Two weeks ago, I was nailing a petit allegro in class, relishing how strong and healthy my body feels -- I just ran a marathon! I just choreographed and performed in a dance film! -- when I landed on my left foot, felt a twist, heard a snap, and felt that sick-to-your-stomach-adrenaline-this-is-not-nothing feeling rush over me.
When the doctor brought in my x-ray results, I wanted to laugh. (What I really did was burst into tears and start apologizing for being so dramatic.... typical.)
So here I am, sitting in a coffee shop in Brooklyn, broken foot in a cast propped up in front of me. Spending the majority of 2014 and 2015 injured is not really what I expected in my late 20's... I've been fortunate; in my first twenty-two years of dancing, I was injured twice. Now I've doubled my number.
There has been much written about dancers and athletes and what injuries mean to us and, more specifically, to the ways we identify ourselves, and I won't add anything profound to that conversation. In fact, I've never solely identified myself as "DANCER," not because I didn't want to, but because somehow I always felt I had to compensate for my perceived lack of talent by being proficient at other things. (There are a million psychological strands in that we could explore, but let's just take it at face value for now.) Additionally, at this point in my career, I'm much more interested in the creative process than in churning out pirouettes - thank goodness. So in a way I've spared myself some the fraught emotional response to a loss of personal identity.
But for as long as I can remember, I've felt strong, physically capable, independent, and I've allowed that to be a surprisingly large part of my identity. I've grown into a don't-mess-with-me kind of lady. I'm embarrassed to share how this applies in my everyday life. It shows up physically-- I silently feel superior when my coworkers are surprised I carried a clothing rack by myself, I love the look of surprised neighbors when I carry my bike up to our third-floor walkup, I always walk briskly on escalators when I'm by myself, etc. It shows up in my work -- you can count on me for a deadline, even if it's not great for me or anyone else. It shows up in my personal life -- last Christmas I was so determined to be home with my family that we rented a car and drove 5 hours through a blizzard after our flight was delayed, and arrived at 4am on Christmas morning (and I got the esophagus ulcer to prove it).
The obvious lesson in there is to slow down. There have been wonderful pieces written about that, too, about the Western cultural drive to work-work-work, about the folly of going hard in your youth. I don't need to add to that conversation either. Injuries teach us to be patient, to slow down, to step back. We know this.
The thing is, I really thought I learned that last year. Like, really took it in. I took my time. I was patient with physical therapy. I was careful to mix up my impact days when I was marathon training. (I was marathon training, though, and I'm ruefully self-aware about how that sounds.) I've been taking a hard look at what there is for me, this time around.
Here's what I notice, from this chair, in this coffee shop. A part of my life, a big part of it, is missing right now. I can't dance, I can't run around in the park, I can't climb stairs two at a time. I know that's temporary. And in the meantime, I can be creative. I can contribute in a big way to my job with my intellectual work. I can cook new recipes. I can take silly instagram pictures of New York. I can connect with my friends, my family, people on the street. There's art to see, there's this wonderful guy I get to hang out with, there's music to listen to, there's writing to do, there are new places to see, there are books to read, and I'm getting pretty good at fishtail hair braids. There are all these other bits of my identity that seem to swell up for me to take the space of the movement I crave.
An inspiring and wonderful friend of mine tattooed this quote on her body: "Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit." (Bernard Shaw) Our spirit expands, bounces back, stretches.
What I notice is that my life is not "less full" right now. Our lives are constantly overflowing with possibility and fullness. When one part is suddenly gone, we notice it, of course, and we miss it, but we can sweetly set it aside, and if we look closer at our lives... we find that they are still more than full. They are still overflowing with juicy poignant bittersweet joy, if we look for it. I've discovered that my work is to see myself and others not as full of "ors," strong or weak, healthy or injured, creative or intellectual, active or sedentary, smart or beautiful or funny, but rather made up of "ands" -- dancer and choreographer and wife and engineer and daughter and amateur chef and friend and and and and and... Each piece is whole in itself, and an individual is made up of a million wholes that we each choose for ourselves now, and now, and now, and now.
Showing posts with label new york city choreographer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new york city choreographer. Show all posts
July 15, 2015
March 24, 2015
embracing the unknown & come see us dance!
here's the thing. everyone likes to think of the dance world as a series of auditions, directors falling in love with the girl in blue, and getting the job. and yes, there's plenty of that. but 99% of the work i've done -- both as a dancer and as a choreographer -- has been through friends and colleagues. i most often create work on people i've danced with before.
so when the opportunity presented itself to choreograph for The Tank's xyz nyc, i had some butterflies. the whole schtick is that you create a piece from nothing, in one week. i didn't even get to meet my dancers until last thursday.
there's also both a theme and a challenge. the piece's theme is to be "an oasis in the desert." and the challenge is to include "imperfect repetition," or phrases that the audience recognizes, but something has changed.
interesting, right?
first of all, i love this stuff. i love being given a prompt, and i love a structural challenge. it feels a little like school, but i'm down. i think creativity within unusual constraints allows artists to make choices they might not otherwise make. i knew i could create something in a week. i just wasn't sure whether i'd want to tell anyone about it.
but here i am!
i have two wonderful dancer-collaborators who were willing to dive into this with me -- letting me email rehearsal locations mere hours before rehearsal, improvising with me after barely learning each others' names, and taking my movement onto their bodies with grace and openness. what a gift! and how interesting, for me, to see how articulate i am when i show and explain my movement... these dancers have literally zero context around me and my movement, and i have to make it clear, fast. concision and clarity are of the essence!
also, let's talk for a minute about last-minute rehearsal space in new york city. it gets sketch. but there's something about meeting with artists you barely know in weird little spaces you've never been in that feels very... new york. and the unknown is magic, don't you think?
because i always love feedback, i crowdsourced some thematic inspiration. i asked the question "what do you wish you could get a break from?" on my facebook page, and let the masses (of my friends, heh) do what they will. every response made it into the piece in some way.
if you want to know how, you'll have to come!
thursday, march 26th 2015, 8pm
the tank
151 w 46th street, 8th floor
$10
...and you can even vote for me. i could win!
so when the opportunity presented itself to choreograph for The Tank's xyz nyc, i had some butterflies. the whole schtick is that you create a piece from nothing, in one week. i didn't even get to meet my dancers until last thursday.
there's also both a theme and a challenge. the piece's theme is to be "an oasis in the desert." and the challenge is to include "imperfect repetition," or phrases that the audience recognizes, but something has changed.
interesting, right?
first of all, i love this stuff. i love being given a prompt, and i love a structural challenge. it feels a little like school, but i'm down. i think creativity within unusual constraints allows artists to make choices they might not otherwise make. i knew i could create something in a week. i just wasn't sure whether i'd want to tell anyone about it.
but here i am!
i have two wonderful dancer-collaborators who were willing to dive into this with me -- letting me email rehearsal locations mere hours before rehearsal, improvising with me after barely learning each others' names, and taking my movement onto their bodies with grace and openness. what a gift! and how interesting, for me, to see how articulate i am when i show and explain my movement... these dancers have literally zero context around me and my movement, and i have to make it clear, fast. concision and clarity are of the essence!
also, let's talk for a minute about last-minute rehearsal space in new york city. it gets sketch. but there's something about meeting with artists you barely know in weird little spaces you've never been in that feels very... new york. and the unknown is magic, don't you think?
because i always love feedback, i crowdsourced some thematic inspiration. i asked the question "what do you wish you could get a break from?" on my facebook page, and let the masses (of my friends, heh) do what they will. every response made it into the piece in some way.
if you want to know how, you'll have to come!thursday, march 26th 2015, 8pm
the tank
151 w 46th street, 8th floor
$10
...and you can even vote for me. i could win!
