A few weeks ago, I set off on a backpacking trip around the United Kingdom. While I was fortunate to visit some truly breathtaking cities, marveling in their architectural splendor and devouring an inordinate amount of pastry along the way, I opted to spend most of my time abroad in more natural spots. The bulk of my days were filled with long, quiet hikes -- quiet with the exception of my screaming glutes, that is, as they were not accustomed to tackling such drastic elevation changes and felt it their duty to constantly remind me of that fact. The first of my many scenic treks took place along the English seaside, on a route known as The South Downs Way. As I slowly followed this popular footpath, my eyes feasted upon the magnificent beauty of the coastline’s endless chalk cliffs. The bright white rock shimmered under the morning rays in an almost otherworldly glow, as if competing to outshine the very sun itself. What radiance to behold! And what an effective reminder for me to re-apply my sunscreen. It’s worth noting that the beautiful chalky appearance of these cliffs is the result of fairly fresh erosion. When I was initially planning my travels, I read many a warning of not venturing too close to the cliff edges, as they are generally unstable and can collapse without warning. Yikes. And so, naturally, I made an effort to keep a reasonable distance during my journey. But since there were basically no barriers and pretty limited signage, one thing that surprised me was the challenge of assessing where I was in relation to the edge at any given time! It was really hard to tell. There were definitely instances where I was like, “Oh dear, I’m way too close, time to scoot!” ...maybe not in those words, exactly... It was those brief moments of being on the edge, however, that prompted an unexpected realization in me. I was suddenly struck by the revelation that you can’t really appreciate the beauty of a cliff while you’re standing directly on it. Those gorgeous glowing rock faces can be witnessed from beside or below, but not from the point of view of the cliff itself. It’s not unlike the human face, when you think about it. Looking out from behind my own eyes, I will never be able to see my own face. I need a mirror for that. Or a camera. Or perhaps even a painter, if I wanted to go a more artistic route. But all of those methods can only provide me an image. A reflection. A likeness. But never the thing itself. I can only view myself indirectly. I say “myself”, but I mean “my face”, of course. Though it is quite easy to conflate the two, treating them as if they were the same thing. This tendency is pretty deeply ingrained in our culture, perfectly encapsulated in the now pervasive term: selfie. Speaking of which, the growing practice of taking selfies has posed a significant safety hazard along this portion of The South Downs Way. Enthusiastic day-trippers, eager to take advantage of the dazzling photo opps, are compelled to venture dangerously close to the cliff edges to achieve juuuust the right portrait angle against juuuust the right background. I certainly witnessed plenty of folks doing so during my trek. And I won’t lie and say I wasn’t at times tempted to try to snag my own perfect shot... Where does this urge come from? And why has this burning desire to capture our faces become so seemingly intoxicating? Do the cliffs also yearn to be able to witness their beauty firsthand? Or do they know something we don’t? Perhaps there’s a reason our eyes only face outward. Perhaps if we saw our own faces, we might be tricked into believing that’s all we are. Perhaps we are instead being invited to adopt a more expansive view of self. After all, when we look out at the world around us, everything we perceive is being filtered through our own human nervous system. We can only take in sensory information that is compatible with the senses we possess. That’s why, for example, butterflies can see colors that we humans can’t. This means that our vision itself, the act of seeing, is an essential part of what is seen. So how can we really distinguish between the observer and the observed? The two are intrinsically connected. And perhaps that connection is worth investigating. Where do we end and our surroundings begin? If what we see is a reflection of how we see, does that mean the world itself is our mirror? It’s tough to wrap our minds around this concept of interconnectedness because the mind itself, with its sensory limitations, is what imposes the illusion of separation in the first place. Perceived division is just the result of how our brains process and delineate visual information. But something tells me that, deep down, we all share a knowing that there’s more to the picture than what’s visible to us. And maybe that deeper knowing is in fact the source of our impulse to snap selfie after selfie. Maybe our compulsive picture taking is simply a misguided attempt to see beyond the limitations of our eyes -- an attempt to truly see and know ourselves. The intention is certainly a worthy one, but the approach is not exactly effective... A picture is still just a picture, and a face is still just a face. The selfie still leaves us without the thing itself. So what is to be done with this yearning energy inside of us? Can it be re-directed in a more constructive way? This is where I think nature can offer us a wise and helpful example. The cliffs aren’t fretting to have their beauty recorded and reported back to them. The trees aren’t constantly looking around to compare branches. The moon doesn’t mind being seen in its waning phase, for it knows that, despite appearances, it is in fact always full. I think the position of our eyes is asking us to adopt that same lunar wisdom -- the recognition that a face is just a tiiiiiny sliver, a fragmented view of who we ultimately are. Our fullness, the life behind the face, is ever-present. And unfathomable. So maybe it’s best we stop trying to capture it all the time. No matter where one stands, on the edge or elsewhere, the view from behind our eyes will always and inevitably be limited. And so perhaps we are instead being called to close those eyes, to stop the search, and simply feel and experience the majesty of where we are. Of who we are. It can’t be put into words. And it certainly can’t be caught in a snapshot.
