A Starving Artist's Gonna Be in Pictures (, Kid).

I’m gonna say it:  I think that headshots are terrifying.

I do.

Only Starving Artists have to deal with these things, everyone but everyone in the entertainment/performance industries.  Everyone else—I mean, the only comparable things that the rest of the world will ever have to deal with are driver’s license pictures.  Photos on badges at work.  Mugshots.

These pictures happen and everyone takes a gander at them later and goes “Ha-HAAAAAAAA, I look hilarious.  And awful.”  Because of course you do!  You’re sitting there posing by yourself, just…posin’.  You’re not trying to capture any particular moment in time, you’re not trying to showcase a swimsuit or a ring or a really awesome cigar, or show off what a beautiful beach you’re at (in “sunny FORT LAUDERDALE!”).  All you’re doing is showing off your mug, your face, your head.  It is an inherently awkward thing to do.

We Starving Artists, however, are expected to pose in just such a fashion and be awesome about it.   Headshots are our calling cards, we cannot get into the door of any casting office without one.  Correction:  without a super good one.  And, we’re supposed to know what that means, how to do that, how to not be awkward and instead, take a picture that says “HEY! Look at me, I’m kickass and suuuuuuuuuper different, you should probably cast me in everything always.”

…

Let it be said that this is not an easily achievable thing for everyone.  Some people don’t trust in the fact that casting directors have brains and imaginations and will, therefore, treat their headshot session as an opportunity to show off their entire arsenal of alternate personalities.  There are actors in this world that have headshots featuring them as, say, an astronaut, a zoo-keeper, a Professor Plum-type…some kind of combination of all of the above, all looking very fierce and pensive.  And desperate.   

These people exist.

(And, I’d be willing to bet that they have some siiiiiick photos on their driver’s licenses.)

There are also people who treat their headshot session as an opportunity to look “glamorous”.  You know.  “Glamorous”? Napoleon Dynamite?  Everyone’s aunt/babysitter circa 1989-1992? …Once upon a time (two months ago), my stepmother asked me if that was going to be my approach.

You mean am I going to Olan Mills?
 “Or, ya know, I don’t know.  Somewhere.  But, are ya getting a glamour shot?  Is that why ya need new ones?”

Oh.  Ummmmm…nooo…

In all fairness, I was kinda hoping to get some of these.  When I was 7.

I don’t need to tell you that these people definitely still exist.

And then, there are people who approach their headshot session with fear in their eyes. Not fear of the photographer, but fear of the end product. They inherently know that everything will go absolutely inexplicably wrong with the shoot, and they know this because they are “not photogenic”.

These people are goddamn everywhere.

The session happens, and suddenly, the actor has forgotten how to smile, what a smile looks like on them, what smiling even is. 

“Oh god, my fucking chipmunk cheeks.”

They begin to fidget and sit in positions so unnatural that it would make those Cirque du Soleil guys feel uncomfortable. 

“Does this, like, look alluring?  …How fat are my arms right now?”

“Just relax.”

But, they don’t relax.  Instead, they panic.  They sweat, they lose focus, they forget who they are as an actor and why they’re even there.  And the world…the world goes to shit.

“Ohmygod, I hate this goddamn blazer.  Why’d I bring this blazer?!  I can’t believe he’s making me wear it, I swear to god I must look like I’m 40 or something right now and I’m totally not and I had no right to skip the gym this morning, that was insane and now I’m all bloated and stupid looking and my hair is a goddamn mess and…oh god, I’m a disaster.  I’m a total disaster.  Fuckin—uggggggggh, stop it. Relax. … … …THIS PICTURE IS NEVER GOING TO CAPTURE MY ESSENCE!!!!”

“You ok?”

“I just…I don’t think I look that great in pictures.”

“You’re fiiiiiiiiiine.”

“JUST FINE?!  FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!”

The proofs come back and there it is, shot after shot, a cross between a deer-in-headlights and an apology.

“Fucking hell, is this really all I have to work with?”

And there will be one picture, one picture amongst the hundreds taken that is passable, somewhat cute and not entirely tragic. 

“Oh.  So, I guess that’s my headshot, then.”

…

…OK, so this wasn’t precisely how my headshots went down the first time around, but I deeply feared such a thing happening with these new shots.  Deeply.

I have no idea what it is, but I have never really dug how I look in pictures.  Not really.  Put me in front of a video camera, we’re swell.  Put me in front of a camera and give me a little “Say ‘Cheese’ ” and I tend to look a goofball.  Well, I think that I do. 

(Sidebar:  It’s entirely beside the point that I am, in fact, a goofball.  I would really like to not look that way when I am, say, trying to be sincere or lovely.  You’re taking a picture, I try to exude some kind of ethereal glow or something about myself, no, absolutely not, you will get “goofball”, this is what happens.)

So as the time got closer to my shoot, and the more pressure that I was putting on the event and the end product and every ounce of headshot-related everything (a pressure that my manager was only adding to:  “I’m realllllllllllllly putting a lot of emphasis on these new pictures to get you more work.”  You are?!  Oh.  Fantastic.  SO AM I!), the more that I began to fear that shitty headshots were inevitable.

…

So. They’re not.

I am currently flipping through 367 proofs of my face (!!!!367!!!!) and I can assuredly tell you that you can, in fact, walk away from your shoot not feeling like a complete and total numbnuts with nothing but lackluster choices for yourself.

Here’s how:

Step One)  (…”Cut a hole in the box”…I had to…AND) Make sure that you do your research.  Lots of it.  Look at as many different photographers’ portfolios as is humanly possible to know what’s out there, what in no way appeals to you, and what completely strikes your fancy.

Step Two) Once you find someone whose work you dig, meet with them to see if you actually dig each other.  You don’t want to get photographed by an asshole or someone that you just don’t click with because otherwise, you’ll be gritting your teeth and clenching your ass cheeks so tightly throughout the shoot that you’ll never photograph well.

Step Three) Be nice to yourself in the days leading up to the shoot: Get some sleep for once, buy yourself some new clothes (you’re already dropping an exorbitant amount of money on the shoot, what’s a little more?  Honestly.), chug gallons of water and, maybe, if you’re feeling crazy, skip the alcohol for a bit.  It will suck, especially when you’re hanging out with your lady friends and they’re working on some sexy looking martinis, and when everyone else at work is participating in Shot O’Clock.  Restrain yourself, sip on your water, convince yourself that you feel like a champ, and plan to make up for lost time as soon as your shoot is over and done with.

Step Four) Go in knowing what you want.

Step Five) Go in knowing what you want.

Step Six) Go in knowing what you want.

Step Seven) Allow yourself to be surprised.

Step Eight) Leave your cop uniform at home.

Step Nine) Have your photographer play The Strokes-station on Pandora throughout your shoot.  Just do it. 

Step Ten) Remind yourself that this shoot is not a matter of Life or Death.  Continually.  Best case scenario, you’re having a little mini dance party for a few hours and chatting with a really fun and quirky guy who just happens to have a camera stuck to his face.  And a make-up artist behind him (and, who are we kidding, that shit’s awesome).

I mean, that’s it.  No big deal. 

It doesn’t have to be terrifying.  It can actually be a completely good time.  And if it is, if it legitimately is, then you’ll get your proofs back (whether it’s 50 or 450 of them) and find yourself going:

Oh.  So, that’s not terrible.  That’s…Me.  That’s Me.

And then you remind yourself that that’s all it ever is.