April 24, 2014
show up and be honest
i stumbled across this article today and totally identified with it. as a side note, i loved it before i realized it was written by one of my favorite dance articulators, lauren warnecke (follow her @artintercepts on twitter, really valuable). and like i usually do, i got thinking, and thinking got me writing, and here i am.
she's talking about the grey, wavery line professionals in the dance world walk every day.... dancemaker? dancer? dance critic? dance teacher? theatre choreographer? social media manager? grant writer? mentor? mentee? producer? director? i find myself in any (usually many) of these roles on a given day; we all do. she also discusses what she likes to see, as a dance critic, and asks what dance artists are looking for from their critics.
ah, the many roles of "dancemakers." i am fortunate enough to live in new york city, a place basically teeming with performers and artists. i know teachers at basically all the major studios in the city; i walk into any given class at city center or at mark morris and see friends and acquaintances. i run into people i know in rehearsal at 100 grand dance and gibney dance center. freelance dancer life, you know how it is. but nearly all those people, all the wonderful artists i consider friends, are hustling their way through various jobs, and roles, and tasks. and for most of us, those roles are part-time or full-time jobs on top of the other part-time or full-time jobs we take to make us money. i don't need a degree in process efficiency to know that this is not optimal. this is just plain not working. is it any wonder we, as a field, aren't great at marketing? at showing our communities that art is worth paying actual dollars to see? at taking care of our performers and our critics and our administrators? at preserving our culture and our history? it's actually ridiculous!
we are smart people. we are artists with a plethora of strengths and talents. i propose a new model for the dance world; one that supports diversity and allows individuals to specialize without jeopardizing their status as an "artist." i'm envisioning a dance world in which the marketing is slicker than the ads for silicon valley. i'm envisioning a world where venues small and large are sold out all over the country; where the "cool" date night is seeing a performance of an emerging dance company (and you don't have to know someone in the company to know about it). a world in which performers make enough money to take care of themselves. a world in which dancemakers feel they have the space to be generous and supportive of one another with time, talent, money.
we are responsible for this. this community is filled with beautiful, brilliant, hardworking individuals. i propose we work smarter.
how do we create in a way that fulfills ourselves and that fulfills our audiences? not everyone is going to love watching dance, of course, but i see so much opportunity to make our art a bigger cultural phenomenon -- without watering it down. i believe audiences want to be challenged. they want to be trusted. they want to learn, be touched, form their own opinions, take big bites of juicy delicious work. how do we support each other? how do we change the way WE think so we create the dance community we want?
i'm not really sure, but i'm all in for working on it.
and in response to the question about what i'm looking for in a dance critic... just what i want from any dance professional: show up and be honest! feedback is crucial to what we do and how we connect. the more i can learn about what other people -- friends, colleagues, random folks -- see in my work, the more specific and sensitive an artist i can be. the clearer a communicator i can be. the easier it is to see where my work can make a difference. the more intentional i can be about my contribution to the community surrounding the art form i adore!
i guess basically my thesis is this: let's get accountable, show up, work smarter, and actually collaborate on creating the community we want.
in the meantime, i'm gonna go post this on facebook and twitter and then work on this grant application i'm in the middle of...
she's talking about the grey, wavery line professionals in the dance world walk every day.... dancemaker? dancer? dance critic? dance teacher? theatre choreographer? social media manager? grant writer? mentor? mentee? producer? director? i find myself in any (usually many) of these roles on a given day; we all do. she also discusses what she likes to see, as a dance critic, and asks what dance artists are looking for from their critics.
ah, the many roles of "dancemakers." i am fortunate enough to live in new york city, a place basically teeming with performers and artists. i know teachers at basically all the major studios in the city; i walk into any given class at city center or at mark morris and see friends and acquaintances. i run into people i know in rehearsal at 100 grand dance and gibney dance center. freelance dancer life, you know how it is. but nearly all those people, all the wonderful artists i consider friends, are hustling their way through various jobs, and roles, and tasks. and for most of us, those roles are part-time or full-time jobs on top of the other part-time or full-time jobs we take to make us money. i don't need a degree in process efficiency to know that this is not optimal. this is just plain not working. is it any wonder we, as a field, aren't great at marketing? at showing our communities that art is worth paying actual dollars to see? at taking care of our performers and our critics and our administrators? at preserving our culture and our history? it's actually ridiculous!
we are smart people. we are artists with a plethora of strengths and talents. i propose a new model for the dance world; one that supports diversity and allows individuals to specialize without jeopardizing their status as an "artist." i'm envisioning a dance world in which the marketing is slicker than the ads for silicon valley. i'm envisioning a world where venues small and large are sold out all over the country; where the "cool" date night is seeing a performance of an emerging dance company (and you don't have to know someone in the company to know about it). a world in which performers make enough money to take care of themselves. a world in which dancemakers feel they have the space to be generous and supportive of one another with time, talent, money.
we are responsible for this. this community is filled with beautiful, brilliant, hardworking individuals. i propose we work smarter.
how do we create in a way that fulfills ourselves and that fulfills our audiences? not everyone is going to love watching dance, of course, but i see so much opportunity to make our art a bigger cultural phenomenon -- without watering it down. i believe audiences want to be challenged. they want to be trusted. they want to learn, be touched, form their own opinions, take big bites of juicy delicious work. how do we support each other? how do we change the way WE think so we create the dance community we want?
i'm not really sure, but i'm all in for working on it.
and in response to the question about what i'm looking for in a dance critic... just what i want from any dance professional: show up and be honest! feedback is crucial to what we do and how we connect. the more i can learn about what other people -- friends, colleagues, random folks -- see in my work, the more specific and sensitive an artist i can be. the clearer a communicator i can be. the easier it is to see where my work can make a difference. the more intentional i can be about my contribution to the community surrounding the art form i adore!
i guess basically my thesis is this: let's get accountable, show up, work smarter, and actually collaborate on creating the community we want.
in the meantime, i'm gonna go post this on facebook and twitter and then work on this grant application i'm in the middle of...
