Chapter 67
67. Showing up or…. Appreciating the people in the room.
Rochester, New York to New York City. March 2011.
It was the biggest relief to have my solo show presented as part of a theater’s season for the first time. Being presented meant that my only role would be to show up and focus on performing the play. The rest – booking the space, getting the press listings, and selling the tickets (which I was used to doing too) – was all up to the staff of the theater that hired me.
Graduate school feeling like eons away, my company folded and my relationship ended, this was also my first time ever on the road by myself. Independent, I arrived in Midtown Manhattan, unloaded the suitcases one by one and carted them up the ramp and onto the stage. Everything had its position, its perfect place. I felt the light on my eyelashes, and I was home again in the theater. I was ready for my two-week run, ready for my breakthrough, and ready to get reviewed by the New York Times.
When doing a show, especially in New York City, one can easily become fixated on hitting it big by getting butts in seats and good reviews. The usual guidelines are as follows: You need to do at least a two-week run so there are multiple opportunities to see it and gain momentum. On the first week, you give away tickets to friends and critics. You hope that they spread the good word and write good articles so that your second weekend is full. Then, if you are lucky, the show is extended or picked up by another theater or agent. There is no such thing as making it. You merely ride out each wave of success for as long as you can and then you do it all over again.
That afternoon upon leaving the theater, I found out that somewhere along the way someone at the theater had dropped the ball and the press releases went out too late. Ticket sales were low for the beginning and end of the run and no critics had reserved tickets. Beyond the people I had contacted, no one knew about this show. It’s hard enough to get people to come when it’s one of a thousand shows playing that weekend. It’s a lot harder when it’s not even listed.
I hastily made my way out to a friend’s vacant apartment in Brooklyn. On the train, I brainstormed all of the press contacts I could email and call when I arrived at my stop, but by the time I got there, I had to give over to the fact that it was just too late. The show went up tomorrow and whoever was going to come, was going to come. There was nothing more I could do but commit to doing the performance. Whether for audiences of forty or five, no longer could I focus on what the reviews might say or how this gig could lead to the next bigger one. These two weeks couldn’t be about the people who weren’t in the room. It had to be about the people who were.
The next night I set out my make-up and costume pieces in a dressing room that accessed the stage by climbing two stories down an old fire escape behind the stage. Before leaving, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Alone. Ready. I never meant to do solo work, I thought, but here I am.
This is who I am. This is all I have for you.
After each performance, I invited the few people out to a bar and opened the conversation up to their feedback, to their own stories. Some of the people I knew, others I met for the first time. Some of their suggestions I took, some I pondered. Others I put in my back pocket as an idea for a future show. Every night I rode the subway home, and sitting among the other late-night passengers, I made changes to my piece, finding little ways to make it better, to try some new things out.
On the second weekend, a girl I had grown up with showed up in the audience. She brought her best friend and each of their five-year-old sons. My friend, now fifteen years older than I remember her being, explained how she currently lived in Florida and that this was the first vacation she had taken in a long time. “Wow,” I remember saying, so surprised to see her after so many years, “Thanks for coming. How did you happen to be in New York at the same time?”
“We came to see your show,” she replied, “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
This was the most beautiful kind of breakthrough that I could have possibly had.
“Thank you for being here.” I have now said to countless surprise visitors like this throughout the years, “You have no idea how much it means to me that you are here. You are why I continue to do this work. Thank you.”
