture) with appropriate Qualities and Images. Thus, we may say that the same movement in one case is physical (Gesture) and in the other psychological (Qualities and Images)” (Chekhov 60). He’s clearly speaking in images, and I am such a visual person that this is easy for me to grasp. I also have always struggled with physically acting, and so focusing on those gestures is just another way of, literally, embodying my character.

Another concept of his that really resonates with me is one that we have been told before, but I just love the way he phrases it. Chekhov poses the question “Suppose a group of painters sat before the same landscape with their paints, and each promised himself faithfully to record the view before him. What would the result be...the artist did not paint the landscape, but their own individual concept of it, one made possible by each painter’s Creative Individuality” (16). This concept reminds me of Socrates’ idea that “he who sees with his eyes is blind.” Art comes through your soul before it enters the world, so what informs my art is going to be entirely different from what informs anyone else’s art. It’s not about the physical sight of things, but the perspective from which you are seeing something. 

Which brings this around full circle; art makes us feel something, which is why art is so important to the world. Whether we like it or not, we are overcome with some kind of emotion when we encounter anything art related, whether it be a song, a painting, a play, etc. We then welcome this emotion into our guesthouse and say thank you. I had a professor the other day put it into perspective for me. She said that the thing we were put on this earth to do is the thing we do the least, and that is to live. But I believe that art desperately tries to remind us to live. It’s welcoming us to run into these emotions that we feel, and deal with them, and work through the shit, and embrace the love, and everything else that may come with being alive. Life is such a beautiful gift, so why am I holding myself back from letting go and getting out of my own way? Because I’m forgetting to let life take me where I’m supposed to go. Now that I am reflecting on my growth, I am continually brought back to one of my favorite poems by Shell Silverstein:

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Letting go promises such a beautiful reward, but I’ve been scared this whole time. Yet, inside of me, my soul is screaming out for me to surrender. And this is the voice of reassurance that I am an artist, and that I was put on this earth to perform. While it may be a lot of work and emotional energy, it is so worth it. Doing the work has become therapeutic. Even writing this paper is therapeutic. So I surrender! I surrender to failing 100 times, because I know the 101^st time, I’m going to get it.