October 26, 2013
intrepid abberation: a collection of thoughts on dance & film
it's been a little over a month since i finished intrepid aberration, a short film i have written about here before.
now the film has been out there on good ol' youtube for the world to see (below), and after just now watching it again, i have some stream-of-consciousness thoughts and associations to share.
1. "improvisation" vs. "choreography"
what ended up in the film is probably 70% improvisation, 25% improv-based material from the rehearsal process, and 5% material that i "choreographed" in the sense that i went in a room, made it up, and then taught it to kim and britt.
i nearly always work in an improv-based way; it's a great way for me to get a pulse check with my dancers on whether material is resonating with them. it's also a great way to steal inspiring authentic things from my dancers (my secret's out, i'm a thief). i think i used my improvisational tools similarly for this project as i have in the recent past.
in live performance, though, i would say it's more like 60% "choreography," 35% improv-based choreography from rehearsal, and 5% live improv. why? ... probably because i can control it. with live performance, i love happy accidents, but i usually have something specific to get across, and in order to communicate clearly i choose to shape the events the audience sees with a steadier hand. on film, and through the editing process, we could just let it all happen, and i could choose the moments that i loved - the moments that otherwise i might see in rehearsal but would never quite be recreated on stage, or the moments that half the audience would never see in performance because they were looking at someone else, or the moments that are otherwise overshadowed with what comes immediately after them... etc. i could curate.
it allows me to immortalize choices i only made once out of the sixty times i picked up some sand, like tossing it (at 13:50). it allows the viewer to be surprised when kim kicks up a little sand (at 14:37) instead of allowing an audience to watch the movement of her feet that inevitably led to it.
a thought.... is it really improvisational once it no longer lives in space and time? since i'm editing it?
really, it's about ME as an artist being in control, which was the point of the whole project.
2. collaboration/ownership
with this higher proportion of "chance" that made it into the final cut (so much of the improv was so much more interesting than the macro proscenium shots of the "choreography"), i started to wonder more about the ownership of the creative material. a shot of all of us included direction from me, movement from each dancer, a cinematic eye from eric, and an edited beginning and end from me and eric together. so who "owns" that? is it really "my" art? i credited each person as a collaborator. it feels more accurate to call it a "jaema joy dance film" (translation: this wouldn't have gotten created if i hadn't decided to do it) than a film with "choreography by jaema" (translation: i made this up), because it was my "choreography" sometimes, but it often wasn't, in the closed definition of choreography i mentioned before, at least.
now i'm comparing this to live performance. if i credit eric with creating a beautiful shot for the movement (choosing to let a dancer slip out of the frame, ie at 5:50), which feels like some "ownership of the art" of that moment, do i also credit an audience member when she allows a dancer on stage to slip away from her focus while she watches another? it creates a different experience than her friend's, who continued to watch the first dancer. it could be a whole different piece. do they have some ownership in the art, then, too?
or maybe not, because they are taking responsibility for their own view, not affecting the piece of art for others, as eric's lens was?
anyway. i'm sticking to "ownership" of this as shared with my fellow creators, and the fact that it's out there at all means the world has a little bit more of my point of view in it.
3. why do we choose to move/act/stay
as friends and family have watched the film, and for me as i rewatch it, i notice viewers struck with the question "why did she decide to do that?" why did kim decide not to go through that door? why didn't britt just walk away after i ran into her? why did we get on that train? why did we all go to the beach and play in the sand?
this is really satisfying, because part of what i was exploring is what it takes to NOT do what you always do, and choose to do something different instead. you go dance on the sidewalk by the high line instead of continuing on with a busy day and a full bag. you decide to get on a train instead of letting it pass by. you choose to create something instead of just going to work and going home. et cetera.
4. a time capsule
in a different way than just a video-taped performance, the film allows me, as an artist, to remember very viscerally what some of that movement felt like. what it felt like to start sweating on the beach and have sand stuck to my whole back (i can see it). to remember what the scrape of my sneaker felt like on the pavement (i can hear it). it allows me to travel back to the moments of creation, which are the feel-in-your-gut moments of rehearsal and performance that artists are constantly chasing. the memory of the art doesn't lose-- or gain-- as much when it's always there to be re-experienced.
5. what's the point of this being out there?
another part of what i was exploring with the film medium is something that was "dance" that still exists after the fact. it's not just over, like all live performance is. it was created to be recorded; it doesn't exist without the recording, and it was created to be out there any time someone feels like looking at it.
but let's say no one ever watches it. is the world different? i think so. i think it's somehow different because a bit of me, and a bit of kim and britt and eric, has been expressed in a new way. i think that changes something. of course, there's also the potential for a change in someone's moment, or day, or how they look at a certain subway platform, when they watch. and i think the existence of that "potential energy" changes something.
isn't the world just better when folks are creating rather than coasting?
now the film has been out there on good ol' youtube for the world to see (below), and after just now watching it again, i have some stream-of-consciousness thoughts and associations to share.
1. "improvisation" vs. "choreography"
what ended up in the film is probably 70% improvisation, 25% improv-based material from the rehearsal process, and 5% material that i "choreographed" in the sense that i went in a room, made it up, and then taught it to kim and britt.
i nearly always work in an improv-based way; it's a great way for me to get a pulse check with my dancers on whether material is resonating with them. it's also a great way to steal inspiring authentic things from my dancers (my secret's out, i'm a thief). i think i used my improvisational tools similarly for this project as i have in the recent past.
in live performance, though, i would say it's more like 60% "choreography," 35% improv-based choreography from rehearsal, and 5% live improv. why? ... probably because i can control it. with live performance, i love happy accidents, but i usually have something specific to get across, and in order to communicate clearly i choose to shape the events the audience sees with a steadier hand. on film, and through the editing process, we could just let it all happen, and i could choose the moments that i loved - the moments that otherwise i might see in rehearsal but would never quite be recreated on stage, or the moments that half the audience would never see in performance because they were looking at someone else, or the moments that are otherwise overshadowed with what comes immediately after them... etc. i could curate.
it allows me to immortalize choices i only made once out of the sixty times i picked up some sand, like tossing it (at 13:50). it allows the viewer to be surprised when kim kicks up a little sand (at 14:37) instead of allowing an audience to watch the movement of her feet that inevitably led to it.
a thought.... is it really improvisational once it no longer lives in space and time? since i'm editing it?
really, it's about ME as an artist being in control, which was the point of the whole project.
