that poor, poor man. *UPDATED*

The conviction of the truly disillusioned is a frightening thing to witness. We’ve all had those moments watching reality television when someone truly atrocious is allowed to grace the panel of judges with their presence. This can’t be real, we think. They had to have set that up, let them through for comic relief because we believe no one is like this in real life, right? And as we watch the judges snicker and do everything they can to not hide the fact these contestants are being made fun of, the most important question passes through our minds: How can their loved ones allow them to make a fool of themselves like this in front of an international audience? Doesn’t anyone actually care about these people? And this gives us a sense of greatness: If it were one of my friends, I would never allow them to be subject to such ridicule.

But really:

How do we know when we’re stuck in the middle of it?

Sure, it’s easy enough to call attention to it when we’re watching through a television screen (it's like looking over the shoulder of someone using a computer - the onlooker always finds the links first). But what happens when we find ourselves in that position? Are we actually able to see how bad something is? I can’t edit a script until I’ve had time away from it. A new, devised piece of theatre can’t/shouldn’t/isn’t ready to be finished without the introduction of an “outside eye” in the rehearsal process (hopefully in the form of a director). All creative people know that when you’ve fallen too far into something you can’t see the forest for the trees.

This being said and in order to make sure you don’t end up being ridiculed in front of a brimming audience (unless that’s what you’re looking for – what do I know?) please, for the love of all that’s holy, take some time and ask yourself why you are doing this. Be truthful. It would also help by surrounding yourself with people that aren’t afraid to break your ego once in a while. These friends are probably the best friends a person can ever find.

The performing arts is full of the most deluded, egotistical, self-righteous people you will ever find. And, sadly enough, it has to be. The latter two of those three qualities are actually rather necessary for a person to succeed in this field (in the form of confidence – no one wins by being self-absorbed *coughSheencough*). But the first only and always remains an obstacle for every one of us to overcome.

Theatre is the heightened expression of emotions and daily struggles. If you have a hard time functioning in a mundane, day-to-day conversation I don’t think this is the right path for you. Theatre cannot and will not be a substitute for real life experiences. You actually have to go out and do those yourself. PLEASE GO OUT AND DO THOSE YOURSELF. Theatre is about society and community. It is about the present and why the present needs to express itself on stage. We cannot be deluged with our own greatness and expect audiences to shower us with roses. We need to actually interact with the world if we want the world to interact with us and in order to do this we need to learn how to listen. A conversation always has two parts. You can’t always talk.

Really, what I’m getting at is that too much of one thing is detrimental to the goal you’re trying to achieve. Please, take some time to refresh. Attack your passion from a different angle, with all new eyes. Theatre will always be here. Just because you don’t act or study for a few months - a year, who knows? - doesn’t mean you’re giving up your dream. If anything it will always be part of you and everything you’ve experienced in the interim will be sifted through unconsciously and stored in your mind into that file cabinet marked “Life Experiences” (or, as most people call it, “Memories”) to draw upon later. Honestly, it will only make you stronger and more self-assured.

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Addendum: "...to draw upon later..." this may sound like an endorsement of The Method. It is not. My advice in this column is with the intent to make a more well-rounded, and ultimately more comfortable actor. I am not giving advice to allow an actor the ability to preconceive how they may react to the extraordinary circumstances of a play but to awaken the actor to their body so they can listen to what their body, and the other actor, is telling them onstage.

a question for adults.

As a kid I had tremendous focus.

I remember spending hours outside, watching worker ants gather food for their families; trying to capture that elusive mantis; marveling at the metallic sheen of the various dragonflies my brother and I captured (though, in hindsight, the means of capture were rather unorthodox) and nursed back to health (case in point).

I remember the toys I had, LEGO and any sort of miniature figurine, preferably of the robot variety (Zbots, various dollar store finds, Reboot), and spending days, weeks, constructing worlds, storylines and games for each that usually culminated in some sort of epic, world-shattering battle that took over the entire basement rec-room.

My imagination, like most kids’, was untamed.

