Last night, I played again with my friend Brendon at Open Source Improv. It was our second show. We were all warmed up, the logistics were taken care of, I was feeling relaxed and ready ...
Until 3 of my students walked in the door.
Then I got anxious.
---
Every week or two, Jimmy Carrane posts a talk show podcast called Improv Nerd, which I highly recommend. His guests are talented improvisers who have some connection to Chicago's improv scene. In the dozen or so episodes I've listened to I've noticed a trend:
It doesn't matter how many Second City Mainstage shows they've done, how many i.O. classes they've taught, even how many seasons they performed on Saturday Night Live. They say that they're afraid of being found out as frauds.
This seems especially true of improv teachers. When I took classes at i.O, a few of my teachers would encourage students to come to their shows, then quickly admit that having students in the audience freaked them out. If they just taught a 3-hour class on environment, then their show better have a rich environment. If it doesn't, their students might call them on it. Or worse, their students might lose respect for them.
---
I think that's where my anxiety was coming from last night. It helped that I'd heard so many players I admire come on Improv Nerd and name that feeling. Naming the fear drained some of its power. That gave me enough distance harness that fear as energy instead of letting anxiety win the day.
I felt better about this show than about the last show, partly because the students were there to scare me.* I think I play better when I'm scared but don't let the fear win.
*I do not think they were there for the purpose of scaring me. That was just a side effect.
Showing posts with label performing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label performing. Show all posts
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Plateau: a criminal oversimplification
This summer, I've been working with my friend Brendon on a two-person show* called Flash Fiction. We had our first show a couple of weeks ago after about 8 weeks of practice.
This is a mathematically precise chart** of our progress over the summer:
A is our first two or three practices. We were figuring out what we wanted the show to be and getting our scene legs. While we have 18ish years of improv experience between us, neither of us had ever done a two-person show. The initial learning curve was huge. It took us a couple of practices to loosen up and articulate our goals.
B is the middle several practices. Let's call it practice 4, 5, and 6. I realize that, on the chart, it is MUCH LONGER than A, even though it represents a similar period of time. This chart is not following calendar time. It's following how the time felt. We plateaued for a few weeks, and that plateau felt like it lasted forever and ever amen. We weren't bombing; we just weren't getting better very quickly anymore. Everything we did was ok. Just ok.
C is our last three weeks of practice before the show. Every piece felt amazingly better than the piece that came before it. We played hard and smart. It was the kind of playing that reminds me why I do improv in the first place. I don't know exactly how we pushed out of that plateau; good coaches and a Jet Eveleth workshop certainly helped.
D is our show. It was not our best work, but it was not our worst, either. It was on par with our plateau. This is consistent with several other troupes I've played with and coached. Even if you have experience, it takes a few performances for a troupe to really find its legs. A show introduces variables -- a different space, an audience, logistics -- that can throw you. I thought they wouldn't throw me this time, but they did. The space was unexpectedly weird, the audience was larger than we'd anticipated, and the tech was rocky. It takes practice not to be distracted by those things.
We have another show in a few weeks, so I'm excited to see what E looks like.
---
This post was inspired by Bill Arnett's classic post, Analysis and Synthesis, which I've found hugely encouraging. Please read it. Bill Arnett would say that what looks like a plateau is actually a very gentle upward slope, so subtle that it's hard to notice while you're on it.
*It takes a conscious effort for me to say this. I default to "two-man show," even though I'm half the troupe and also a girl.
**No it is not.
This is a mathematically precise chart** of our progress over the summer:
 |
| You know what communicates mathematical precision? Paintbrush. |
A is our first two or three practices. We were figuring out what we wanted the show to be and getting our scene legs. While we have 18ish years of improv experience between us, neither of us had ever done a two-person show. The initial learning curve was huge. It took us a couple of practices to loosen up and articulate our goals.
B is the middle several practices. Let's call it practice 4, 5, and 6. I realize that, on the chart, it is MUCH LONGER than A, even though it represents a similar period of time. This chart is not following calendar time. It's following how the time felt. We plateaued for a few weeks, and that plateau felt like it lasted forever and ever amen. We weren't bombing; we just weren't getting better very quickly anymore. Everything we did was ok. Just ok.