2. collaboration/ownership
with this higher proportion of "chance" that made it into the final cut (so much of the improv was so much more interesting than the macro proscenium shots of the "choreography"), i started to wonder more about the ownership of the creative material. a shot of all of us included direction from me, movement from each dancer, a cinematic eye from eric, and an edited beginning and end from me and eric together. so who "owns" that? is it really "my" art? i credited each person as a collaborator. it feels more accurate to call it a "jaema joy dance film" (translation: this wouldn't have gotten created if i hadn't decided to do it) than a film with "choreography by jaema" (translation: i made this up), because it was my "choreography" sometimes, but it often wasn't, in the closed definition of choreography i mentioned before, at least.
now i'm comparing this to live performance. if i credit eric with creating a beautiful shot for the movement (choosing to let a dancer slip out of the frame, ie at 5:50), which feels like some "ownership of the art" of that moment, do i also credit an audience member when she allows a dancer on stage to slip away from her focus while she watches another? it creates a different experience than her friend's, who continued to watch the first dancer. it could be a whole different piece. do they have some ownership in the art, then, too?
or maybe not, because they are taking responsibility for their own view, not affecting the piece of art for others, as eric's lens was?
anyway. i'm sticking to "ownership" of this as shared with my fellow creators, and the fact that it's out there at all means the world has a little bit more of my point of view in it.
3. why do we choose to move/act/stay
as friends and family have watched the film, and for me as i rewatch it, i notice viewers struck with the question "why did she decide to do that?" why did kim decide not to go through that door? why didn't britt just walk away after i ran into her? why did we get on that train? why did we all go to the beach and play in the sand?
this is really satisfying, because part of what i was exploring is what it takes to NOT do what you always do, and choose to do something different instead. you go dance on the sidewalk by the high line instead of continuing on with a busy day and a full bag. you decide to get on a train instead of letting it pass by. you choose to create something instead of just going to work and going home. et cetera.
4. a time capsule
in a different way than just a video-taped performance, the film allows me, as an artist, to remember very viscerally what some of that movement felt like. what it felt like to start sweating on the beach and have sand stuck to my whole back (i can see it). to remember what the scrape of my sneaker felt like on the pavement (i can hear it). it allows me to travel back to the moments of creation, which are the feel-in-your-gut moments of rehearsal and performance that artists are constantly chasing. the memory of the art doesn't lose-- or gain-- as much when it's always there to be re-experienced.
5. what's the point of this being out there?
another part of what i was exploring with the film medium is something that was "dance" that still exists after the fact. it's not just over, like all live performance is. it was created to be recorded; it doesn't exist without the recording, and it was created to be out there any time someone feels like looking at it.
but let's say no one ever watches it. is the world different? i think so. i think it's somehow different because a bit of me, and a bit of kim and britt and eric, has been expressed in a new way. i think that changes something. of course, there's also the potential for a change in someone's moment, or day, or how they look at a certain subway platform, when they watch. and i think the existence of that "potential energy" changes something.
isn't the world just better when folks are creating rather than coasting?
August 28, 2013
getting uncomfortably uncomfortable
i'm working on this project. it's one of those pieces of art that's about art. i never thought i'd make one of those. but here i am. the thesis question is "what holds you back from making the kind of art you want to make?"
now, the more appropriate question might be "what doesn't hold you back," but i digress. despite the news about struggling dance institutions, lack of public funding for dance, lack of time, lack of space, 99.9999% of what holds us back is us. we all know that. and that's what i'm interested in.
so i've boldly set out creating a dance film (a medium i've never worked in before) to explore a creative-process narrative (subject matter i've never danced about before) with a sports-media-video-journalist (who i've never worked with before and has never filmed dance before) incorporating more improvisation and less rehearsal than i've ever worked with before. all in the name of NEW ART. and PUSHING MYSELF.
and you know what? i hate it.
in rehearsal today i felt confused, frustrated, unclear as a director, uncertain if i should be doing this project at all, unsure i can pull it off/do it justice, embarrassed, sorry for my dancers, and sluggish. for the whole two hours.
i like to play the part of a high-minded artist. it turns out, i feel a lot better when i'm engineering-school-prepared. but i mean, that's not really a surprise. and when i decided to try this very un-jaema creative process, throwing myself into things i don't know, i knew it was going to be uncomfortable. that was the point! and still, STILL, when discomfort creeps up during the artmaking, i freak out. i knew this was coming, and somehow i expected the awareness to be enough to fight off the anxiety and allow me to create freely. it doesn't work.
so here i am, slouched on my couch on a wednesday night, stressing about rehearsal in the morning and two filming sessions next week. i see three options.
1. i cancel everything.
2. i get out a notebook and do what i've always done for every piece i create... write out everything that happens. stage directions. choreography notes. music cues. i go to rehearsal comfortable, prepared, and confident.
3. i show up to rehearsal tomorrow with an open mind, plow through the blegh in my mind, film a bunch of stuff next week, and hope for the best.
okay, so, we throw out number one, because it's totally lame. now number two... is very tempting. i know how that works. i'm pretty good at that one. but how do i create something completely different and completely new and completely uncontrolled if i do what i've always done? alrighty, so number three. that's a scary option, because it didn't work today at all. and how smart is it to walk into rehearsal tomorrow with the same kind of preparation (lots of thought, not a lot of specifics) that i had today, knowing how it turned out?
i suppose my bigger question is: how useful is the discomfort i feel? is the battle about letting go of control (which i consider positive for this project)? or is it discomfort of ill-preparedness and therefore mediocrity? am i so trapped in these questions that i'm not even creative anymore? is this really even my project? is it really even dance?
who knows. i'm not sure. for now, i commit to you, internet, to lean into the confusion and see how it goes. fortunately, the only thing i am certain of happens to be my definition of an artist - i refuse option number one. over and over again, i refuse it.
now, the more appropriate question might be "what doesn't hold you back," but i digress. despite the news about struggling dance institutions, lack of public funding for dance, lack of time, lack of space, 99.9999% of what holds us back is us. we all know that. and that's what i'm interested in.
so i've boldly set out creating a dance film (a medium i've never worked in before) to explore a creative-process narrative (subject matter i've never danced about before) with a sports-media-video-journalist (who i've never worked with before and has never filmed dance before) incorporating more improvisation and less rehearsal than i've ever worked with before. all in the name of NEW ART. and PUSHING MYSELF.
and you know what? i hate it.
in rehearsal today i felt confused, frustrated, unclear as a director, uncertain if i should be doing this project at all, unsure i can pull it off/do it justice, embarrassed, sorry for my dancers, and sluggish. for the whole two hours.
 |
| pretty sure i can see the discomfort in my eyes even here. it was that kind of a day. |
i like to play the part of a high-minded artist. it turns out, i feel a lot better when i'm engineering-school-prepared. but i mean, that's not really a surprise. and when i decided to try this very un-jaema creative process, throwing myself into things i don't know, i knew it was going to be uncomfortable. that was the point! and still, STILL, when discomfort creeps up during the artmaking, i freak out. i knew this was coming, and somehow i expected the awareness to be enough to fight off the anxiety and allow me to create freely. it doesn't work.
so here i am, slouched on my couch on a wednesday night, stressing about rehearsal in the morning and two filming sessions next week. i see three options.
1. i cancel everything.
2. i get out a notebook and do what i've always done for every piece i create... write out everything that happens. stage directions. choreography notes. music cues. i go to rehearsal comfortable, prepared, and confident.
