I talk to my mom for about the same amount
of time (and frequency) that I would like to be going to the gym every week.
This is because I love the shit out of my mom and I've become rather complacent
about lifting weights for the sake of looking sexy for strangers. Since moving
out on my own, our relationship has moved beyond the Norman Rockwell ceramic
plate titled "Mother & Son" and graduated into an actual
friendship where we can be there for each other, talk about our insecurities,
our evolution, our nightmares and that heavenly 3 ingredient peanut butter
fudge recipe which validates my mother's recent obsession with minimal
ingredient recipes.
A few weeks ago, while I was in rehearsal
for Shakespeare in the Ruff's Romeo + Juliet I took my
dinner break to sit at Timothy's in the Danforth, draw, eat a carrot muffin and
talk with her.
Earlier that day, I'd experienced an
overwhelming surge of not wanting to act anymore after my contract ended. I
know this feeling had nothing to do with the production, as it was truly one of
the best theatrical experiences I've ever had, but being part of that show
forced me to look more critically at my position in life; who I am and what the
motivations are behind my choices. Suddenly the passion I once had to act
drained from me like blood from George C. Scott's face in A Christmas
Carol when he sees Frank Finlay. Suddenly, I questioned: What am I
trying to achieve? Who am I doing all of this for?
***
My last post, over a year ago, had me declaring that I was
"GOING PRO" which, as a reader had keenly pointed out, is a term from
Steven Pressfield's incredibly motivating book The War of Art. A
good friend had recommended this little gem to me during an All-You-Can-Eat
sushi session. At which, of course, I ordered more than I could actually eat
and ended up rolling my ill-chosen plate of mushroom rolls into a ball and,
with enough stealth to give Evelyn Salt a run for her money, flushed
them down the toilet.
Later that day, my friend sent me the PDF
version of the book, which I zipped through at the rate of a 9-year-old
brushing their teeth, and decided to follow Steven's advice by taking control
of my destiny, which at the time translated to: DO AS MANY THINGS AS POSSIBLE.
I began asking everyone, friends, strangers and the occasional pedestrian, to
collaborate. I was submitting myself for anything I could get my hands on in an
attempt to prove that I was not going to remain stagnant, I was determined to,
at least on paper, look busy and productive and not rest on my laurels
(i.e. Olympus).
If my life was an episode of Sesame
Street, the word of the those delusional few months would've been:
A-C-C-U-M-U-L-A-T-I-O-N.
In hindsight, which was very obvious to
everyone but me at the time, the issue with accumulating for accumulation's
sake is that instead of adding meaning to one's life, it simply adds stress.
Unaware of how detrimental this would actual be to all of the projects I had so
ambitiously taken on, I white-knuckled my way through in the hopes that
something would pay off and make it all worth while.
Looking back, I think, deep down, I just
wanted the title on my resume, the Facebook post, the Instagram photo, not the
actual experience, which is ironic considering that I'd articulated in my
previous post that no one cares about what's on one's resume
or social media feeds (unless you're a celebrity or a politician, but even
they still beg the question), yet here I was, taking on more than I
needed to in an attempt to impress them.
After countless emotional breaks
during this period, which I like to call The Insanity Months, (I
also like to picture this phrase in the same SpongeBob meme as above) the final
and biggest break, the largest needle associated with a camels back, if you
will, happened during the opening performance of my solo show, LIONESS.
Rewind: One day, when I was coming back from the gym, I ran into someone I
deeply respect as both a creator and peer, we spoke about how each other were
keeping up and they asked me, "Whatever happened to LIONESS?".
I confessed that I'd continued to write material for the character since
performing the show at the Solo-icious Festival in 2013 but hadn't really
thought about doing anything else with it. They suggested
I should because they loved it.
I felt like Sally Field at the 1984
Academy Awards.
Fast forward: After speaking with my Mom and a few friends, who
equally loved the show (they'd seen it in Halifax 3 years earlier), I
planned a 4-date tour in early 2016 for LIONESS: The Extended
Version. Part of me taking this on was to prove to myself that I could write
and perform an hour long solo piece, this idea scared the crap out of me, so
obviously I had no choice but to do it. I also thought, "What a great way
to showcase my progress to the communities that supported me as a young
performer."
Vain, vapid, and curiously
motivated.