A Starving Artist on Preparedness

So, I went to another workshop with a casting director the other day.  It was super great, super informative, and it may have been the first one in the history of the world to run long.  Like by a lot.  ... An hour over time.

These things don't happen.

Needless to say, this casting director was 175% invested in us, and I appreciated her for that.

I could go on and on about how totally candid she was, how much she emphasized the importance of making only super bold choices when auditioning ("Why would I ever want to see you do only what's on the page?   I already know what's on the page, and now I'm bored with it.  Show me how clever you are."), how much she harped on the lack of professionalism in actors and how that will always trump talent (I completely and totally buy that), the fact that I think that I kinda kicked ass (you know, fun fact, but not entirely important), lots of things, I could say lots of things. 

Instead, I'm just gonna cite this one moment in the workshop for you:

There was this one gal in the class, & she was beautiful and exotic looking, she was dressed beautifully and exotically, and she had a beautiful and exotic sounding voice to boot.  OH!  And she had this beautiful and exotic name, too.  Bitch had The Package.  She was given this scene featuring two women, one was a spokeswoman for a dildo, the other the host of the infomercial featuring said dildo; each woman had two lines apiece, and she was expected to give each role a try.

"These characters only have two lines, so you only have two lines to make a lasting impression with me," said the casting director, "Be bold."

(Sidebar:  I had the same scene, so I was taking notes.  Lots.)

Dildo Spokeswoman was fine, kinda sexy, kinda weird, but fine.  When it came time for her to give Infomercial Host a try:

"OK.  So do it again, and this time, think Kathie Lee Gifford."
"Who?"
...
"Wait.  You don't know who Kathie Lee Gifford is?"
"No."
(No way.)
"Wow.  OK.  I don't know, am I dating myself with that reference?  Maybe."
"I don't...I don't know."
"OK.  Do it again, and think Kelly Ripa."
"Who's that?"
...
...
"...You're kidding."
"No.  Should I know who that is?"
(YES!)

And the casting director just stared at her in complete and total disbelief.

"Kelly Ripa.  From television."
"Oh.  ...I don't really watch television."
...
...
...
"You don't watch television?"
"No.  I mean, not really."

...

Let's take a moment to discusss why this is so bad.  Actually, let's do a little comparitive-thingy. This is much like if the following people said the following things:

Wannabe English Teachers:  "I mean, I haven't read any Shakespeare or Kurt Vonnegut.  Or To Kill a Mockingbird.  I don't really read."

Wannabe Musicians:   "Who's Milli Vanilli?  Who's Jack White?  What's an iPod?"

Wannabe Car Mechanics:  "I melted one of my brother's matchbox cars once.  So...I guess I've kinda taken a car apart."

...No.  Just No, to all of it.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T WATCH TELEVISION?!"
"Well...."
"YOU WANT TO BE AN ACTOR AND YOU DON'T WATCH TELEVISION?!?!"
"I go to plays."
"NO, but...POP CULTURE!!!  HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS OUT THERE?!  HOW ELSE DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S RELEVANT?!"
"I do."
"You DON'T!  You don't.  These women are all over TV, and in every sort of magazine, for better or worse."
"...Oh."

And my heart kinda started to hurt for her.  Almost.  I mean, if we're being honest with ourselves, I don't watch nearly as much TV as I should.  I don't have time to.  And people say that it needs to be almost like a second job for Starving Artists, watching TV, going to movies, reading plays, all that jazz (...pretty decent second job, right?).  We have to immerse ourselves in everything that's out there so we can find our fit.  That's what's expected of us.

But, GOOD! CHRIST! 

"Guys, you need to do your homework and know who's relevant, who's been relevant..."
"...Um..."
"...Who's out there at all...."
"...Um, excuse me?"
"Yes?"
"Can you tell me something about these women?"

And this casting director, this casting director who's been doing epic amounts of shit in New York City for twenty-plus years just sat there for a moment and stared at her.

"...No."
"But..."
"That's not my job."
"OK.  Can I try it again?"
"No.  You're done."

And you knew that didn't just mean "You're done with your scene".   The girl had been written-off.  There will be no phone calls, there will be no auditions, she didn't come in prepared and, just like that, a potential professional connection had been destroyed.

And we all watched it happen.

And it was sad.  And kinda terrifying.  And you think about it, and if someone gives you only two lines to make a lasting impression, that's a lot of pressure on anywhere between one to twenty words.

But, I guess the twenty scripted words aren't the most important thing.  I guess it's the grand whole of your First Impression that lasts.

A Starving Artist Needs Guidance On Her Apple

I am not thrilled about the fact that I am almost completely computer illiterate.

It's true.  I am,  I swear.

I went to grade school at a time when the only computer-related things that were taught were:
--This is how you get comfortable with an Apple/IBM-keyboard.
--This is how you can type 53 words a minute.
--This is how you add a Button.  (...I think that had something to do with some kind of slideshowy PowerPoint-thing.  ...Hey look! I know what PowerPoint is!!!!)

In college, I honestly never had to use anything beyond Microsoft Word.  Ever.  Oh, except that one PowerPoint-presentation I had to give for a nutrition class (THERE IT IS AGAIN!).  I only JUST used Microsoft Excel for my first time Last. Year...and I was lost the first couple of times around with it.

I can download things with ease, I can upload things (sometimes...), I can use the most basic templates imaginable to make things look clean and tidy and easy to navigate (Thanks, Blogger!).

However.

If it's complicated, if it is even slightly complicated, if something has to be dragged into a folder that doesn't appear on a main page somewhere or if I have to reconfigure something or add a Flash Player somewhere, I am absolutely positively screwed.

I was ok with this for awhile.  Honestly.  And I know some people might think "Wait, what?  No big deal, you're a Starving Artist, precisely how technologically advanced do you need to be?  I fail to see the problem in this."  I thought this very same thing.

However, there is a huge problem in this:

If you want to be taken seriously, your shit can't look elementary.  
...And there it is.

I am smack in the middle of the Three Year Itch, meaning that I've been a Starving Artist in this city just long enough that I'm comfy, I know what I'm doing, but I need an all-around upgrade.  Hence, one of the reasons I started taking classes at Upright Citizen's Brigade, why I'm throwing myself into more workshops/paid auditions, why I'm getting new headshots taken (and am in the process of setting up photographer interviews RIGHT! NOW!), all of the things.  These little steps forward are great and fine and I have had no problem in taking them or finding a way to make them all happen.

It's this other stuff.  This other stuff that's supremely necessary that I wish I knew how to do for myself, but absolutely positively don't.

Par Example:
**I have a website.  I do, she exists, and that's a GOOD thing for sure.  But she's a sad looking thing.  She looks like a Junior in high school designed it (although, honestly, I probably shouldn't give myself that much credit, current high school Juniors know wayyyyyyyy more about this stuff than I do).

It is supremely basic and has splotches of pictures of Me (headshots, production photos, etc.) just copy/pasted throughout.  I couldn't do some kind of flashy slideshow-business with them, that wasn't even an option with the template, this was the only option.   Incidentally, my main page honestly feels more like a collage meant for Grama's living room wall than a "professional" website.  I couldn't even upload my resume onto it, I had to type it all in...and it looks like hell.  Really.

It ALL looks like hell, really.

But it's there just the same, and I suppose I should be grateful for that.  But, three years in, I would really really like it to look about 275-times better than it does.