3. i show up to rehearsal tomorrow with an open mind, plow through the blegh in my mind, film a bunch of stuff next week, and hope for the best.
okay, so, we throw out number one, because it's totally lame. now number two... is very tempting. i know how that works. i'm pretty good at that one. but how do i create something completely different and completely new and completely uncontrolled if i do what i've always done? alrighty, so number three. that's a scary option, because it didn't work today at all. and how smart is it to walk into rehearsal tomorrow with the same kind of preparation (lots of thought, not a lot of specifics) that i had today, knowing how it turned out?
i suppose my bigger question is: how useful is the discomfort i feel? is the battle about letting go of control (which i consider positive for this project)? or is it discomfort of ill-preparedness and therefore mediocrity? am i so trapped in these questions that i'm not even creative anymore? is this really even my project? is it really even dance?
who knows. i'm not sure. for now, i commit to you, internet, to lean into the confusion and see how it goes. fortunately, the only thing i am certain of happens to be my definition of an artist - i refuse option number one. over and over again, i refuse it.
July 19, 2013
eight hours of creative time
isn't it interesting how what you put out in the universe comes back to you? after i finished TWWDTT last year, i found myself yearning for collaborative art. i also got so curious about the impermanence of my art form. live performance is there, in time, and then it's gone. this is why we love it, of course. but it also creates a bit of sadness for me -- we work so hard for so long on a project, and in four hours spread over two days, it's over.
so fast-forward to about six weeks ago: a friend called me up and said "i was given a certificate for eight consecutive hours of rehearsal space in manhattan. do you want it?"
um, yes i do.
i decided to take this as a sign. the vague project idea (a dance film?!) in my head suddenly had a start date: july 13th, 2013.
more on the project itself later. for now, stop and think about what EIGHT CONSECUTIVE HOURS in a dance studio means. that's an incredible opportunity. it's like going to the office for the day. some of my dancers were out of town, so i had short rehearsals and ended up with a lot of time for myself. alone. in a big studio. staring myself down in the mirror.
in the spirit of embracing things i fear, i'm sharing the experience with you. i took notes, and i took almost an hour and a half of video footage. (which i conveniently edited down to a bite-size five minutes, don't worry.) i have to admit, i'm a little wary of the "artist showing the process" thing, because it can take away the mystery of the creative process and let an audience in before you want their input. but i trust you. and bear with me. this is not a finished product - this is an experiment to develop something new, and an exercise in sharing the thought processes that are the less-charming part of the artistic brain. here's what the day was like:
eight hours to create.
9:30am - I am on the C train. i want to go back to bed. "Resistance" is going for the kill. My body doesn't feel like moving. There seems to be an inordinate amount of that kind of resistance with this project. It's always hard to know the difference between the kind of resistance that is helpful, guiding me steven pressfield - style towards the projects my soul needs... And the kind of resistance that means you're not supposed to be doing this, you're in over your head. Maybe thinking the latter type exists at all is a construct of the former type.
I'm scared that this venue will kick me out because they'll see I'm a fraud, not deserving of nice rehearsal space.
I'm scared that no one will give me any trouble but that I won't get anything productive done. Or anything innovative. Or anything worth showing to anyone.
As of yesterday, all the ideas and music concepts and shots I wanted to put into this project seem suddenly flat and boring - and/or too logistically challenging. But I didn't think that last week.
And there's no deadline. So I can take all the time I want! I wrote August as an initial deadline. But really for me the final cutoff is before I leave for the wedding. So let's say: this film is created, edited, and posted by September 15th 2013.
9:45am - thinking through the phrases I want to create today (at the very least, a draft of them) - a gesture phrase for the recognition that your facade has broken. It's like when you run into someone on the street who you didn't expect to see in that context. Does that make everyone else uncomfortable like it does me?
Sometimes in dance classes, when I surprise myself with what I can do... in a physical way that happens in dance, in yoga, during a workout, on a run. Sometimes it's the intangible feeling of energy during a thunderstorm, or after a really great conversation, or when I find myself doing or thinking something I wouldn't have dreamed possible 2, or 5, or 10 years ago.... That's the feeling of the second phrase. It should be gooey.
Logistics for today as well:
-one more rehearsal or two to learn the second phrase
-practice camera shots/plan out camera shots for whole film
10:02am- I'm in! Intimidating entrance. It's right on 43rd street and there was this slim French girl smoking a cigarette outside. I followed her in and on to the elevator with like seventeen other people. We get out on the 8th floor, and everyone strides confidently past the reception desk while I'm all like high-pitched "hi there... i think i have a rehearsal booked????" The girl at reception took pity on me and was super nice.
I'm glad there's lots of furniture to move. Gives me a way to get started. I'm also glad it's just me for the first hour.
10:36am- there's no way to play music in here. Interesting.
10:54am- I wish I had some chocolate
12:22pm- First dancer just left. Felt so great to move! And to try to articulate what I'm going for here. With varied success. She talked about control vs release. I think this piece is more about control (and lack of it) than I originally realized.
12:36pm- I want to do this every day.
12:55pm- watched the video while I scarfed a little lunch. There's some good stuff in there, so today isn't a total bust.
I better do a second warmup so my body doesn't fall apart. What up, central air.
1:21pm- warm. And now nervous again. Now what?!?
1:42pm- I have about 5 seconds of choreography that I like. I'm feeling scared. What if I get super bored?! I still want chocolate. I settled for water from their filter... it's not as satisfying.
2:09pm- it's better when I'm warmer. Layered back up. Didn't Twyla Tharp say that too?
2:39pm- almost 45 minutes of dance footage recorded. I'm taking that chocolate break.
and that was it until 6pm! no more notes, just video. and as it turns out, after watching an hour of myself dancing (where most of the time i was like "wait, i don't remember doing that!!"), phrasework did appear. here's some of the video.
May 15, 2013
my own open letter to the dance community
i finally clicked through and read sydney skybetter's letter to the dance community that's been dominating my facebook newsfeed since it was published on monday. in other news, isn't it interesting that i thought i was impossibly behind, reading an op-ed two days after it was posted?
anyway. i got to the bottom of that blurb and i kinda kept scrolling, expecting there to be more to it. (where's that advice? where's the new information?) there wasn't any more, and my initial reaction is basically "well, duh..." i appreciate that we're talking about this, but this is not really news, and there have always been routes for artists to take that are different than the path described in (beloved, flawed) dance movies.
i'm not performing in a full-time company. i've never received funding for my work from outside organizations. the NEA would clearly never look at what i'm up to. i've never performed at lincoln center. or in a basketball arena. i've never been in a viral music video. i've never been reviewed by a new york newspaper. the vast majority of my dance pals haven't, either.