So, amid all the chaos that my life had become; rehearsing for my first theatre gig in Toronto, finishing a leadership
program, writing a short film, producing two short films, dramaturging a
feature, acting in a feature, all while working my 3 Joe-jobs, I decided I was
going to spend the remaining few hours of each day writing my first full-length
solo show.
Obviously overwhelmed, I completely
neglected working on it until about a month and half before I was scheduled to
open (ie. When terror kicked in). My life at this point became a sports movie
montage, racing against the clock. I cried, I screamed, I rarely ate, I was in
a constant state of dehydration, I yelled at my cats for sleeping, I consulted
anyone who would listen, and took many late night walks along the boardwalk
where I spoke to myself like I was featured on an episode of Toddlers
and Tiaras. All I was missing was Eye of the Tiger consistently
playing in the background; I had become a writer. I wanted this show to be my
Viola Davis' snot scene in Doubt and I was determined to
make it happen.
About a week before I left for Nova
Scotia, I was at a birthday dinner for a little girl I occasionally babysit and
spoke with a performer I admire who was also in attendance. They asked me how
things were going and I jabbered on about my upcoming solo show, which I had so
diligently been writing. They responded with an anecdote about their first
solo show where they walked off stage because their nerves got the best of them
and their director had to come back stage and drag them out, kicking and
screaming, to finish the show. I listened, looking like that smirking emoji,
arrogantly thinking, "That would never happen to me."
Oh, how wrong I was.
LIONESS opened at the Marigold Cultural Centre in Truro, Nova
Scotia, on January 15th, 2016. I had flown in 5 days prior, thinking that this
would be an adequate amount of time to get on my feet and block the piece. Now,
this would have been more than enough time if I knew the lines and had a
director, both of which I didn't, because in my new found role as a writer I
had completely forgotten that I had to perform the damn thing.
Maria
So, for the first 3 days I sat in an empty
theatre trying to drill the lines and create new blocking for
myself derived from my initial 15-minute version. To put it mildly,
it didn't go very well. I left the theatre that day praying for a miracle. That
miracle came, in the form of recent friend of mine, to whom I am eternally
grateful, who was coincidentally in Halifax at the time. They offered to drive
up and provide an outside eye for me in the 48 hours I had leading up to
opening.
The next two days were like the water pump
scene from The Miracle Worker, my
friend, Anne Bancroft and I, Patty Duke.
Jump to: 15 minutes to curtain I
started to have a panic attack. I suddenly realized how much I'd taken on and
unlike the aforementioned mushroom rolls; I couldn't just flush this moment
down the toilet. Despite my friends' reassurance, I became manic and asked for my mom to be
retrieved. She came in and I immediately started
crying. My mom, the mom she is, preceded to talk me down from a ledge,
reminding me that this was not Wayne's show. This was Maria's, and I needed to
get out of the way and let her tell the story that she'd been waiting to tell
for the last 3 years.
We walked the perimeter of the stage, both
wearing leopard print, holding hands, making space for Maria to enter the
room. After a few laps, I got myself under
control and went back stage, my mother
began guiding people in, and suddenly I had a surge of energy, similar to that
of my cats after they’ve been sleeping all day, and was ready to jump in.
The music started, the lights went up, and
it began...
Everything was going seamlessly, I
manipulated my nerves into the frantic energy I needed to start the show and after that first burst of laughter, I let the orgasmic feeling of ease wash
over me.
They were here with me.
Then about 10 minutes in, I dried. I lost
my line. I couldn't remember what came next. I stood there in the silence, my
mind suddenly a giant Rolodex that I was riffling through at light speed, with
an eternity passing before my eyes.
I looked to my friend who was in the
wings; they were trying to mouth the next line to me. I couldn't see them. They
began to generously write it on a piece of paper but the lights continued to
obscure my view. The room was dead silent, waiting for me to
speak.
I just sat there, deep in the shit. No
escape, my terror building by each lethargic second. I looked down at
my mom, who was in the front row, mouthing the words, “Breathe” to me. I looked
back up. The lights shining in my face, their warmth, once a comfort, became my
tomb. This was, without a doubt, the closest to death I'd ever experienced.
My emotions finally boiling over, I looked
back down at my mother, tears welling, and uttered a pitiful,
"Mom..."
She stood up quickly and pointed me
offstage.