So my options are the following:
--Find someone to design it for me (and pay them hundreds of dollars to do it when I'm already spending thousands of dollars on other supremely mandatory albeit super exciting things this summer...and throwing up in my mouth over all of it).

--Take a huge effing risk and figure out how to do this flashy upgraded technologically advanced shit for myself.  ...This terrifies me.  I honestly want someone to sit down with me and hold my hand/remind me to take deep breaths throughout the whole process.  But, I think...

...Mehhh, I don't know what I think.  WHAT'S A BITCH TO DO?!?!

Par Example Seconde:
**I have a Facebook-page (obviously).  And it's great and it's loaded up with great fun things and I'm on it all the goddamn time.  However, I got to thinking that I should probably have a Facebook-page that is specifically devoted to professional stuff, a Business Page, if you will.

So, I started to create one.

Business Pages are set up that much differently than regular pages; you don't really have "Friends" as much as you have "People to Like Your Stuff" if not just "Subscribe" to it (the Subscription-part if self-explanatory enough).  Your page shows a restricted amount of things, you can more closely restrict the number of people who are drawn towards your page, etc.

It's Facebook.  It's the easiest most navigable thing in the world and everyone but EVERYone is on it.

...I can figure next to none of this shit out.

WHAT'S A BITCH TO DO?!?!

Par Example Finale:
**I have all of these clips of all these things that I've filmed, between commercials, industrials, a scene study, a web-series, and my little blip on Bored To Death. Once I get the footage my most recent shoot, I will finally have enough material for a reel, like a pretty damn good one.

(Sidebar: Actors should have reels for themselves as early as is humanly possible.  However, when you spent eight years of your youngish adult-life only doing theatre, it takes awhile to build up some on camera-stuff.)

Currently, I have YouTube-links of these clips pasted all over my shitty website, but really, piecing them together in a professional and concise-looking way would be an excellent idea.

...So.  How the fuck do I do that?

My options (Scarily similar to my "Website"-options):
--Find someone to piece it together for me (and pay them hundreds of dollars to do it when I'm already spending thousands of dollars on other supremely mandatory albeit super exciting things this summer...projectile vomit everywhere, repeatedly, hold bake sales & convince sweet boyfriend to start hooking to make up for the tremendous financial loss).

--Take a huge effing risk and figure out how to do all this flashy upgraded technologically advanced blahbitty blahbitty blah all by myself.  Blah blah blah.  ...It almost sounds sensible.  It ALMOST does.  But the problem is that aside from me being absolutely positively horrified by absolutely all of this, I don't really know when I'm going to find the time to teach myself this shit.  ALL of this shit, ANY of it!

But.  It's gotta get done.  All of it.  So...What's a bitch to do?  Does she hire someone, or does she man up, find a way to clear her schedule and learn a few things (under the guidance of someone who is equally as willing to clear their schedule and teach a few things)?  Or, am I hopeless?  Like a complete and total lost cause? Surely not.   Right?

(Sidebar:  Now I know how my parents feel about...ok, well, most things contemporary and technological.   Ew, I feel old.)

How's about this:
If you help me out, I will make you dinner.  Lots.  And write you some personalized poetry.  Organize your sock drawer, paint your living room, walk your dog every day for a month.

And!  I will make you your very own mix CD, from a playlist I've created OFF OF ITUNES!!!!  YEAH!!!  Aw see, I OWN this technological shit!!!

...

A Starving Artist on Image.

Yesterday afternoon, I headed out my front door looking like one of the Andrews Sisters.

I had my hair blown-out straight only to roll some loose Victory Curls (“Victory Curls”?!  Goddamn, 1940s-terminology was the coolest.), delicately lined eyes, bright red lips, and an authentically vintage plaid dress paired with some authentically vintage badass heels.

I Looked.  Awesome.

I’m well aware that in New York, there are two types of people who can get away with walking around like this:  Hipsters, and Starving Artists.  Hipsters do it to look chic and out of the ordinary for Chic and Out of the Ordinary’s sake, whereas Starving Artists do it because an audition has asked it of them and, incidentally, they end up feeling chic and out of the ordinary.

(…I don’t need to tell you which category I fall into.)

(…)

(…God bless this audition.)

So, I walked through my neighborhood, feeling like The Shit.  Sat on the train, feeling just the same.  Paraded around Gramercy, strolled on over to Chelsea and down into the West Village in my 60 year-old little heels just because I could.  And yeah, I felt fucking glorious.  And yeah, I was aware that there were a handful of people looking my way, and I was aware that there were a handful who intentionally weren’t. 

I genuinely didn’t care either way.

It was not until I was on the train back home that I dared to take the rest of Me in:

I am a girl who, for once, actually looks kinda cute.  But, I look like I should be simultaneously saluting someone and cooking a pot roast, yet I’m reading Game of Thrones and slurping an over-sized Juice Generation smoothie.  …Huh.

And, to me, that made perfect sense. 

“Quirk”.  I was still embodying my label, my Image of “Quirk”, just in an entirely different way than usual.

Neat. …Oh, Bran, Summer IS a perfect name for your direwolf!!!

Starving Artists fight with their Image (/persona/type/all of these things) all of the goddamn time.  It's a fact.  It’s almost like a thing that you have to expect to deal with once you walk into this business.

My Image has been called into question a couple of times within the past week, and kind of for the first time.  EVER, it felt like. 

I take great pride in the fact that I’ve known for a long long time what kind of Image I project out into the world, both as a Me and as a Starving Artist.  I mean, in school, your instructors attempt to stretch you and make you more rounded as an actor, expand your range as much as is possible, right right right right obviously.  But all the while, you’re expected to hold true to “Who You Are Most”.

Over years and years of careful calculation, I have determined that Who I Am Most is “Quirky”, or, if we’re being more specific, “Quirky Effervescent Girl”, or, if we’re really zeroing in,  “Quirky Bright Best Friend”.

This Image is further indicated by the following traits:

--I’m not the prettiest girl in the room.

--I’m not the boringest girl in the room.

--I’m not the stupidest girl in the room.

--I’m not the quietest girl in the room.

--I am bubbly.

The Image is further indicated on a purely superficial scale in that:

--I am extraordinarily animated, vocally and physically (although, hopefully, less elastic-faced than I once was).

--I move quickly always.  Like a bunnyrabbit.

--I have a huge smile, and it’s gummy. 

--I have huge eyes, and they’re better storytellers than I am.

--I have crazy mermaid hair.

--I generally wear bright things.

--…I am bubbly.

Oh, and:

--I’m a loud silly bitch that people seem to want to spend time with.   People who are accepting of the fact that I might break into a song/limerick about them at a moment’s notice.

Hence:  “Quirky Bright Best Friend”.  (In a nutshell.) 

I’m cool with this.  In fact, I’m more than cool with this, these are all things that I’m happy to own and, in fact, have for quite some time.  In fact, I might be so bold as to say that I occasionally flaunt these things because, I mean, why not?  I own them, you don’t, and I like that, so…so, yeah, I can flaunt my Quirk.  Non-obnoxious-like.  I do, and I will.

How.  Evs.

Because I “own” these things and have owned these things and just like them all so much, I don’t really want to deviate from any of it too much.  Call it “Stubborn”, call it “Smart”, call it what you will, I just don’t want to do it.

I never thought I’d be asked to.

…

This past week, a sweet sweet lady friend of mine had an interview with my manager; she had kicked an exorbitant amount of ass at her grad school showcase and, incidentally, my manager wanted to chat with her and I, incidentally, wanted to know all of the horny details immediately following.