what i have been doing? performing work that is engaging, fun, and very different one show to the next. performing regularly, professionally, in new york city. creating my own dances, developing my own choreographic voice. training in "old-school" modern dance traditions and with contemporary dance artists of several generations that i cherish the opportunity to learn from. this is what being an artist is about. you tell stories. you learn. and most importantly, you create.
furthermore, believe it or not, people are actually interested. people are wonderful and smart, and in general, understand the art of movement much more than we dancers generally give them credit for. i have received such valuable feedback from people in my life who are acquaintances or friends of mine who don't really know much about dance... but they come to my shows. they talk with me about my work. the fund my kickstarter campaign. they think about what they see and feel. and isn't THAT what it's about? creating work that speaks to you and speaks to others?
my life as a dance artist in new york is not really glamorous, hasn't brought me fame, and i get my health insurance from a separate job. but i'm still a dance artist in new york city - which, i will say, is more than this girl ever thought possible growing up in northern michigan. i refuse to consider that anything but success.
when young dancers - from my studio growing up, from my college dance program - ask me for advice, first i chuckle, because i'm not sure they really want my advice, but then i tell them the best thing i can tell anyone: just decide to do it. you'll figure the rest out.
the point is - none of this is new. the structure of the dance world has changed, no doubt, but the changes we're discussing today are rooted more than twenty years ago, around the time most of today's young artists were born. we know that we aren't stepping into the dance world that was around for the previous generation, or the generation before that. each generation has had its own journey and its own artistic climate. we can define success as any number of things. maybe we aren't showcasing work for hundreds of art patrons at the joyce -- maybe we're touching ninety people at a little old speakeasy theatre in the east village. it's all changing. it always has been. and we know it. and we will figure it out anyway, because we're here to create.
at the end of the day, we dance because we are artists. and the essence of any artist is just having the tenacity to do it. and continue to do it. start it. do it. figure it out.
anyway. i got to the bottom of that blurb and i kinda kept scrolling, expecting there to be more to it. (where's that advice? where's the new information?) there wasn't any more, and my initial reaction is basically "well, duh..." i appreciate that we're talking about this, but this is not really news, and there have always been routes for artists to take that are different than the path described in (beloved, flawed) dance movies.
i'm not performing in a full-time company. i've never received funding for my work from outside organizations. the NEA would clearly never look at what i'm up to. i've never performed at lincoln center. or in a basketball arena. i've never been in a viral music video. i've never been reviewed by a new york newspaper. the vast majority of my dance pals haven't, either.
what i have been doing? performing work that is engaging, fun, and very different one show to the next. performing regularly, professionally, in new york city. creating my own dances, developing my own choreographic voice. training in "old-school" modern dance traditions and with contemporary dance artists of several generations that i cherish the opportunity to learn from. this is what being an artist is about. you tell stories. you learn. and most importantly, you create.
furthermore, believe it or not, people are actually interested. people are wonderful and smart, and in general, understand the art of movement much more than we dancers generally give them credit for. i have received such valuable feedback from people in my life who are acquaintances or friends of mine who don't really know much about dance... but they come to my shows. they talk with me about my work. the fund my kickstarter campaign. they think about what they see and feel. and isn't THAT what it's about? creating work that speaks to you and speaks to others?
my life as a dance artist in new york is not really glamorous, hasn't brought me fame, and i get my health insurance from a separate job. but i'm still a dance artist in new york city - which, i will say, is more than this girl ever thought possible growing up in northern michigan. i refuse to consider that anything but success.
when young dancers - from my studio growing up, from my college dance program - ask me for advice, first i chuckle, because i'm not sure they really want my advice, but then i tell them the best thing i can tell anyone: just decide to do it. you'll figure the rest out.
the point is - none of this is new. the structure of the dance world has changed, no doubt, but the changes we're discussing today are rooted more than twenty years ago, around the time most of today's young artists were born. we know that we aren't stepping into the dance world that was around for the previous generation, or the generation before that. each generation has had its own journey and its own artistic climate. we can define success as any number of things. maybe we aren't showcasing work for hundreds of art patrons at the joyce -- maybe we're touching ninety people at a little old speakeasy theatre in the east village. it's all changing. it always has been. and we know it. and we will figure it out anyway, because we're here to create.
at the end of the day, we dance because we are artists. and the essence of any artist is just having the tenacity to do it. and continue to do it. start it. do it. figure it out.
April 23, 2013
thoughts on theatre choreography: flashy visuals? part of the story?
The other night, my composer/music director fiance and I saw an article and video featuring the new opening number of the Broadway revival of the musical PIPPIN. Part of the article's stance is that the success of the show will depend on the success of "the fusing of signature Fosse touches with acrobatics, contortionists and trapeze acts imported from the circus" in an attempt to recapture what was so special about the show in the first place.
If you were to ask theatregoers who saw the original 1972 production what singular impression they took away, forty years later, there's a good chance they might mention some of Bob Fosse's imagery before they sing you a few bars. (Ben Vereen's authentic jazz hands!) PIPPIN, more than most other musicals, is a show where the choreography is integral. (Another notable exception, of course, is Jerome Robbins' WEST SIDE STORY.) Bob Fosse's choreography for PIPPIN was exciting; it was very stylized, and it was provocative. It was not, however, integral enough to director Diane Paulus and (legendary, talented, Fosse-protege) choreographer Chet Walker to be maintained for audiences in 2013.
I will note: the point is not that the choreography will not be respected - surely if the work is to be safe in anyone's hands, it is Chet Walker's.
My point is - choreography in theatre, specifically in musicals - is not considered a component of the piece of art. It's an add-on. When reviving an old show, directors wouldn't dream of changing a melody line. Scenes and songs may be cut, or even reordered, to serve a modern audience, but they don't hire a new composer. Not true of choreography - that's different all the time, and it's hardly ever mentioned. (Again, WSS is an exception... both in that it featured original choreography, and, for the 2009 Broadway revival, in the translation of some lyrics to Spanish. Even then, director Arthur Laurents made a point of bringing the show to today "without changing a word or note.") It would be huge news to write a new song or a new ending for a revival of INTO THE WOODS, wouldn't it? No one blinked, however, when Kathleen Marshall created her own steps for ANYTHING GOES.
Why?
Lots of other parts of the show change, too, of course. The orchestrations might be redone to work with a different number of musicians. The lighting design would undoubtedly change to take advantage of a new space, new technology. The costume design would likely change. The performers, of course, are different. Where does the essence of the old show get lost? Perhaps the dividing line is at what's merely visual. The songs and the dialogue are what we hear and what pushes the story along -- what it all looks like, including the dancing, changes. But if that's the case, why isn't a concert performance of OKLAHOMA! considered a revival? Because there's no physical acting? Choreography is surely part of the acting. It's what the performers are doing: they're singing, they're speaking, they're dancing. A concert performance of a musical is kind of like the Paul Taylor company performing Fancy Free - that's not a musical, of course, because there's no singing, no dialogue, just dancing and music. A concert is not a musical because there's no dancing and perhaps no dialogue, just music. The other visuals may be there -- lighting, costume -- in both of these situations... but neither is considered a "musical."
