Looped.

It was one of those pitiable moments of faded glory revisited. She lifts up her hands to shield the light, slowly lowering them as she takes in her surroundings. Her fingers gracefully move to right below her neck, clasping her chest out of equal parts gratitude and fear, and imbues those famous Tennessee Williams lines with such lamentable honesty, so much reality that the audience begins to hoot. It's apparent now they didn't come to see the tragic character, but the tragic actress. Oddly this doesn't offend her, but instead the lady of elegance degrades to a campy showman supplying the crowd with that loused decadence they egg her on to give. Her covered inebriation then rears its sad face in full as she stumbles off into a pink-purple back lighting and Southern balcony silhouette. The curtain comes down, the lights come up, my head turns to the left and I notice my friend sitting next to me. "Oh right…I'm watching a play."

That's probably the first time my disbelief has ever been unconsciously suspended. I must say it's not like I imagined it. The luring in was so gradual I felt like a frog in a hot bath with the burner on low. Before I knew it, I was cooked, so engrossed in that moment where Valerie Harper, as real-life screen legend and bon vivant Tallulah Bankhead, in drunken nostalgia replays her bleary performance as Blanche DuBois. And get this, the show is a comedy. All the more reason this singular moment of unadulterated pathos was particularly ensnaring. The greatest plays are neither straight comedy nor straight drama, because that's just not the way life is. Melody's right, it really is so cool that I get to just go watch a Broadway show every now and then.

Walking down the stairs of the balcony following a standing ovation well deserved, Ana turns to me and says "see, this is why I want to be an actress. It's that applause, you know? Not like in a self-centered way, but it's that moment where you remember why all that work is worth it."
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. It's not just some self-indulgence, though it certainly can be--it's the finish of the exchange. It's the other end of the dialogue, the completion of that communion between performers and patrons that makes the stage a unique and irreplaceable medium of fellowship."


All performers understand this on some level. The tradition of applause was not invented for self-indulgence, I think. Dancers, singers, actors, musicians, artists, those of us who brave the vulnerability of that penetrating light, that glass that allows onlookers to bury into some fragile part of us beneath the bramble, shouldn't we be reciprocated with some sort of response, some requital that affirms what we've given has been received to its purpose? Which also gets me thinking--what then do we, as creations ourselves, owe to our Creator?

Audition #9.

"It's not raining, boy."

The moment I started walking down the sidewalk amidst clear weather with an umbrella over my head, I knew I would be writing about it later. The neighborhood is relatively quiet, but I wasn't surprised to have someone call me out on my ridiculousness. I did it because I saw the branches violently rustling outside my window, and I didn't want to mess up my hair.

Sigh…let me explain...

It starts with me waking up for about the third time, noticing on my phone that it's two hours past my goal time for rising and shining. An easy shuffle to the shower and back. Once more I look at my phone to find a missed call & voicemail from my manager -- she says can't chat with me this morning as I previously requested, but "that's okay just do well on your audition today."

…my what?

I go to my inbox to find the day-old e-mail and immediately prepare for the audition I have to be at in less than 3 hours (including the 30 min train ride to Manhattan). Oh yes, and I have to call work and let them know of this spontaneous conflict. This is what an actor hoping to work has to be prepared for. I was told yesterday that you've got to want the job like any of these Winter Olympians want the gold, no excuses. Without hesitation I pick the outfit, print out the sides (audition script), and grab my folder fully stocked with headshot & resume trimmed to 8x10 standards. I rummage through clips of the show I'm auditioning for, practice a "slight Chinese accent," and get some intel on the casting directors to stock the small talk with relevant ammo. The longer you can keep them engaged with you, the better (note: does not apply to fiancees).

Of all the things I'm prepared to bring, I'm prepared to bring myself. The more I've been learning about the business the more I've learned that ultimately you have to bring yourself because that's what you're marketing, and intuitively the last thing an actor thinks to bring to his performance is himself. Thankfully, I am not the auditioning actor I was in September. Whew, God is good.

Oh yeah, and the umbrella. Hey, you do what you think will help you look your best for the audition, right? I don't mind looking like my mom evading the sun's rays if it will help me look my best. As it turns out, it doesn't. I can't figure out where the air is blowing from and it just…doesn't help.

Winter breeze shan't cool my fire!
I shall press on thitherto
as though I were the bravest of souls
immortalized on Halls advertisements!

How does it go? Well, I don't hesitate in saying it's by far my best audition yet. One quick, confident, take and some enlivened conversation afterward and I'm out the door. All the training, centering, disciplining, is really paying off. And leave it to none other than God to make the audition location three blocks from work. I finish my audition at 12:15 and by 12:20 I'm in uniform behind the register like a real New Yorker. Well, like a real working actor.