She:  “Kinda intense.  Haha.”

ME:  Isn’t he, though?!

She:  “Oh and he just told me that he has ideas for your hair.”

ME: …What does that mean about my hair…? 

What DID that mean about my hair?! 

As much as I love my mane, it’s not a thing I’ve ever been too protective about.  I’ve had it a sundry of different lengths, dyed it a sundry of different colors, it all grows out or grows back, that’s fine.  But…Huh.   Odd.

I emailed him straight away.

ME:  I heard you have some thoughts about my hair…?

He:  “LOL.  All in good time…”

…And that was it!  That was ALL he said.

ME:  I am SO INTRIGUED!

Which was actually code for “I am now suddenly SO NERVOUS!”  Because, what the hell?!  Just tell me what you want!  Don’t dangle the idea in front of me like that...unless you think I won’t like it…

Hours went by before I heard anything else on the matter.  I was on my way out the door to go to a workshop when sweet sweet lady friend texted:

“He wants you to cut it some and straighten it.”

…

I throw diva-fits over nothing.  I generally don’t believe in them, they’re heinous and gross.

I threw a goddamn Diva. Fit.

STRAIGHTEN my hair?!  He wants me to STRAIGHTEN my hair?!?!  Permanently?!?!?!  FUCK NO!!!  No.  No!  Absolutely not, that is a ridiculous request, it’s not happening.

I was furious.  Furious at the idea that someone would want me to part with my curls—I LOVE them!  How DARE you!!—and furious that he would even think to make such an obscene and ludicrous and potentially career-detrimental request. 

That’s my mermaid hair, and people talk about it.  In a good way.  To my face.   All the time.

How did he not know that?

That’s a thing that helps me to stand out.  That’s a thing that defines my Quirk, it helps to define Me.  I permanently straighten my hair, and I will look like everyone else…almost. 

Did he remember what happened to Jennifer Grey after her nose job?!

It takes a significant Image-defining option out of the way, and I will straighten my hair on occasion for occasional auditions, obviously, and happily, but I will not do it permanently, I will not get rid of my curls, I will not get rid of my Quirk, that’s a stupid request!  It’s stupid, I hate it.  Guhhhhh!!!

…Obviously, none of this was said directly to him, rather, I shrieked it to the rafters while pacing around my living room.  Like you do.  It actually has yet to come up in actual conversation and, frankly, I hope it doesn’t.  (Maybe he realized it was a bad idea.)  And maybe I’m feeling too precious about it.  Maybe.  …But, I don’t think so.

Thing is, and correct me if I’m wrong, I just feel like the last person in the world that I should have to defend any semblance of my Image to is the chap who’s representing me.  He should be as aware of it as I am. 

If he’s helping me “sell” the Quirky Girl, why deflate the Quirk?

This notion lit a fire inside of me that I carried into the workshop later that evening.  I was meeting with a casting director—an indie film casting director (EEEEEEEE!!!)—and, obviously, wanted to put my best face forward. 

For this particular workshop, we the class had the good fortune of being able to choose our own scenes; the casting director listed a series of sides on a database from both movies he’s currently working on and ones that he’s worked on in the past, and left it up to us to skim through them and choose one that fit us best.

It didn’t take long for me to find one:  a chick managing an underground radio station, kinda spastic, perfectly Quirky.  Done.

I dressed the part well, I was completely entirely off-book, and felt a bit firey for sure from the hair-convo, but primarily fearless and stoked. 

I walked up to the front of the room and perched myself in front of the camera, feeling like I had nothing to prove and everything to own. 

So I did.

There was chat, there was a take, there were giggles, there was an adjustment, there was laughter.  A lot.  And then, it was done.

Casting Director:  “Cut.  Really really good work.  Perfect second time around.  Honestly.”

ME:  Thank you.

CD:  “You nailed it.  And…you should know that you have great timing.  Like, really impressive comedic timing.”

ME:  Wow.  Thank you so much!  Thanks!

(Thank you!!!)

CD:  “…I mean, I got nothing else to say.  Really great.  Thank you.  A lot.”

…So, that felt awesome.  I felt giddy and flattered and relieved and elated and all of those things.  Tremendously.

For fifteen seconds.

And then, this happened.

CD:  “Angela.”

ME:  Yes?

CD:  “Your resume is really impressive.”

ME:  Oh.  Thank you.

CD:  “You have some pretty great, impressive credits on here.  And you’ve obviously been trained well.”

ME:  Thank you! Very much.

CD:  “Really and truly.  And your headshot is not nearly good enough for you.”

…

WHAT?!  My HEADSHOT?!  My calling card for the past four years?!  The picture I’ve been selling myself with?!  The image of my Image?!  “Not good enough”?!?!

I had had maybe two negative comments about my headshot in the past four years.  Two.  And I had been thinking about getting new ones taken, until I had various friends, my manager and one of my commercial agents dissuade me from doing so.

“No.”

    “No way.”

         “You certainly don’t need to.”

“You’re still the same actress telling this same story that you are in this picture.”

    “You look no different.”

           “Save your money.”

    “Save your money, it’s totally unnecessary.”

And now, this.

CD:  “On a shallower scale, you just look much younger in this picture than you appear.  Like, if I saw this picture, I would think to cast you as high school-age, or early college.  I absolutely would not just from looking at you right now.”

(Oooooh.)

CD:  “Class, look.  Do you guys see what I mean?”

(Guhhhhh.  Well, this, um…this feeling sucks.) 

But then, he went on.

CD:  “That’s not even the most important thing.  You.  You are bright.  You are like big and bright.” 

(“Big”?  How so?…Don’t read into it.)

CD:  “I have talked to you for two and a half minutes and that is evident.  And it’s already infectious, and it’s different and unique and good.”

ME:  …Wow.  Thank you.

(Wow.  Thank you.)

CD:  “This picture doesn’t tell me that. “

ME:  Oh.

(Oh.  Shit.)

CD:  “It’s a pretty picture for sure, but I don’t care.  We see pretty pictures all of the time, and it gets really easy to pass them by.  Because we expect to see them.  We don’t expect to see You.”

ME:  …Oh.

CD:  “This isn’t you.  It’s pretty.  And it’s blah.  Show me bright, Quirky, infectious you.  You find a picture that can do that for you, you’ll kill.”

ME:  Wow.  OK.

CD:  “You couldn’t be passed by, passed up if you had a picture saying as much.  Your resume says as much, you certainly say as much, you deserve a picture that says as much.”

(Oh my god.)

ME:  You think I’ve been getting passed by?  For this?

CD:  “Honestly? I do.”  (Oh my god.)  “And I don’t want you to anymore, OK?”

ME:  OK.

CD:  “New pictures.”

ME:  New pictures.  OK.  Great.  …Thank you so much.

CD:  “Absolutely absolutely.”

I’d messed up.  I’d sold myself short.  I’d owned the Image, built a resume around the Image, and been passing around a calling card, a headshot that didn’t quite do it. 

I had been overlooked for it.

He was too specific for me to not believe that what he was saying was absolutely true.

There was this huge crazy pit that was starting to grow in my stomach, but I closed it up as quickly as I could and just stared ahead of me at this casting director.  This casting director who, evidently, believed in Me.  In who I was.  In my capabilities, my Image, Me. 

He believed in Me that much after two and a half minutes. 

I had no idea what I did to deserve that.

I still don’t.

CD:  “Where is she…Angela!”

ME:  Yes?