This even bled in to the literature I read, although only recently has it actually become considered literature. I was a very visual child and to a large extent still am as an adult. All throughout elementary school, and for the first year of high-school, I did not enjoy reading. Books. Novels. Words. Too bland. Boring. My mind worked so hard during the day playing with toys and learning in school that if I wanted to unwind with a book it better have had pictures in it. Comics. Or, better yet, movies (don't have to read those).

It wasn’t until Grade Ten that I could successfully pick up a picture-less novel and actually enjoy it. I have a sneaking suspicion the main reason for this is because I didn’t care about reading description. Why can’t I just see it? Hear it? All I wanted was the dialogue. The voices. That’s it. Even the old comics with that yellow box of description at the top drove me nutty. I couldn’t do it. Just voices please. I can see everything else, thank you very much. And that’s the key right there.

I wanted a picture. I wanted to live in that picture. To study it. To give it the time it begs for but rarely gets. And I had the time. I had all the time in the world. No job. No worries about providing for myself. No worries about feeding myself. Nothing except playing and exploring my imagination.

As a kid I had tremendous focus. Because I had tremendous amounts of time.

I remember reading and re-reading the first, maybe three, issues of Jeff Smith’s Bone, evoking the small-town innocence of the Barrel-Haven and the mystical woods surrounding it. I remember studying each panel until the forested valley was all around me. I escaped into this world. It was so real to me. And still is. I can still remember living so intimately with these characters who weren’t even my own but of another’s creation. When I read through it now (and I do, often) I always find it remarkable that the beginning, those first three issues, go by so quickly – they are just the beginning of the story, after all.

But wait a second. That can’t be right. How did I find such life in something so short? Same goes for The Lion King. It’s only a ninety-minute movie and, upon adult viewing, certain aspects (like Simba’s exile with Timon and Pumbaa) are so quick now when I remember them taking so much time as a kid (in a good way). How can this be?

Time hasn’t changed since I was a child. It still passes with the same frequency and regularity. Perception and experience modifies it as we grow old, however:

Research suggests a person’s perception of how much time has passed between two points and how well memories are recorded onto an individual’s brain are partially dependent on the amount of new experiences that person has during any given day.

The above quote is taken from the About page on Matt Danzico’s 2011 project The Time Hack. He’s attempting to lengthen his perception of time by trying something new and zany every day. The result is rather whimsical and inspiring.

Which brings me to the onus of this post. It is the question:

Are we actually hurting our experience of the world with how much choice is available to us at any given moment?

I’m reminded of one of my good friends, a few years back, stating at a party: I have no time to re-read anything. There’re too many things to read.

And this opposing quote from C.S. Lewis: I can't imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once.

As we grow up and transform into that wonderful and frighteningly awful word, adult, it seems we lose focus. I can say for certain I don’t allow myself the same amount of time I used to to live in a work of art. I look, consume, and move on to the next. Same with books (yes, I am on to reading actual, picture-less books now although graphic literature will always hold a special place in my heart. So will books that have drawings put at specific intervals throughout. I love this! Why don’t writers hire artists to do a series of woodcuts anymore? Is it too juvenile? All the classics have it. Maybe I’m just a fan of multi-disciplinarity. I love when a product of one medium inspires another). I, like my friend, rarely take the time to revisit my favourite books / plays / paintings / etc., and I’m not sure that I like this lifestyle.

I ask the question above not as a proponent of either side but with another question hidden firmly within the original:

How can we fully appreciate a piece of art without the appropriate time to experience it?

Art demands time. Why, as people at a particular phase of life, don’t we make the effort to spend time with something we like? Are we actually satisfied with reading / watching something briefly and then clicking the “Like” button and stumbling away? Is that enough to actually appreciate something? Or is it that we feel guilty spending too much time with any one particular thing when there are so many others awaiting us? It’s a mystifying conundrum and I’m as guilty as anyone for acting in this manner. I’d say about a sixth of the books on my bookshelf I haven’t read yet. And I keep adding to this because I keep finding books I’d like to read. But how many times have I said to myself that I’d like to read that again (“I’ll probably catch so much more the second time around!”)? Too many.

It's a thought that's been on my mind most of this year. And I think I’m going to work towards improving it.

It’s been too long since I’ve explored the woods around the Barrel-Haven.