I posted about this on Facebook and it seems like a worthy endeavor to declare here, too.
It’s been on my heart a lot lately, a quiet insistence that I have a story to tell even if I don’t want to explore it. I read this article this morning (long, moving, difficult, grievous) and it wrecked me. But through it all came again the need (rather than a desire) to develop a one woman show around the events of my Dad’s death.
It emerged in a 48th Street exercise led by Gary Austin, a 30 minute improv that found me playing childhood games and indulging in huge imaginative explorations of time and space — all to avoid reality. All to avoid crying. I felt kind of like this:
After the improv, Gary knew there was something under the surface and started asking thoughtful questions until he found the wound I’d been protecting. It was too early to be that vulnerable, but he made me realize that the pain would ground and magnify the playfulness.
We’re artists. We take our lives and turn them into works of art. It’s how we process. It’s how we give back. It’s how we stay alive: We share it.