Some shows don't have all of those elements, of course. We just saw THE LAST FIVE YEARS - no dialogue and no dancing there, but it's clearly a story told via musical. It would feel very strange to add big dance sections for Cathy and Jamie into that score, and it would be equally strange to add scenes of dialogue for the characters. I'm not saying that a show has to have all these elements to be considered a "musical" - I love seeing shows that push those boundaries - but I do think it's inconsistent the way we add or drastically change those elements when we revive existing shows.
Well, okay. What, then, makes a musical revival different for a new generation? What can the new director do to create something fresh? If we treated choreography the same way we treated the book and the score, perhaps the director would be "translating" the choreography - for space, for time, for number of performers. Say the star needs to sing the hit song a half step down. Not really a problem. Say the star doesn't have the perfect extension the original cast member did, so she goes for just above 90 degrees instead of pushing 180. Also not really a problem. The essence of the song and the essence of the choreography is the same. Say the old staging had an ensemble of sixteen that filled up the stage, but this time around the house is smaller and there's only space/budget for ten. Stretch out the staging a little bit and keep the movement, and the stage will be filled and the essence of the movement is maintained.
Now, granted, maybe the director has an idea to change the movement that will really add something to the story, to the tension in a scene, to the audience's experience. That could be a wonderful decision - maybe the show becomes richer, clearer, or more accessible. But my point, again, is that we don't allow music directors or other composers to come in and change the tune of a song for any of those creative purposes. Why?
Another demarkation of what's essential: chronology. The composer-lyricist-librettist team creates the core material, and everything else comes later. The choreography is secondary, then, because it is dependent on the score. The choreographer is very rarely part of the original creative writing process. Granted. But what if the creation of the movement was part of the construction of the show? Would that shape the songs written? The dialogue needed to push the story along? Would performers have a more embodied performance experience?
There's another obstacle to including choreography in the "package" of what's considered a musical. You can't package it. You've got your scripts, you've got your sheet music, you've got your... Labanotation? It doesn't happen, because the dance world hasn't created (or decided upon) a way to document dance to be recreated later. In the old days, you had to have someone who was a part of the original production come "set" it. The only new alternative is to have someone learn the choreography from a video in order to teach it to a new cast. It's much more difficult and more time-intensive than reading something off a page. (Enter motion-capture technology. Maybe a musical will, in the near future, come as downloaded pdfs, mp3s, and a motion-capture choreography file...)
I don't mean to get down about this. I don't think Broadway has it wrong. There are a bunch of reasons why we revive shows the way we do, and a lot of it makes a ton of sense. I do think, however, that this is an untapped possibility for the creation of new work, or even a new sub-genre of musicals, where choreography truly tells an essential part of the story.
It's not all bad. The current state of things does keep more choreographers employed - newcomers are able to create new movement for any show they work on - encouraging more newness and opportunity for innovation (whether or not that innovation is actually happening is, well, a different conversation). If choreography were maintained from all the old shows, the choreographer's job would be less similar to the composer's job and closer to the music director's. We might have "choreographic directors." It's only a short jump from that to the dance industry lamenting that no original work is supported enough to come to Broadway. (Sound familiar, composers? Writers? Audiences?) In this way, the limited view of choreography as essential to the show actually frees us up to create new and inspiring things.
Anyway. New technology is coming at us all the time. Dance is more in the public consciousness than it has been in years (thank you, reality TV). And theatre creators are constantly looking for new sources of inspiration. I think it's time to shake it up.
If you were to ask theatregoers who saw the original 1972 production what singular impression they took away, forty years later, there's a good chance they might mention some of Bob Fosse's imagery before they sing you a few bars. (Ben Vereen's authentic jazz hands!) PIPPIN, more than most other musicals, is a show where the choreography is integral. (Another notable exception, of course, is Jerome Robbins' WEST SIDE STORY.) Bob Fosse's choreography for PIPPIN was exciting; it was very stylized, and it was provocative. It was not, however, integral enough to director Diane Paulus and (legendary, talented, Fosse-protege) choreographer Chet Walker to be maintained for audiences in 2013.
I will note: the point is not that the choreography will not be respected - surely if the work is to be safe in anyone's hands, it is Chet Walker's.
My point is - choreography in theatre, specifically in musicals - is not considered a component of the piece of art. It's an add-on. When reviving an old show, directors wouldn't dream of changing a melody line. Scenes and songs may be cut, or even reordered, to serve a modern audience, but they don't hire a new composer. Not true of choreography - that's different all the time, and it's hardly ever mentioned. (Again, WSS is an exception... both in that it featured original choreography, and, for the 2009 Broadway revival, in the translation of some lyrics to Spanish. Even then, director Arthur Laurents made a point of bringing the show to today "without changing a word or note.") It would be huge news to write a new song or a new ending for a revival of INTO THE WOODS, wouldn't it? No one blinked, however, when Kathleen Marshall created her own steps for ANYTHING GOES.
Why?
Lots of other parts of the show change, too, of course. The orchestrations might be redone to work with a different number of musicians. The lighting design would undoubtedly change to take advantage of a new space, new technology. The costume design would likely change. The performers, of course, are different. Where does the essence of the old show get lost? Perhaps the dividing line is at what's merely visual. The songs and the dialogue are what we hear and what pushes the story along -- what it all looks like, including the dancing, changes. But if that's the case, why isn't a concert performance of OKLAHOMA! considered a revival? Because there's no physical acting? Choreography is surely part of the acting. It's what the performers are doing: they're singing, they're speaking, they're dancing. A concert performance of a musical is kind of like the Paul Taylor company performing Fancy Free - that's not a musical, of course, because there's no singing, no dialogue, just dancing and music. A concert is not a musical because there's no dancing and perhaps no dialogue, just music. The other visuals may be there -- lighting, costume -- in both of these situations... but neither is considered a "musical."
Some shows don't have all of those elements, of course. We just saw THE LAST FIVE YEARS - no dialogue and no dancing there, but it's clearly a story told via musical. It would feel very strange to add big dance sections for Cathy and Jamie into that score, and it would be equally strange to add scenes of dialogue for the characters. I'm not saying that a show has to have all these elements to be considered a "musical" - I love seeing shows that push those boundaries - but I do think it's inconsistent the way we add or drastically change those elements when we revive existing shows.
Well, okay. What, then, makes a musical revival different for a new generation? What can the new director do to create something fresh? If we treated choreography the same way we treated the book and the score, perhaps the director would be "translating" the choreography - for space, for time, for number of performers. Say the star needs to sing the hit song a half step down. Not really a problem. Say the star doesn't have the perfect extension the original cast member did, so she goes for just above 90 degrees instead of pushing 180. Also not really a problem. The essence of the song and the essence of the choreography is the same. Say the old staging had an ensemble of sixteen that filled up the stage, but this time around the house is smaller and there's only space/budget for ten. Stretch out the staging a little bit and keep the movement, and the stage will be filled and the essence of the movement is maintained.