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I recently experienced my first IN-PERSON audition since March of 2020. Eeek! It was a callback for a very lovely play, and I was both excited and nervous to finally shake off the ol’ cobwebs. Like so many other facets of life, the onset of the pandemic had forced auditions to go remote, often in the form of self-taped submissions or virtual performances over ZOOM. Riveting stuff. Naturally, this sudden shift in the industry presented an onslaught of brand new challenges and anxieties, in an already challenging and anxious moment. But there’s no need to walk down THAT particular memory lane. Oof. FAST-FORWARD two years: I, thankfully, have grown to LOVE taping auditions in the privacy of my own home. It allows me to work around my random schedule and 99% of the time I don’t have to put on pants. #blessed That being said, I am now verrrry out of practice when it comes to auditioning in the physical company of actual human beings. I’ve gotten so used to speaking to disembodied voices in my empty apartment that the prospect of making eye contact with a living, breathing scene partner kind of makes me want to poop my pants. Kidding. Or am I? ANYWHO, all rustiness aside, I took comfort in knowing that I would at least encounter a familiar face at the callback. The director of the play is super friendly and someone with whom I have crossed paths a handful of times. We initially met during my undergrad experience at Northwestern, where she was pursuing her MFA at the time. Consequently, she is very well-acquainted with Northwestern’s teaching faculty, including my former acting professor: Gail Shapiro. FAST-FORWARD AGAIN: At the end of the callback, the director told me she could tell I was Gail’s student based on my audition. And I thought that was SUCH an incredibly kind observation for her to share. The depth of my respect and appreciation for Gail cannot be adequately articulated, and so the fact that our connection so obviously endures, even a decade after leaving her classroom, really made my heart swell. And then, while sitting on the long train ride home, my brain began to swell too, filling with contemplations of the significance of such enduring connection... Now, before I jump into the nature of those musings, let me preface all this by saying that actors talking about acting usually makes me want to barf and is one of the main reasons I do NOT miss the pre-pandemic ritual of sitting in audition waiting rooms. That being said, I can’t deny the circumstances under which I experienced this small revelation, so I have no choice but to elaborate on elements of my "process" for the sake of this story. But I promise to keep those tidbits relevant. *stifles urge to vomit* If I had to choose one word to describe the kind of actor I am, I think the word prepared is a pretty good choice. No matter the context, no matter the role, I prepare diligently. On a practical level, I do this because I want the people with whom I work to know they can trust me. On a more personal level, extensive prep work offers me a wonderful sense of security. And I, like many folks, feel my most open and playful when I feel secure. For me, developing a thorough understanding of the story being told and the function of my role within it is what cultivates the conditions for inspiration and discovery. I mention all this because a fear that I often encounter while auditioning is the fear that my prep work won’t show up -- that all of the time and energy and exploration devoted to building my character will somehow suddenly become inaccessible to me. So much for security! But the director’s unexpected comment about Gail suddenly got me thinking differently about what it even means to "show up" in the first place... In concentrating so much of my attention on the things that I hope will infuse my work, I realize I have failed to notice a tremendous amount of what I inherently bring to the table. I did not consciously invite Gail to my audition (that would be weird), and yet, her presence there was clear. Does this mean that I’ve had invisible company during all of my other auditions as well? Even the ones I taped seemingly alone in my seemingly empty apartment? If so, I apologize for not putting on pants... Nonetheless, the point I’m trying to make is this: whether we recognize it or not, every moment is collaborative. Consider an author working on a new book -- when the writing is complete, is the creation finished? On the surface it may appear so, but every time that book finds itself in the hands of a new reader, the story comes to life again. Its words, filtered through unique eyes, conjure brand new shapes and forms. From that point of view, does the act of creation ever really stop? Better yet, when did it even begin? It’s impossible to say. How does one define the boundaries of an experience? In regards to my callback, did the audition begin when I spoke the first line of text? Or was it when I walked into the room? Or, rather, when I first began