I hurriedly exited the desk,
once thought to be my coffin, and ran back stage, doing what I had arrogantly
told myself I wouldn’t do. As soon as I broke the curtains I
collapsed on the ground and began to sob, flanked by my friend, who at
this point I was sure regretted their decision to help me, and
my coach of a mom.
I left my body, like a cartoon character
squashed by an anvil, and seeing myself there on the ground remembered the
viral video of Tyra Banks yelling at Tiffany, one of the Cycle 4 contestants on
America's Next Top Model.
Upon first viewing, I admittedly paid more
attention to the reactions of the other girls in the video than what Tyra was
actually saying, the entertainment value rivalling that of a terrible car
crash. Not far off from what was currently happening in my life.
You see, I'd recently re-watched the video
while researching for LIONESS, but in this moment, looking
down at myself, I finally made sense of what Tyra was saying.
As an actor, I'd been Tiffany for quite a
while now; I'd become disillusioned by my achievements and felt when it came to
performance, I had the cat in the bag. Over the years I'd started to rely on
the concept that everything would come together when the lights went up and
ultimately stopped putting the work in where it was needed. I realized that I'd
been coasting on my abilities to "turn it on" in the moment, but that
was becoming more and more unreliable, especially now.
As I re-entered my emotion-ridden body, my
mother knelt next to me and told me that I'd come too far to give up; Maria had
a story to tell, and I was being selfish by robbing her of that chance. She
told me to get over myself and whatever ego driven blockade was
stopping me from going out there and finishing the show like a pro. She
also reminded me that the whole point of coming home to perform was that these
people were here to support me, no matter what I did. She then wiped my mascara
with a smile and headed back out across the stage to her seat, accompanied with
uproarious applause.
My friend, privy to all this, graciously offered
to be on book for the rest of the show. I obliged and with my ideal performance
now demolished, Maria was able to take centre stage. She walked out and
confidently sat at the desk. Looking out at the audience she thanked them for
their patience, apologized for the muck up (classy as ever) and informed them
that things would be a little rough as this was the first time she was telling
this story. She felt it was more important for them to hear, rather then it be
perfect and polished.
Met with applause, her show began.
Maria fought to keep her words alive and
each time she had to call line her energy surged. It was the most cathartic
work I’ve ever done, raw, and real and openly honest. I've never cried so hard
as I did at the end of that performance. Walking out into the lobby as Wayne and
meeting each an every person who generously paid to watch me work, to watch me
take responsibility for myself, humbled me.
Flying out of Nova Scotia, having finished
my rather rocky tour, I remembered this quote of Tom Hardy's: "Surviving is one thing. You can get through, you can
white-knuckle. You can do the bare minimum. But there comes a time where life
stops rewarding potential. If you want to participate at a certain level in
anything, you cannot just turn up and be respected." A few days ago, I had
done just that; white knuckled and survived, but I swore
to myself that it would never happen again.
Upon returning to Toronto, I was met
with an overwhelming surge of regret from those who wished they could
have seen LIONESS. I appreciated
the support, but felt some major PTSD surrounding the idea of mounting it again.
I decided that it was best to put the show away for a few months.
Then, while decompressing with my friend who had
helped me in Nova Scotia, they acknowledged that as scary as it was, there’d be
a major benefit to performing the show under better conditions and suggested I
mount another performance, here in Toronto. After much humming and haaa-ing I decided
I would give it another go, as a one-night-only workshop presentation, and
brought them on as the director.
There was one day in rehearsal where I
found myself unable to focus. I had become so preoccupied with the challenge
that I’d given myself; the ultimate fourth wall (speaking to 2 invisible
characters for the duration of the piece, unable to interact with the audience),
and kept plying my director with the question “Why did I do this to myself?” To
which they answered, “I don’t know, but you did.”
A few days later we invited one of our
mutual friends, a fellow creator and incredible writer, to come watch a
rehearsal run and provide some structural feedback. It was great to have them
there, and afterwards I asked, “Did you like it?” to which they responded,
“Yeah, it’s great, but it doesn’t really matter if I like it. Do you like it?” This
answer bothered me because the idea of creating for oneself, at the time,
seemed so self-serving. I argued that the whole reason I was doing the show was
for the audience, because people loved Maria and I wanted to give them
something they enjoyed.
