Authors: Lucy Arthurs
Art Ache (13 page)
Chapter 15
One month later. The Counsellor’s office.
“The trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” Moliere.
ME
I’ve started thinking about the commission and I’ve also got an audition.
I’m back at the shrink. I seem to be here a lot lately.
MARJORY
Is that important? The audition?
ME
Well, yes. It’s my livelihood.
MARJORY
It’s not, really. I thought you said doing voice-overs was your livelihood. From what you’ve said about theatre, the pay is terrible, and some of the people can be a nightmare.
ME
It is. And they can.
MARJORY
You couldn’t live on what you earn from theatre.
ME
No way.
MARJORY
Then it’s not your livelihood.
ME
I guess not.
MARJORY
So what is it, then?
A habit, maybe. I have no idea. She encourages me to go through it slowly.
ME
I’ve done it since I was nineteen.
MARJORY
But what is it to you? Why is it important?
ME
Um . . . it’s what I do. I love it. It’s . . . um . . .
MARJORY
What I’m getting at is, if it doesn’t meet your need for income, for survival, for providing the things that a livelihood provides, then what need does it meet?
ME
It’s part of my SELF. And I love it. Regardless of all the bad bits, I love it.
MARJORY
You value it.
ME
Yes.
MARJORY
Good. And you have an audition.
ME
Yes. I have an audition.
MARJORY
And?
ME
I’m scared.
MARJORY
About?
ME
Auditioning.
MARJORY
What aspect of it?
ME
The whole thing.
MARJORY
Describe it for me. Take me there.
ME
Do I have to?
MARJORY
No. But do you want to keep living in fear?
She loves answering a question with a question. It’s bad enough going to an audition in the first place; reliving it for someone else is even worse, but I’m relieved to be out of this David Mamet-style exchange of dialogue we’ve been having—a sparse, clipped, fast, edgy, rapid tete-a-tete.
ME
Okay. You walk in . . .
MARJORY
What happens before that? Where do you park, what do you do? Who do you see?
ME
Oh, um . . . there’s never anywhere to park, so I usually mount the kerb and leave the car parked illegally. I cross my fingers and hope to God I don’t get a ticket.
MARJORY
Then?
ME
You walk in.
MARJORY
“I” walk in. Use “I”. I’m not walking in, you are.
ME
I walk in and wait in the foyer.
MARJORY
Who’s there?
ME
Everyone else who’s auditioning for the role.
MARJORY
So, your competitors?
ME
I guess. Yes. But I don’t want to think of them like that.
MARJORY
Well, that’s the construct of the situation and it would trigger insecurity in everyone involved.
ME
Yes! It’s awful. All you want to/
MARJORY
/‘I’. All ‘I’ want to do.
ME
All I want to do is concentrate on what I’m doing, get in there, do my job and go home, but they’re always running late.
MARJORY
So you’ve lost your confidence before you’ve even made it into the room?
ME
Pretty much. Then you . . . I get in there and well . . . anything could happen. I’ve been to auditions where I’ve had to walk around in a bikini, kiss fellow actors I’ve only just met, I’ve had to tap dance, pretend I was a clown in a circus, recite excerpts from the phone book, improvise a scene in a bomb shelter; you name it.
MARJORY
How does it feel?
ME
Like . . . um . . . it’s out of my hands before I’ve even started.
MARJORY
Like they have all the power?
ME
Yes!
MARJORY
They make you jump through hoops, but they don’t tell you why.
ME
Exactly!
MARJORY
That’s very destabilising. And dehumanising.
ME
Tell me about it.
MARJORY
Why don’t you tell me about it? Continue.
ME
I hate it. I just want to know what’s expected of me. I want to know what the rules are and I want everyone to stick to them. I’m good when there are rules. I can pace myself. I can shine. But if I don’t know what the rules are, I’m lost. I’m insecure and uncertain and completely lost.
MARJORY
That’s understandable.
ME
It turns into a game, but not a fun game. A power game. A game without rules. A game that only
they
can win.
MARJORY
Who are ‘they?’
ME
The people making the rules. The directors, the artistic directors, the producers, the people who are part of the inner circle.
MARJORY
Perhaps they’re not ‘winning.’ Perhaps they’re just doing their job.
Good point, Marjory. But you’re interrupting my monologue about how hard done by I am.
ME
I understand that, but it seems to me that it all becomes about opinions. “That’s not what the play’s about. The character wouldn’t do that. You shouldn’t speak like that, look like that, stand like that. You’re too tall, too short, too fat, too thin.” I hate it! I’m sick of being scared about it. I’ve done this for twenty years but I feel like I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. Why is that?
MARJORY
You tell me.
I’m on a roll now. I’m George Bernard Shaw’s St. Joan. I’m standing tall and defiant and speaking my truth!
ME
It doesn’t need to be like that. It’s an ancient art form. It belongs to all of us. It’s an art form that helps us understand ourselves but not only that, it helps us to understand others too. And the world and . . . I’m raving, sorry.