prepping the material? Then again, the fact that Gail showed up in my work suggests that the audition may have actually begun over a decade ago. And then what about Gail herself? Who influenced her in ways that would later influence me? Were those folks in the audition room as well? And on and on it goes... The truth is that nothing in life occurs in isolation. The world may appear to us as being comprised of separate entities and independent individuals, with events occurring distinctly along a linear timeline, but our lived reality is soooo much richer than that. I may have chosen to explore this notion through a very specific anecdote, but the dance of interdependence is one in which we all eternally participate. There’s no leaving the dance because we are the dance. Quite literally, we ourselves are expressions of collaboration -- our physical bodies arise from the synergy of individual atoms. Atoms that came from stars, no less. This deep interconnectedness makes it impossible to fathom the sheer scope of our own influence. I highly doubt Gail is consciously aware of the frequency with which she appears in my life, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Nor should it suggest that only the most "significant" relationships, such as mentorships, can continue to "show up" in our lives. On the contrary, I’m sure we can all recall moments when, for better or for worse, a simple gesture left us changed in some way. A chance meeting. A cruel remark. An unexpected kindness. Even the briefest of encounters can be deeply consequential. The beauty of this truth fills me with a sense of reverence for life. It also fills me with a sense of responsibility. While our impact is ultimately unknowable, we can still do our best to practice mindfulness in how we relate to one another. We can stay curious about what we have absorbed in the past and how it may be affecting the energy we exude in the present. We can re-train our eyes to recognize connection and re-think our responses to align with our integrity. And it all starts with simply noticing what is actually going on around us and within us. Easy enough, right? It's funny; on the one hand, this whole interconnectedness thing is the most obvious thing in the world. Like, duh. But on the other hand, maybe its obviousness is what makes it so easy to overlook. I think that's why I've grown so intent on making my reverence for others known. People can be pretty oblivious to their own magnificence sometimes, and so I LOVE pointing it out when I experience it firsthand. My preferred medium is the handwritten letter, a dying art that I am intent on keeping alive. This has amounted to some pretty lengthy thank-you notes and birthday cards over the years. I don’t typically worry too much about coming off as overly sentimental because I know that anything I write will just baaaarely scratch the surface of what I am ultimately trying to communicate. Words can only go so far, after all. But we do the best with what we have. I wrote Gail a nice gushy letter when I got home. It was wonderful to have a reason to re-connect and share my gratitude. And after I plopped the note into the mailbox, I felt the urge to continue writing. So, here we are. I recognize that none of what I have just shared is particularly groundbreaking. In a lot of ways, I’m just regurgitating insights that I’ve collected from others over the years (so I guess talking about this DID, in a sense, make me barf after all). But I suppose that just reinforces my original point -- like everything else in life, this essay is yet another example of collaboration. And you, the reader, are now a contributor. Thank you for the dance. I visited my dad out in the Florida wilderness a few weeks back. Such visits often involve lots of scenic strolls, campfires, and obnoxiously competitive card games, but this time I was also tasked with an art project. My dad requested that I paint the character Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the back of a guitar he had recently built. Since I rarely allot time to indulge in painting, it was nice to have an excuse to exercise a different form of creativity for a change. After scrolling Google Images for a bit, I found the photo I would use as a model and got to work. Normally I prefer to guide the painting process with an initial pencil sketch, but the guitar’s sleek black surface didn’t quite allow for that. I’d have to freehand with the brush. Eeek. Planted on my dad’s couch, guitar perched in front of me, my eyes would dart between the task at hand, the reference photo, and occasionally up at the television screen, which at the time was playing The Matrix. Glancing over from his armchair every few minutes, my dad cheerfully snapped photos of my progress. As he did so, I began to notice the subtle twinges of self-consciousness arising in me. Keenly aware of the many discrepancies between model and rendering, I suddenly found myself impulsively and repeatedly announcing “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fix this