CD:  “That scene?  That scene that this girl just did?  Perfect for you.  It would obviously sound totally different coming from you, but really.  Perfect.”

ME:  Awesome.  Thanks.

CD:  “No kidding, work on it.”

ME:  I will.  Thank you.

CD:  “Man, I can’t wait til you get new pictures.”

…Me neither.

A Starving Artist or What You Will

Not every Starving Artist is given the opportunity to have a second go-round with a role, nonetheless a kickass role in a kickass play.  

Oh man.  It's the greatest.

It's like the world just says "OK, hey.  Here's this again.  Try it once more, and do it better.  See what else you can find.  You're different, you're older, that shouldn't be hard."

We just opened our Twelfth Night two days ago, but I first did this thing when I was in grad school and had...an "important" experience with it.  Not "good", not "bad", "important". 

So, for actors, grad school is a purely selfish place, right?  It's this place where you have three years to investigate yourself, figure out precisely who the hell you are, know it for definite, and then walk out into the world with it.

I was still figuring all of that out when I played Olivia the first time.  I was actually in the thick of it.  I only knew how to be a quirky likable girl; I felt comfortable being a little weird and feared being ordinary, I couldn't bear the thought of the audience not having my character's back (slash not liking ME), and I was youngish and super wide-eyed.  Henceforth, when my director (the same man you yelled at me for saying "Yes" to everything, openly hated my bubbliness and frequently called me a "Flake" specifically to piss me off...which worked...he was a peach), when he said "Angela, your first steps onstage in this play need to be the steps of a solemn high-status woman who refuses to get out of mourning," I thought:

Ummm...I didn’t understand a word you just said.  Could you repeat that?

I legitimately had no idea what that meant.  In terms of Me, I didn't.  At all.  It sounded like the complete antithesis of everything I was and I, therefore, had no idea what to do with it.

So, I played with her, determined to figure something out. 

Every day, he told me “No”.  Every day, I got shot down.  Every day, I got a little more confused, and every day, I broke apart a little more.

“Angela, she’s a woman.”

I know.

“You’re still giving me a girl.”

I’m working on it, I know.

“And she’s in mourning.”

OK.

“She’s stuck there.”

…OK.

“But, she’s a clown!”

Uh…

“Don’t forget that.  She’s a clown, in love.”

…I’m confused.

“What is so confusing about that?!”

(EVERYTHIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!)

I hated everything.  I would run home, tear my hair out, vent to that guy I date…make-out, watch Rock of Love on VH1, and pass out no less confused than I was hours before.

“Angela, you need to listen to the people onstage with you.”

I am, I honestly honestly am.

“Then why aren’t you getting it?!”

I don’t know!!

Every day.

“A mourning clown in love, Angela! That’s it!”

Wait.  “That’s it”?!

“Yes!  But you’re a woman, not a character!”

But.  OK, but, I’m a clown?!

“WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR YOU?!”

Every.  Day.

Finally, one night, I went home, sobbing.  Embarrassed.  We were getting ready to start teching and I was lost, and terrified that I was going to make a fool out of myself.

That guy that I date and I had only been together for like 3 months, and already, he’d mastered the art of talking me off a cliff.  (Saint.)

“Baby.  I think you’re trying too hard to do everything he’s asking of you.”

Well, of course I am.  Olivia’s apparently all of those things.  To him.

“Or she’s not.”

…What?

“Or she’s not.  Maybe they’re all just suggestions.  Maybe you need to take everything he says with a grain of salt instead of taking it all directly to heart and trying to do…all of it.”

But, I feel like I’m not doing any of it.  And I can’t figure out a way to effectively do any of it.

“Well.  Then maybe ‘taking what he says with a grain of salt’ really just means ‘don’t go out of your way to do what he wants.’ ”

…What?

“Take the essentials of her, the essentials that he’s suggested, but interpret them only in the ways that you’re capable of doing them.”

…Oh.

“You are enough.”

Oh.

“Always.”

And so the next day, I walked into rehearsal, pissed and determined.  I threw every note of my director's out of my head and stared directly at him with “Fuck you”-eyes every time I had to deliver a soliloquy.  I felt like I had lit a fire under my ass and just started running, erratically, but running just the same.

I was exhausted.

We sat on the floor for notes after the run.

“Before we begin…Angela.”

Yeah?

“Where the HELL has that girl been all this time?!”

… … …(And I smirked.)

“No less than that.  Ever.”

OK.

And thusly went my first hand at Olivia.  A thing that worked in the end, but one that I never really felt was “mine”; a thing I always knew could be better.

And so, here I am, five years later, and I have this opportunity to try her again.  A completely different director, completely different ensemble, interpretation, environment, city…and I feel like I know this bitch.

I feel like I have been through enough heartbreak in my life at this point to know how one can walk around with it every day.

I know what it means to be both a woman and a fool, a clown….because I’m pretty sure that’s who I am in my every day life.

I have been betrayed by friends, I have been hounded by assholes, I have aggressively pursued things only to be shot down…and only for me to turn right around and pursue it again, harder.

These are “Olivia”-things.

And so, I walked into the rehearsal process ready to own her, ready to make her mine, and our director is the coolest guy in the whole wide world, so he gave us all space to figure out how to do that, how to own our shit.  He would reign us in when necessary, but would otherwise say “Yeah yeah yeah, great, keep playing, now try this.”

It felt.  So good.

And it felt like work, but, like, the best work, and I knew that I was walking into this Opening Night of this Twelfth Night offering something different…both for myself, and for the audience.

This Olivia was new to me, and unique to me, and I felt with every fiber of my being that the audience would feel that, too.

And I was jazzed.

We pretty much have the most badass playful ensemble imaginable, and our funky unique little production (in a legit cabaret house in the Upper Upper West Side, it’s the shit) went off without a hitch the first night.  Of course it did.  People went nuts, couldn’t stop talking about how much fun it was, totally non pretentious, absolutely 100% all fun all the time.

…So, that feels great.

We went out, celebrated, turned right around and brought it again the second night, killed, went out, celebrated.  And I felt awesome.

And then our first review came out, our first glowing wonderful review with a headline that read:

SHAKESPEARE IN A BAR IS PREDICTABLY RAUCOUS: “AN AGGRESSIVELY SEDUCTIVE OLIVIA”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The writer is totally with us, totally thinks the production is a blast: a “razor sharp”, “deftly-executed physical comedy” that is both “relevant” and “engaging”.

(THESE ARE ALL GREAT THINGS!!!)

“Fancy West London theater, this is not.”

(THAT’S GREAT, TOO!!!!)

“…this isn’t your typical theater experience, you might be in for a bit of a shock when you are accosted by an aggressively seductive Olivia or realize you are drinking the same beer as Sir Toby Belch.”

(YOU’RE GODDAMNED RIGHT!!!!!)

“For those who want to languish in the artistry of Shakespeare’s syntax, you may be better off elsewhere, as this interpretation focuses more on the comedic aspects of this screwball romantic comedy. Don’t expect Olivia to be too mired in mourning or for Malvolio to hold a grudge for long.”

(THAT IS CORRECT!!! NEITHER ONE OF US WILL DO THOSE THINGS!!!)

The writer loved the music, loved the concept, loved the fact that we were openly having a ridiculously good time, mentions three of my cast mates as having particularly kicked ass (because, let’s face it, they do, hard)…and then, the self-concerned sporadically self-conscious actress in me, that one who hasn’t done a play in a year and a half, that actress read the article a second time.  Read it, and thought:

Oh. But, where’s my name?  She mentioned my character, but not my name. …Does this mean I actually sucked?