MARJORY
Keep going. I want to hear your passion.
ME
It’s regenerative and healing. It’s a
creative
thing but it’s also a
created
thing. So you have power through what you create. I don’t know . . . it’s about human beings and reflecting that. Their pain, their choices, their joy. All of it. That’s important. We can hold a mirror up to ourselves and examine who we are and what we’re doing. I’m raving again.
MARJORY
Keep going.
ME
But I can’t let my spirit soar. I should be able to.
MARJORY
Says who?
ME
Says me. Says Nina.
MARJORY
Nina?
God help me. Now she’s going to think I have a multiple personality disorder or something.
ME
It’s from a play,
The Seagull
by Anton Chekhov. It’s all subtext and unspoken emotion. I’m the seagull. I’m an actress. Nina says it in the play. She’s the young ingénue. I’m probably more like the fading actress, Irina Arkadina, but what Nina says really zings with me. She says stuff about her dreams being laughed at and little by little, she’s stopped believing in them.
MARJORY
Who’s laughing?
ME
Just a collective ‘them.’ Sometimes directors, casting people, my agent, relatives when you tell them what you do for a living and they wonder aloud why you’re not famous, sometimes probably myself. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’ve started laughing at my own dreams.
MARJORY
Unpack that.
ME
I feel I have no right to have them. I’m good, but not great. I’m not famous and don’t really want to be, but maybe I’m being an ‘also ran.’ Maybe because I’ve been rejected so many times I’ve stopped believing in my dreams.
MARJORY
And of course, the big rejection is the personal one. Tom.
Of course. Why couldn’t I see that?
ME
Yes.
Let it drop in, Persephone. Let yourself go deeper.
Pause.
ME
Now I feel afraid of everything. Uncertain about myself. Looking for proof that I’m rejectable. I feel empty. And my acting is empty. I don’t know what to do with my hands, how to hold myself, I don’t feel confident with the choices I make, with my right to be there. Nina talks about that stuff. And then she nails it because she says, “You don’t know what that’s like, to realise you’re a terrible actor.”
MARJORY
Is that what you think?
ME
No. But I think I’ve lost my nerve. Or that I’m losing it. Nina compares herself to the seagull Konstantin shot and raves on a bit, but then she arrives at a place where she says, “I’m a real actress now. I enjoy acting, I’m proud of it, the stage intoxicates me. When I’m up there I feel beautiful.” That’s how I want to feel.
MARJORY
Beautiful?
ME
No. It’s more than that. I want to feel connected. That I’m communicating. Making a difference. A part of it. Knowing what I’m doing. Accepted. Happy. Clear. Good enough. You know?
MARJORY
Go on.
ME
I want to feel my soul growing stronger. Nina says that. And she also says something about our business . . . in our business . . . that in our business—acting, writing, it makes no difference—the main thing isn’t being famous, it’s not the sound of applause, it’s not what I dreamt it was. All it is, is the strength to keep going, no matter what happens. You have to keep on believing. Or something like that.
MARJORY
She’s a very wise woman.
ME
Great character. That Chekhov knew a thing or two.
MARJORY
I meant you. You know what you want and what you need. That’s wise. That’s taking care of yourself.
ME
But I need to believe again. I need to get to the stage where I can think about my vocation and not be terrified by it.
MARJORY
That you can think about yourself and not be terrified by it?
ME
Yes.
MARJORY
Just like Nina. You have a right to be doing it, you know.
ME
I’d forgotten that. But I have to support a child and pay a mortgage and maintain my portfolio career and . . .
MARJORY
Yes, but you also have a responsibility as an artist. I think it was Picasso who said something about the purpose of art being the washing the dust of everyday life off our souls. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea. It is human to need to explore and discover what it is to be human and then to express that discovery in whatever way is meaningful for us.
ME
Yes.
MARJORY
When we deny our own need to explore ourselves in our own world and express that exploration in healthy ways, our potential becomes corrupted. Consequently, our lives are caught up in illusion. The arts counter- attack that corruption. The arts as a medium specifically engage a person in positive discovery and expression of the self.
ME
I know. That’s what I love about theatre—not only acting, but being a part of it.
MARJORY
I’d like you to remember this conversation just before you walk into the audition. Reclaim your space, Persephone.
ME
Will do.
MARJORY
And I’d like you to think about dating.
ME
Who?
MARJORY
Whoever. It’s been long enough since the break-up.
ME
Time flies.
MARJORY
Time doesn’t really exist.
She always says things like this. Things I don’t quite understand, but I do appreciate her kookiness. Makes me feel less conservative. A bit windswept and interesting.
MARJORY
I feel it’s time for you to start getting out there.
ME
I’m doing an audition. That’s pretty out there.
MARJORY
In terms of meeting people.
ME
I nearly pashed Mr. Gorgeous.
MARJORY
I know, but that was about something else.