C is our last three weeks of practice before the show. Every piece felt amazingly better than the piece that came before it. We played hard and smart. It was the kind of playing that reminds me why I do improv in the first place. I don't know exactly how we pushed out of that plateau; good coaches and a Jet Eveleth workshop certainly helped.
D is our show. It was not our best work, but it was not our worst, either. It was on par with our plateau. This is consistent with several other troupes I've played with and coached. Even if you have experience, it takes a few performances for a troupe to really find its legs. A show introduces variables -- a different space, an audience, logistics -- that can throw you. I thought they wouldn't throw me this time, but they did. The space was unexpectedly weird, the audience was larger than we'd anticipated, and the tech was rocky. It takes practice not to be distracted by those things.
We have another show in a few weeks, so I'm excited to see what E looks like.
---
This post was inspired by Bill Arnett's classic post, Analysis and Synthesis, which I've found hugely encouraging. Please read it. Bill Arnett would say that what looks like a plateau is actually a very gentle upward slope, so subtle that it's hard to notice while you're on it.
That’s it. A criminal oversimplification of something that is born from our souls. I’ve ascribed numbers to art, the most sacred and challenging, the most human, of all of our endeavors. I’m just playing my part in the history of western civilization, I guess.
- Bill Arnett
*It takes a conscious effort for me to say this. I default to "two-man show," even though I'm half the troupe and also a girl.
**No it is not.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
You can't be a human in a vacuum.
This video, created by the good folks over at People and Chairs, was a gut check for me.
Part of what makes it so funny is that the woman behaved as though she was putting on a generic, universal sort of lipstick (while we could see the specific color going sloppily all over her face). The man wasn't answering an actual phone he could picture, just some archetypal phone.
The thing is, nobody owns an archetypal phone or universal lipstick. I own a very specific phone and -- well, I don't wear lipstick, but if I did, it wouldn't be the Platonic ideal of lipstick, unless that's what happened to be on sale at Target.
Precise object work may seem like a chore, but it will make your life on stage infinitely easier.
I found the idea of object work intimidating when I thought it was about being an impressive mime. The key mistake here is the word "impressive." I thought object work was there for show, so the audience would understand that I knew what I was doing.
When someone told me that improv is not about impressing the audience, object work didn't seem as important, so I didn't put much energy into it. I put all my energy into being a human being in relationship with other human beings.
Lately, though, I'm realizing that it's pretty tough to be a human in a vacuum. I've got to be someplace, and there are probably things in that place that I can touch.
Jet Eveleth, one of my favorite teachers, doesn't coach you to "do more object work." Instead, she says, "Live in your world. Touch your world."
When I take that note, the whole scene opens up. I don't have to stress about inventing clever things or coming up with the next plot point; I can discover what's going on based on what I see in my world.
Object work isn't mainly about technical precision, but a lack of technical precision is often the result of not really seeing your world. If my coffee mug grows and shrinks with abandon, then sort of disappears sometimes, my scene is likely to be clunky and forced. If I'm only pretending to see my world, you'll have to watch me work hard to think of the next thing. That kind of effort is tiring and ugly.
I don't see and touch my world for the sake of the audience. I see and touch my world because I want to give my brain a break, because I want to make my life easier on stage.
Part of what makes it so funny is that the woman behaved as though she was putting on a generic, universal sort of lipstick (while we could see the specific color going sloppily all over her face). The man wasn't answering an actual phone he could picture, just some archetypal phone.
The thing is, nobody owns an archetypal phone or universal lipstick. I own a very specific phone and -- well, I don't wear lipstick, but if I did, it wouldn't be the Platonic ideal of lipstick, unless that's what happened to be on sale at Target.
Precise object work may seem like a chore, but it will make your life on stage infinitely easier.
I found the idea of object work intimidating when I thought it was about being an impressive mime. The key mistake here is the word "impressive." I thought object work was there for show, so the audience would understand that I knew what I was doing.
When someone told me that improv is not about impressing the audience, object work didn't seem as important, so I didn't put much energy into it. I put all my energy into being a human being in relationship with other human beings.