…I did.  I thought that.  I went to that place.

Dumb.

And then, I realized that that was my “grad school”-place.  That place in my stupid actor brain where I need obvious and undeniable approval of what I’m doing in my role.  Publicized love for who I am and what I bring to the table.  That place where somehow, I will not know if I’m doing well unless someone tells me as much.

I hate that place.  Living there isn’t healthy.

Reviews are great, reviews are an awesome pick-me-up and a super gauge of how what you’re doing is reading to the masses.  I will always read them, always.  I will.

But.  I won’t live by them, won’t let them add or detract from what I’ve brought to the table.  I can’t.  And just shouldn’t.

When you own something, no one else needs to tell you how great it is.  You already know. 

Isn’t that why you took ownership of it to begin with?

http://www.libratheater.org/12th-night.html

A Starving Artist on 'Funny' (Take One).

OK, guys, so here’s the deal, and I mean to say this in the politest of ways and as gently (and emphatically) as is humanly possible:

Do not try to be funny.

Don’t.  Just don’t.  Ever.  Because I assure you that it won’t work, for A, and, for B, your doing so is bound to make an entire room of people dually uncomfortable and pissed-off.

When you’re trying to be funny, it behooves absolutely no one.

I understand that this might sound crazy coming from me, a chick who has recently enrolled in Improv classes in an attempt to better learn the art of ‘funny’.  “What the shit are you getting at, Angela?  Stop not making sense.”

OK.  Well, thing is that there is a distinct difference between ‘actual funny’ and ‘funny that is forced’.  According to Merriam Webster (… … …):

actual funny (n):  the end result of having taken an actual real life situation and releasing the absolute truth of it, thereby revealing the comedy within it (i.e: anything on Cheers or Modern Family, anything to have ever come out of Mitch Hedberg’s mouth)

forced funny (n):  the end result of having taken an idea that you think is hilarious and is, in fact, not to anyone older than eight years of age, and running with it (i.e: those nine guys you saw doing stand-up/begging for therapy in the basement of a coffee house in Prospect Heights, anything to have ever come out of Seann William Scott’s mouth)

Makes sense, right?

I can talk to you like an expert on this because I have ample experience in both funnies.

…

Once upon a time when I was in undergrad, I was cast in a production of Neil Simon’s Rumors (…it’s cool, fellow theatre nerds, you can chuckle/shake your head in dismay).  I played Cookie.  If you are playing someone by the name of “Cookie”, you can easily assume that bitch be crazy and, in fact, she is, bitch is crayyyy and, in fact, you only really need to stick to the truthfulness of the script and legitimately engage with the people onstage with you in order to reveal just how crazy she is.

That’s it.  Just do what’s obvious and work with what’s in front of you.

…

WELL, that was not enough for 20 year-old Me.  I wanted her to be more than that.  I wanted our audiences to walk away saying “That was bitch wasn’t just crazy, she was crazy and hilarious!”  And I knew I could make that happen, and I knew just what to do…

…ADD SOME SHIT!!!!

I busted out every zany voice and warble I had in my back pocket and used them, all of them, every single performance.  I milked every punch-line so hard so that the audience could not only better hear how hilariously I was saying every single word, but so that they had more opportunity to see the various hilarious expressions on my face as well.  While everyone else was running all over the stage like chickens with their heads cut off (because that’s what you’re supposed to do in a farce…), I was taking my time to glide through the space like an oafish grand dame, metaphorically winking at the audience, thinking Yessssssss.  Love me, bitches.  I am the funniest damn woman in the universe and I’m gonna make you look at me.  …You like that?  Do ya?  Do ya?!

‘Twas a disaster.  I looked goddamned bonkers.

Shortly after our run, I had an intelligent conversation with my friend who had played Claire (and was, incidentally, hi-fucking-larious):

It was weird, I don’t really feel like I ever found my groove in the play, and I don’t get why I wasn’t funnier.

“Well.  I mean, you were never really playing with us.“

What?!  Nuh-uh!  Yes I was.

“I mean, no, not really.  You were always doing your own thing.”

Oh.  …Huh.

Rule #1 in ‘Funny’:

--Actively play with whom and whatever is in the scene with you; don’t just do your own thing.  (Slash ‘Don’t be a jerk’.)

Great.

So then in grad school, we did an honest-to-goodness unit on clowning. 

…OK, OK, look, I know that some people are afraid of clowns, and with good reason.  But, in their defense, not all of them are Tim Curry from It and not all of them drive around rusty old vans scoping out the neighborhood kids.  Most of them are just wonderfully weird and wear red noses.

And they’re supposed to make you laugh.

For five weeks, we explored what it meant to be a clown, what it took to get the audience wrapped around your finger and how to turn a simple little act into something totally engaging to watch. 

(Brief Sidebar:  I love that this is how I earned my Master’s degree.)

We also had time to discover and flesh-out our inner clowns, figure out some idea of whom and what our weirdest inner funny might be.   Some of us were silent stalker-like clowns in Batman-costumes, some of us were bossy manipulativey-types like Lucy from Peanuts.  While working on his clown a year later, my boyfriend discovered that his was a chap named Syrup:  a bossy prick with Mel-Gibson-in-Lethal-Weapon-hair who spoke like the ringmaster at a circus and dressed as if he had just beaten-up an 11 year-old girl and stolen her clothes.   (Draw that picture for yourself.  Come on.  Do it.)

He was.  The sexiest.  And every time I looked at him, I peed my pants and died.  And let’s be honest with ourselves, if you can make yourself into an honest-to-goodness sight gag, that is in itself a comedic achievement.  PROPS TO THAT GUY I DATE!!!!

I had Bumpy.

Bumpy was an ambiguously-gendered 8 year-old who had a perpetual cold in its nose and pseudo masturbation problem.  Its hands were always sneaking down towards the crotch of its footy pajamas (a dingy gray pair of footy pajamas with these lumps all over them—Were they sleeping polar bears?  Were they mounds of yellowish snow?  Who knows!—and the words WILD! & RUGGED! scattered everywhere) which were tucked into a pair of ivory kitten heels.  There was a sequined mint green bowtie, there was a huge hulking black and red striped stocking cap…I looked like a cross between a GloWorm and a fucking sausage.

It was awesome.

Bumpy wasn’t the world’s most talkative clown and so when it did speak, I felt that the words needed to be special.  I was having the worst time figuring out what that something special was, and I was spending so much time thinking about what Bumpy could potentially say, that I wasn’t taking the time to figure out what it was that Bumpy actually did. 

So, then this terrifying day in class came around when our instructor gathered all of the clowns in a circle and said:

“OK.  One by one, you’re going to go to the middle of the circle and you’re going to be funny for us.  Get up there, do something funny, and make us laugh. The rest of you:  no sympathy laughs are allowed.”

…DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW POSITIVELY TERRIFYING THAT IS?!?!?!  TERRIFYING!!!!!  “Go be funny.  We’ll just be over here, cold as ice.”  WHAT?!  We all looked around the room at each other; there were seven of us, seven clowns, and seven examples of impending epic failure.

Not a one of us had any idea what to actually do. We all had an at least decent idea as to who we were, but had determined absolutely nothing beyond that.  Henceforth, we all just picked random activities that we thought could be maybe (rather ‘hopefully but most likely not’) funny.  Or, at the very least, almost cute.