The day of the show, I woke up with a Christmas
morning level of excitement. I walked the very same boardwalk where 6 months
earlier I cried and pep talked myself into finishing the script that I could
now confidently run the lines of. I felt the effects of being able to give
each aspect of this performance its time and was stoked for the incredible
night that lay ahead. My director picked me up that afternoon and amid the traffic we sang along to One Dance by Drake and concluded that this
excitement, this anticipation, was surely the reason why we do what we do.
That night, we played to an oversold house, quite a feat in the middle of the Toronto Fringe Festival. Despite a few minor hiccups, as well as it being both an opening and closing night performance, I don’t think it could've gone better. I was Maria that night, and I'll never forget it.
While out for congratulatory drinks with friends, amid my Mill Street Organic and a basket of Dirty Chips, this strange calmness came over me; things felt complete, but the moment of revelation was missing. It felt similar to when I had sex for the first time, it was fun and cool and I felt like I was doing something so grown up, but afterwards, the next day, I felt exactly the same, as if it never happened. A friend of mine asked what was next for the piece, and almost immediately I said, "I don't know. I kind of want to do something completely different."
I looked over the list of those who'd come and to my surprise most of them had never seen me perform, or heard anything I'd written (in some cases both). This meant that everyone that was there was because of me and my relationship with them, they weren't there because of the content, they were there because they wanted to support me doing something I loved. Despite my intentions of making it for them, the show actually ended up being for me. I had done exactly what I set out to do; create a positive experience surrounding the creation and performance of my first solo show. Showcase it to my friends and peers, challenge people's views of me as a creator and performer, and earned the respect of some of those peers whom I admire.
What more was there to do?
***
So there I was, talking with my mom,
my coloured pencils strewn about, my muffin wrapper crumpled, my right ear warm from
my phone, and it dawned on me: I've continued to perform because people tell me
I'm good at it, because they like my work. They tell me they do, through their
laughter, their tears, their attentive silences. I admit; it feels good to be
good at something and have people tell you so.
But after LIONESS this feeling had gotten to a place
similar to that of when an older family member tells you your handsome or pretty. It’s
a compliment, sure, but it’s not the same as when you see those attributes in
yourself.
Then it hit me deeper, I've continued to
perform because it provided an immediate connection with my mother; the woman
who taught me how to be creative; how to listen, how to draw, how to dream, how
to imitate, how to work hard for what I want. I realized that I’ve continued to
pursue this life, created specific work, as a way to be closer to her; to take
everything she showed me and share it with others.
I told her this and she replied,
"Wayne, I don't give a shit what you do. I'm proud of you no matter what.
As long as you are happy and healthy, I'm happy." She then confessed
to me that she felt the same way about my grandfather when he was alive; she
had spent so long trying to make him proud, even though he already was. She
didn’t want that for me. I’d heard my mom say this to me my entire life but in
this moment, it released me. I felt like I’d just shaved my head and everything
was suddenly lighter.
We then took account for all the
achievements I’d accumulated in the last few years and acknowledged that I’ve
been given more opportunities than most people will in a lifetime. I realized,
I didn’t have to prove myself to anyone anymore, I had my mom’s approval and
that’s all I ever really needed.
She then suggested that perhaps my not
wanting to act might be my body telling me it was ready to explore something
else and I should take the time to find out what that is. I knew that I didn’t
want to leave performance forever, but I agreed in that I felt a strong pull to
step away from the industry. I wanted to find the most personally authentic
place to hustle from.
As my contract with Shakespeare in the
Ruff ended I decided that I was going to take until Christmas to explore myself
creatively for a concentrated period of time. I’ve since established, what I’m
calling, a personal residency for myself. The goal of this residency is to
identify my personal values as a creator, as a performer and as a person. This is a time
of exploration and recalibration. I’m exhausted with having to define myself by
my current projects and how if they aren’t in line with what I took a student
loan out for then I’m somehow failing. Right now, I’m interested in learning
what makes my heart sing, how I want to optimally express myself and how that
correlates to the rest of the world because that's actually what people wanna see, my truth.
So if you are curious about what I'm up to, I’m entering the unknown and I’ve
never been more excited.
My mother sent me this video a few months
ago and I cannot think of a better way to end this post.
She's also decided to start charging me consulting fees.
She's also decided to start charging me consulting fees.
W.