Three hour rehearsal tonight with both spectacular and
disastrous results. The show becomes more and more elaborate in my mind* as
this obscure world I have invented takes shape. The problem is that it takes
shape in my mind more than it does on the “stage,” which is the awkward space
where we rehearse, a ‘70s, wood paneled, cavernous room adorned with
mouse-colored, stained carpet and fluorescent lighting.
Perhaps it is the space: this is an intimate show, meant for
close-ups and whispers. Possibly a movie. I’m doing it as an awkwardly lit play,
while also trying to cram 100 people on the stage.
Every time I do a new play I wonder if this is the one that’s
going to be my monumental failure, the one whose painful memory is going to
crush me like a like a gigantic, unkind juggernaut. Maybe this is it. Maybe
this is the price I have to pay for ‘doing honesty,” for revealing things, in
public, which I barely dare confess in private, for holding nothing back. Maybe
honesty is overrated and all I need to do is withdraw inside some transparent,
protective shell that’s going to parade the world before me without forcing me
to interact with it.
I am terribly afraid and I am terribly unhappy and, with R.
gone (my stage manager and most trusted confidante), I have no one to talk to.
True, there are these entries, there is this virtual audience of complete
strangers whose faces are a blur, but how can that be even remotely comforting?
There is something to be said about the solitude of the
director (why am I reminded of The
Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner?) which can be devastating at times.
Does this sound too dramatic? Perhaps it is. For you. But this is not your play, not the world
in your head, not your nostalgia, not your fear and insecurity. It’s mine. I
reach out to K. but, having left the space of the rehearsal, he sheds Night’s
persona (“Despite what you might think, I am not made of stone”) and settles
back into his nicely decorated life. I can’t reach him there. There is no place
for me in his carefully guarded universe.
I talk to S. but she too is worried, and we part in silence.
The spectacular part tonight: Chlotilde’s monologue, her
attempt to break through Night’s barriers; her interminable patience, her
professionalism, her endurance.
The disastrous part: K’s barely audible, monotonous delivery
– a sign of utter exhaustion. My panic that he will deliver an equally
flat-lined performance on the one night that matters. My inability to hide this
fear from him.
E’s complete separation from this play. She has a superficial
grasp of the character – a certain pitch in the voice, certain deliberate
movements – but life has taken over and she is more preoccupied with that
(socializing, living, planning for the future…) Why did she insist on being in this
play? She has no time for it, her heart is not into it.
On the way home from rehearsal, for the first time, I can’t
listen to the soundtrack. It’s a little painful, like a reminder of potential,
colossal failure. In class I talk about the ability to fail all the time. Why don’t
I practice it? Why can’t I practice what I preach?
I feel exhausted, and a little lost, like an actress who’s
forgotten her next line, the exit line, the one that promises some sort of
refuge, and delivers, through backstage corridors and darkened alleys, the
silence of the day before.
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