Some people tried to pick their nose, some people tried to tell a joke, some people tried putting their ankles behind their head when their bodies were anything but flexible…all without any rhyme or reason as to why, but just to do something.

Me:  I just stood there with my hands in my crotch, waiting for enlightenment.  Story of my life.

We were bloody disastrous.

Rule #2 in ‘Funny’:

--You have to actively do something, and you have to be actively doing something that makes sense in regards to who you are in the scene.  (Slash ‘Don’t lack a purpose.’)

There are about a zillion and a half other “do nots” in this regard.  I have been yelled at for countless of them and over time, I have thankfully amended some of my ways and managed to transform a good chunk of my comedic blunders into absolute triumph and SHEER GENIUS.  (Too much?  Maybe “Mediocre Awesome” is more apt.)  However.  I am delighted to report that I have never been a culprit to the following gruesome act of comedic injustice:

…

Now.  Any and everyone who has ever taken any kind of Improv class will tell you that there will be one guy, at least one guy in the room who will think that he’s hilarious and will have signed-up for the class for no other reason than to prove as much to everyone there.  Somehow, we won’t be able to stop talking about his jokes, his wise-cracks, his razor-sharp wit, his pizzazz, his Je ne sais quoi, and he will be undoubtedly skyrocketed towards stardom a week into the class.  This guy believes this.

This guy is horribly and shamefully wrong.

I really did not want to believe that such a person existed but, indeed, they do, and indeed, he is in my class. 

For the sake of anonymity, we will refer to this guy as “Creepy Leibowitz”, Glary BigHead’s uber slimey Jewish cousin.  He was like the odd man out at their family reunions, left by himself to play Magic the Gathering while the adults were gossiping over G & Ts and Glary BigHead was off rolling her eyes and puking…somewhere. 

Similarly to his cousin, Creepy Leibowitz is not one to take direction well.  Or listen…at all.  Rather, Creepy Leibowitz already knows that he’s funny (HILARIOUS) and doesn’t need your help in the matter.  He just wants you to stand by and watch him weave some comedic magic.

Instructor:  “Creepy Leibowitz, who are you in this scene right now?”

Creepy:  “Um, uh, yeah, well, you know, I’m uh…I’m my Grandfather, who’s an extractor of vampire DNA.”

Instructor:  “Ummm…”

(Creepy Leibowitz just smiles at him.)

Instructor:  “I don’t know your Grandfather, but I feel like he probably isn’t actually…that.  That’s not a real thing.”

Creepy:  “Oh, um…my Grandfather, and maybe he does taxidermy on babies?”

Instructor:  “No.  Nope.  Try again.”

Creepy:  “Oh!  Oh right, no questions, we’re not, uh….we don’t ask questions in Improv. … I am my Grandfather, and he does taxidermy on babies.”

(Creepy Leibowitz smiles at this triumph, we cringe)

Welcome to my fucking nightmare.

Creepy:  “Hey there…Georgie…Georgie-boy, HEY there!  Why don’t we, uh…why don’t we take a stroll and look at some houses together?”

Nice Quirky Guy:  “Francis, I don’t know why you have to take us on this walk around our neighborhood every Sunday to do this, it’s gotten really old.”

Creepy:  “That’s ‘cause your house is so bad.”

(Creepy Leibowitz does a take out to the class, smiles)

Instructor:  “Don’t break the scene.”

Creepy:  “Oh.  OK.  So…hey there.  Hey.  Look, uh, look at that house, it’s so small and….awww, it’s crazy looking, with all of the…you know.  Stuff.  That’s awful, only a group of Asians could possibly live there.”

(smile-take to us, we all gasp…including the girl form Beijing in the front row)

Instructor:  “O.  K.  Subtle racism—well, all racism has absolutely no place in this room, alright?  So.  Let’s agree to not to go to that kind of place, no matter how, uh….funny it may be.”

(…and Creepy Leibowitz hasn’t flinched, hasn’t stopped smiling, hasn’t flinched)

Instructor:  “Creepy Leibowitz?”

Creepy:  “What?”

Great.

These creepshows?  No one wants to work with these creepshows.  We have had four sessions and already, everyone in class is avoiding working with him like the plague.  It’d be one thing if he just didn’t get it—obviously, OBVIOUSLY there are plenty of things that I don’t get—but he’s stubbornly sticking to his own shit, his own shit which is AWful and polarizing everyone in the room by doing so.

Instructor:  “Creepy Leibowitz.”

Creepy:  “Yeah?”

Instructor:  “So.  Your best friend really work in an office like he did in this scene?”

Creepy:  “Yeah.  Yeah, he does, he’s in charge of, uh…of…like…”

Instructor:  “Does he really have slaves like you said?  Like you said in the scene?”

Creepy:  “Well, uh, you know.  Sorta…like…”

Instructor:  “No.  Really.  Does he?”

Creepy:  “Uhhh… … …”

Instructor:  “And has he really ever used anyone as an ottoman?  Like you said, in the scene?”

Creepy:  “Oh.  Oh, yeah, you know, just uh…just like on your average ordinary Tuesday.”

(Creepy Leibowitz smiles.  Proud of himself.)

DON’T BE THAT GUY!!!!!

Rules #3/#46/#722 in  ‘Funny’:  DON’T! BE! THAT! GUY!

It sucks.  He sucks, that guy just sucks and he sucks both the life and the funny out of the room.  So DON’T!!!!

And listen: If you’re funny, really funny, truly honestly funny, then god bless ya.  I mean it.

If you’re not:  look at the people who are (Kristen Wiig), look at the shit that is (vajazzling), and learn from all of it.

Stop trying so hard and just be open to…everything.  (Pot-kettle-black.)

But ABOVE ALL: 

--Don’t be a jerk. 

--Don’t lack a purpose. 

--… & Don’t be that guy.

A Starving Artist in Class

So.  Three days of Improv have happened.

GUYS! GODDAMMIT! IT IS SO! GOOD!  IT IS SO GOOD!!!  I'm nine hours into this world of awesome and already, it's all I want to do.  All of the time.

...

OK, so potentially a slight exaggeration.  I'm in a play right now, too (!!!!!!!!!FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!...also, another topic for another time...) and it's pretty glorious, so I don't think I'd want to give that up.  Also:  spooning.

But, point is I love this shit.  I LOVE it.

I kinda caught myself off-guard the first day because I felt like the most eager girl in the room, (I very well might have been, and I guess that's not so out-of-the-ordinary for me, now that I think about it...I'm a generally eager chick...That's a good thing, right?...), and I thought to myself Shit, I hope that I don't seem too obnoxious to these people.  I hope I don't look so over-eager that I'm, like, alienating everyone else in the room with my excitement and want to just kinda do everything and ohfuckitIdon'tcareIjustwannaDO this LET'SDOTHIS!!!!!

So, I did.

The first two days, admittedly, I felt pretty much like a badass.  We were doing all of these various exercises, learning the basics about "Yes" & "Yes AND", selling imaginary products, becoming Experts on Everything, and I was fucking KILLING it.  KILLING!  IT!  I knew that I was getting it, I knew that the material and I were jiving with each other and that I was somehow creating some pretty clever pretty funny shit.  (Without forcing it, of course.  No one likes a person who tries to force the funny, it's just bad news.  But again, another topic for another time...probably next time...).  And it felt awesome.  I heard a future conversation between my instructor and Amy Poehler in my brain:

"And, I distinctly remember thinking right off the bat that she just got it.  That Angela just understood what Improv was and what Improv could be right from the get-go.  It was crazy.  Bitch is good.  And smart!  But, I mean, I guess that's why she's so busy now doing..."BlahBlahBlahBlahBlah, and yes, I know, I got way ahead of myself, two days into class.  It's fine.