Now, granted, maybe the director has an idea to change the movement that will really add something to the story, to the tension in a scene, to the audience's experience. That could be a wonderful decision - maybe the show becomes richer, clearer, or more accessible. But my point, again, is that we don't allow music directors or other composers to come in and change the tune of a song for any of those creative purposes. Why?
Another demarkation of what's essential: chronology. The composer-lyricist-librettist team creates the core material, and everything else comes later. The choreography is secondary, then, because it is dependent on the score. The choreographer is very rarely part of the original creative writing process. Granted. But what if the creation of the movement was part of the construction of the show? Would that shape the songs written? The dialogue needed to push the story along? Would performers have a more embodied performance experience?
There's another obstacle to including choreography in the "package" of what's considered a musical. You can't package it. You've got your scripts, you've got your sheet music, you've got your... Labanotation? It doesn't happen, because the dance world hasn't created (or decided upon) a way to document dance to be recreated later. In the old days, you had to have someone who was a part of the original production come "set" it. The only new alternative is to have someone learn the choreography from a video in order to teach it to a new cast. It's much more difficult and more time-intensive than reading something off a page. (Enter motion-capture technology. Maybe a musical will, in the near future, come as downloaded pdfs, mp3s, and a motion-capture choreography file...)
I don't mean to get down about this. I don't think Broadway has it wrong. There are a bunch of reasons why we revive shows the way we do, and a lot of it makes a ton of sense. I do think, however, that this is an untapped possibility for the creation of new work, or even a new sub-genre of musicals, where choreography truly tells an essential part of the story.
It's not all bad. The current state of things does keep more choreographers employed - newcomers are able to create new movement for any show they work on - encouraging more newness and opportunity for innovation (whether or not that innovation is actually happening is, well, a different conversation). If choreography were maintained from all the old shows, the choreographer's job would be less similar to the composer's job and closer to the music director's. We might have "choreographic directors." It's only a short jump from that to the dance industry lamenting that no original work is supported enough to come to Broadway. (Sound familiar, composers? Writers? Audiences?) In this way, the limited view of choreography as essential to the show actually frees us up to create new and inspiring things.
Anyway. New technology is coming at us all the time. Dance is more in the public consciousness than it has been in years (thank you, reality TV). And theatre creators are constantly looking for new sources of inspiration. I think it's time to shake it up.
June 20, 2011
reflections on one year of full-time creativity
it has been just over a year since i began my leave of absence and started doing this artistic thing full-time. and what a year it has been! life as an artist has presented an interesting host of challenges, and while i by no means have it figured out (just ask my savings account...) i have stumbled upon some encouraging bits of wisdom from others. you know that mindlessly anxious / lazy / jittery / tired / forgettingsomething / i'vebeenwaitinginlinetoolong feeling? no? uh let's trade lives. yes? then you know what i'm getting at here, and it's what author Steven Pressfield calls Resistance. he looks at living a creative life as a battle. in a dramatic way, he says
"The artist ... has to know how to be miserable. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell."
but it's kind of true, you know? I look at the obvious, boring, stereotypical things that i worry about on a day-to-day basis (how much money am i making? will auditions ever go well? am i working hard enough? is anyone ever going to WANT to pay money to see stuff that i create? do i look stupid? does this outfit look crazy?) and i think you have to get to a point where you're just so tired of hearing it, in your head, every day, and you just have to "do" it anyway. life, i mean. i also get paralyzed with anxiety (aka fear) over some of the slightly-less-stereotypical issues my life choices are presenting. (and i do only mean slightly. clearly i'm not struck by plights that the rest of humanity isn't also dealing with. stick with me, i'm still in my 20s, i'm not that mature yet.) such as: would i be making more of an impact on the world if i were doing something else? am i too hard on myself? do i push myself far enough? where's that line? could i be more inspiring to the people around me if i were xyz? is this really what my life's work should be? yikes.
which is why i feel really encouraged when he writes
"Self-doubt can be an ally. This is because it serves as an indicator of aspiration. It reflects love, love of something we dream of doing, and desire, desire to do it. If you find yourself asking yourself (and your friends), "Am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?" chances are you are.
The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death."
okay. so the fear is apparently a good thing. and i'm going for it anyway. it's not a matter of feeling supremely confident. or stopping the endless questions in my head. it's about not really listening and just focusing on the task at hand: creating. and i'm learning that when i rearrange my thinking and decide to just go with this creative path, it kind of breaks down and i actually get to be flooded with...
gratitude.
and that's WAY nicer. i just get to feel unbelievably grateful for the city i'm in, the friendly guy in the deli on the corner, my amazingly talented and fun siblings, my friends who still somehow love me even though i'm bad at calling them, this healthy 25-year-old body that is imperfect and wonderfully useful.
so here's to year two of being a professional artist, full of fear, full of gratitude, workin' it out anyway. who's with me?!
"The artist ... has to know how to be miserable. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell."
but it's kind of true, you know? I look at the obvious, boring, stereotypical things that i worry about on a day-to-day basis (how much money am i making? will auditions ever go well? am i working hard enough? is anyone ever going to WANT to pay money to see stuff that i create? do i look stupid? does this outfit look crazy?) and i think you have to get to a point where you're just so tired of hearing it, in your head, every day, and you just have to "do" it anyway. life, i mean. i also get paralyzed with anxiety (aka fear) over some of the slightly-less-stereotypical issues my life choices are presenting. (and i do only mean slightly. clearly i'm not struck by plights that the rest of humanity isn't also dealing with. stick with me, i'm still in my 20s, i'm not that mature yet.) such as: would i be making more of an impact on the world if i were doing something else? am i too hard on myself? do i push myself far enough? where's that line? could i be more inspiring to the people around me if i were xyz? is this really what my life's work should be? yikes.
which is why i feel really encouraged when he writes
"Self-doubt can be an ally. This is because it serves as an indicator of aspiration. It reflects love, love of something we dream of doing, and desire, desire to do it. If you find yourself asking yourself (and your friends), "Am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?" chances are you are.
The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death."
okay. so the fear is apparently a good thing. and i'm going for it anyway. it's not a matter of feeling supremely confident. or stopping the endless questions in my head. it's about not really listening and just focusing on the task at hand: creating. and i'm learning that when i rearrange my thinking and decide to just go with this creative path, it kind of breaks down and i actually get to be flooded with...
gratitude.
and that's WAY nicer. i just get to feel unbelievably grateful for the city i'm in, the friendly guy in the deli on the corner, my amazingly talented and fun siblings, my friends who still somehow love me even though i'm bad at calling them, this healthy 25-year-old body that is imperfect and wonderfully useful.
so here's to year two of being a professional artist, full of fear, full of gratitude, workin' it out anyway. who's with me?!
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