Lately, though, I'm realizing that it's pretty tough to be a human in a vacuum. I've got to be someplace, and there are probably things in that place that I can touch.
Jet Eveleth, one of my favorite teachers, doesn't coach you to "do more object work." Instead, she says, "Live in your world. Touch your world."
When I take that note, the whole scene opens up. I don't have to stress about inventing clever things or coming up with the next plot point; I can discover what's going on based on what I see in my world.
Object work isn't mainly about technical precision, but a lack of technical precision is often the result of not really seeing your world. If my coffee mug grows and shrinks with abandon, then sort of disappears sometimes, my scene is likely to be clunky and forced. If I'm only pretending to see my world, you'll have to watch me work hard to think of the next thing. That kind of effort is tiring and ugly.
I don't see and touch my world for the sake of the audience. I see and touch my world because I want to give my brain a break, because I want to make my life easier on stage.
Friday, July 6, 2012
In which Rabbit has an amazing audience.
I've coached several troupes, most of them at the local college. A couple of years ago, after a rocky show, I heard a troupe member complaining, "Well, that just wasn't a good audience." We'll call this troupe member Rabbit.
The audience does not control your show.
An audience can't make a show good, and an audience can't ruin it.
At your small Christian college, the audience is especially gracious. That can be more harmful than helpful, because sometimes they laugh just to be polite, and it's easy to become dazed by their laughter and lose focus.
The audience is full of your Friends-and-Relations, who are going to cheer for you no matter what because they know you, Rabbit. They're on your side. They want to make you happy because you're a nice guy, and they want you to keep inviting them over for honey and tea.
You don't want the audience to laugh and cheer just because you're Rabbit. You want them to laugh and cheer because something they saw and heard resonated with them.
If they don't laugh, it's not because there's something wrong with the audience. They showed up, they paid a dollar, and that makes them an amazing audience, Rabbit.
A real bad audience would be one that didn't plan on seeing an improv show. They were sitting in a bar or a coffee shop, trying to talk with their friends or do homework, and somehow an improv show interrupted them. That's a bad audience, but it's not their fault, because they didn't buy into this whole improv thing in the first place. (Theater is a lot like church in that way, but we can talk about that another time.)
One day you may look out into the audience and see not a single Friend-or-Relation, and that's ok. It might mean that you've gotten good enough that strangers want to watch.You may never have an audience as much on your side as your Friends-and-Relations are, so this is a time to play hard. You know they'll love you even if you fail, so there's no point holding back.
Big or small, loud or soft, familiar or strange, your audience is amazing. Make sure to say thank you.
Love,
Alyssa
Dear Rabbit,
Do not complain about the audience.The audience does not control your show.
An audience can't make a show good, and an audience can't ruin it.
At your small Christian college, the audience is especially gracious. That can be more harmful than helpful, because sometimes they laugh just to be polite, and it's easy to become dazed by their laughter and lose focus.
The audience is full of your Friends-and-Relations, who are going to cheer for you no matter what because they know you, Rabbit. They're on your side. They want to make you happy because you're a nice guy, and they want you to keep inviting them over for honey and tea.
You don't want the audience to laugh and cheer just because you're Rabbit. You want them to laugh and cheer because something they saw and heard resonated with them.
If they don't laugh, it's not because there's something wrong with the audience. They showed up, they paid a dollar, and that makes them an amazing audience, Rabbit.
A real bad audience would be one that didn't plan on seeing an improv show. They were sitting in a bar or a coffee shop, trying to talk with their friends or do homework, and somehow an improv show interrupted them. That's a bad audience, but it's not their fault, because they didn't buy into this whole improv thing in the first place. (Theater is a lot like church in that way, but we can talk about that another time.)
One day you may look out into the audience and see not a single Friend-or-Relation, and that's ok. It might mean that you've gotten good enough that strangers want to watch.You may never have an audience as much on your side as your Friends-and-Relations are, so this is a time to play hard. You know they'll love you even if you fail, so there's no point holding back.
Big or small, loud or soft, familiar or strange, your audience is amazing. Make sure to say thank you.
Love,
Alyssa
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