So, two classes/the first six hours in, the world felt great.

...

The beginning of class on Wednesday, the air started to feel different.  The vibe in the room was still ultra positive, I was still inexplicably amped and excited but still, there was some kind of thing happening in the room that felt newer and scarier almost.  Foreign.

But, I paid it no mind and moved through the first half of class with the same eagerness and uber-confidence that I had owned and exuded the previous two classes.

Hi!  Can I have a suggestion from the audience please?
"Feather."
Feather!  Thank you.
...
Sweetheart, look at all of the beautiful birds out here in the park today.
...
"...Honey, I just wanted to tell you...I slept with someone else.  Yesterday.  ...A man."
You slept with a man? Yesterday?...Here?  In the park?!
HAhahahahahahaha!!!

(BOOM!  Look at me!  I OWN setting up a scene post-suggestion!!!! TAKE! THAT!)

(PS, When I became this person who talks to herself like some competitive asshole jock-type, I have no idea...and it's weird for me.)

We took a ten minute break and upon our return, a new idea was introduced:  The Gift.

In Improv, The Gift is a choice that you make about your scene partner, an indication of who they are and where you are, and should be solidified within the first two to three lines of the scene.  It doesn't have to be hilarious, but needs to generous so that you are your partner are 100% clear about where the scene is jumping off from.

Sounds simple enough, right?

Also:  I like giving gifts.  Sounded to me like a delightful piece of cake.

We initially took turns going down a line and coming up with classical pairs of people, just to establish that whomever you are needs to completely correspond with whomever your partner is:

*"I am a stoic security guard."
And I am a saucy female bank robber.

*I am a disgruntled housekeeper.
"What's 'disgruntled' mean?"
Angry.  I am an angry housekeeper.
"Oh!  I'm the trophy wife who hired you."

And then, we swapped and assigned the roles to one another:

*You are my SAT-tutor.
"And you are my prize student."

*"You are a neurologist."
And you have a tumor the size of a watermelon.

And then, we were told to assign the roles to one another through dialogue...and, for some reason, that's when shit got tricky:

*"Doctor, I just wanted to thank you for the lovely colonoscopy this morning."
... (...Uhhhh...Wait.  Wait a second.  Why am I blanking?!)
Hey...Patient.  Dear sweet Patient...I really wish you wouldn't try to seduce me over my colonoscopic skills...here...in this hospital, here.

(...Um...what the fuck was THAT, Angela, and when did you start to talk like an ESL-student?) 

And then, before I had time to really think that over, we progressed from there into full-fledged scenes, using the precisely same idea:

*"The suggestion is Camaro.  Thank you."
... ... ...(Crickets...crickets chirping...no ideas...anywhere...)
"Hey, there, little lady, why don't you come on over this way so I can show you our fancy new Camaro.  It's a great first car for a great young lady."
OK.
"Isn't it nice?"
It's beautiful! 
"Now, I know you don't have a lot of money."
No, I don't have a lot of money.  But, my dad sure does.


And then, our instructor brought the scene to an abrupt halt:

"Angela."
Yes?
"Where's his gift?"
Oh!  Shoot.  (FUCK!)
"He gave you the gift that you're a young girl shopping for a car in a car lot, right?"
Right...
"So, what are you gonna give him back?  You gotta give him something back."
Oh.  Shoot.  Right, you're totally right.
"Also, you told him No."
Oh no! I did?  (Oh NO!  I DID!!) 
"So, you've essentially made the scene all about you."
Oh. (OHHHHHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!)

I felt embarrassed.  I felt selfish and embarrassed, and was pretty sure that I was blushing...which inherently means that my entire face turns bright red.  I felt like everyone in the room was looking at me with a "What the fuck is happening to you?"-kind of glaze.

 "Try again."
OK.
"Your new suggestion is speed bump."
...Speed bump.  Thank you.
... ... ... ...And I spontaneously squat down to the floor.
Dad, can you help me fix this tire on my bike?
"Angela, where are you?"
Dad, can you help fix this tire on my bike out here in the garage?
"Better."  (Phew.)
         "Sure, Honey."
Thanks, Dad.

And there's silence while he comes over and mimes checking out my bike.

"Can you go grab me my tool box?"
Oh.  Sure.  (Wait.  Where's my Gift?)
"Don't drop it this time."
OK.  I won't.  
"It's heavy."  (Where the hell is my Gift, man?)
Here you go.
"Thanks.  Now, can you go grab me my cup of coffee over there?"  (OK, seriously, where is this going?)
OK.  Sure, Dad.
"Don't drop that either, you're always dropping stuff."  (WHERE'S MY GIFT?!) 
I got it.  Here, Dad.  ... ... ...
... 
...
So.  I drove really fast over that new speed bump up the street, I'm sorry.

And, once again, the scene screeches to an abrupt halt:

"Angela, you didn't drop anything."
Wait.  What?
"He said that you're always dropping things, so why didn't you drop anything?"
Oh.  (Oh. ...Wait...)  So, um, was that my Gift?
"Of course!"  (Aw, shit.)  "Here.  Let's let another pair get up there."

GOD! DAMMIT!!!!  Goddammit.  I had felt like I was doing so well and kicking so much ass and now, all of a sudden, I was failing, epically, and in front of everyone.  And over a concept that sounded so simple.

WHY WAS I NOT ALREADY MASTERING THIS IDEA?!?!?!?!

We tried a series of other exercises throughout the remainder of class, all within the same vain, and all of which I met with the same sense of bewilderment.

I felt like a douche.

I called that boy that I date immediately post class and vented to him about my epic fail and complete and total embarrassment over my piss-poor showing.

I had looked so good the first two classes, and then I ran into this stupid fucking road block today and I just looked like an idiot, Honey.  
"No, you didn't."
It was AWful!  Yes I did!  I completely had no idea what I was doing and couldn't wrap my brain around anything and it all sounded so simple but it wasn't at all, and...
"You're being retarded."
...What?!
"Angie, you're not failing, you're learning stuff!  You took this class to learn stuff, remember?  Of course you're not gonna be good at everything or understand it all right away, you've never done anything like this before!"
(...Oh...)  Oh.  Right.
"Right.  Cut yourself some slack.  It's new, you'll get it, try to have some kind of patience with yourself for once."

It had been such a long time since I was in an actual classroom, that I had forgotten just what a perfectionist I become in that regard:  I am a complete and total impatient perfectionist.  This is true in everyday life as well (although you guys knew that, obviously, you did), but that feeling essentially quadruples when I'm in a class.

I don't know why. ...

...No no no, I do:

I want to be good at pretty much everything and I don't want to accept the fact that that can't happen right away.  I don't like knowing that I have to go through an awkward clunky phase before things get pretty and fluid.  I feel like no one will be interested in watching me stumble, they'll only be interested in seeing me having my shit down.

...Well.  That is just dumb.  And impractical.  And is in absolutely no way going to happen with this Improv-thing.  I'm not going to be able to avoid stumbling.

This class is, again, the complete antithesis of everything else that I've learned up to this point; that's a good thing.

And, for as much and I hate not knowing things, I've never been one to turn down getting a little messy...

Ah.  Fuck it.  In I go.