part.” But my dad had never given any indication that such assurances were necessary; the only critic in the room was the one in my head. While I’ve gradually grown more accepting of the fault-finding voice echoing in my brain over the years, I do still find it rather annoying when it unexpectedly emerges in situations of low or no stakes. Any outside observer could have seen that it was literally impossible to disappoint my dad. Two years into the pandemic, he was just thrilled to have me in his home, let alone creating a little piece of art for him. I could have smeared an amorphous vomit-colored blob onto the back of his guitar and I doubt it would have dampened his enthusiasm. And yet, even in an environment seemingly safe from failure, I still found myself experiencing the distracting discomfort of a chatty inner critic. Why? Like any question of causality, the answer is of course complex. I could try to take a deep dive into the social-scripting and personal history that have informed my reflexive tendencies, but, honestly, would you really care? Eh, probably not. I’m frankly shocked you’ve read this far. Thank you, by the way. Anywho, that all being said, I do think it’s worth analyzing at least one piece of this artistic puzzle: perspective. Pun intended? Always. Low stakes or not, any instance of side-by-side comparison is bound to spark some kind of evaluative response. Anyone who has glanced at the mirror during a group exercise class can attest to this. We humans are pretty hardwired to constantly assess and categorize ourselves and our surroundings. But the tools with which we make those measurements are highly unique to the individual, as are the conclusions we draw from them. In the case of my painting experience, comparison between model and rendering was surely inevitable. After all, I couldn’t NOT look at the reference photo. (I mean, I guess I could have tried not to, but that probably would have amounted to the amorphous vomit blob mentioned earlier...) Even so, the juxtaposition didn’t HAVE to conjure distress in me. But it did. And that was due to the lens I chose to adopt in the moment. Depending on one’s perspective, the reference photo can be either a helpful map or a harmful trap. I could have chosen to view the photo as a useful guide illuminating the path ahead, but instead I saw it as the standard of perfection against which to measure my work. Oops. From that point of view, distress is unavoidable because any deviation from the ideal inevitably feels like a shortcoming. Which is a shame because deviation from a prescribed path is so often actually a blessing in life! The irony of The Matrix underscoring this whole experience is not lost on me either. Morpheus urging Neo to free his mind is certainly a mission we could all benefit from undertaking. The guards of our various mental prisons are plentiful: perfectionism, envy, delusional thinking, fixation, pleasure-seeking, just to name a few, and all of which are simply different (but, really, not so different) forms of attachment. How easily we attach ourselves to the idea of how things should be, completely warping our vision in the process. When we constantly compare where we are versus where we want to be, or judge who we are versus who we think we ought to be, we lose touch with the beauty of the here and now. Had I adopted a less rigid lens while painting this gift for my dad, I might have remembered in the moment that the end result is of little importance; the true gift is the gesture itself. Love is a verb, after all. That’s one of the reasons why I get such a kick out of card games with my dad. The competitiveness is purely performative. I don’t ACTUALLY care about winning (which is good because my stats were particularly poor this time around); the shit-talk and goofy distraction and obnoxious victory dances are simply meant to enhance the game itself. The joy is in the playing, not the winning. The ends are the means. I hope to be able to keep this truth in mind more often. Working on it! In the meantime, I’m grateful for my dad’s example of unconditional enthusiasm. And I’m grateful for opportunities, like this painting, to express my love and gratitude. Yes, challenge and discomfort may arise along the way, but those too are gifts, if we’re only willing to see them as such.
I have LONG been daunted by the prospect of putting together a professional website. Fortunately, The SAG-AFTRA Foundation offers free educational opportunities, which recently included a website building workshop. Hooray! And so, I'd very much like to extend a special thanks to Jae Choe, whose friendly, patient, and accessible instruction provided the necessary tools and encouragement for me FINALLY follow through! The Foundation's remote learning opportunities have proven to be a huge silver-lining during the pandemic, and so I thought I would publicly declare my gratitude in this inaugural post! More to come :)213 W Institute Pl Suite 306 | Chicago, IL 6061
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