On artists and the audience
Back in the day, when I'd meet ballet fans outside a stage door or simply get into conversation with people who knew what I did but had no idea what it entailed, I used to get asked the question, "So why do you do it, anyway?" (Or, from the less tactful: "What's the point?") It's hard to explain the "why" to people who can never truly understand: they'll never walk in your shoes, get up on that stage, or know what it is that drives a person to dance (or sing or act), despite the blisters and the bruises and the sprains and the intangible wounds and struggles that go oh so much deeper. But the public would demand an answer, and so I would try to find the simplest response. Sometimes throwing a question back at the original question worked: "Why do you breathe?" Oh, yeah. Deep. That tended to elicit a lot of thoughtful "hmms" and slow nods of the head. There was also the Honest but Not Helpful response: "It's hard to explain. I just love it," trailed sometimes by another question: "Can you explain why you love?" (More nods, more "hmms.") But the thing is, it was not always about me. That was hard to explain, too. This passage, though, from Gender Outlaw: On Men, Women, and the Rest of Us, by Kate Bornstein (I'm culling all sorts of good stuff from this book), taken from correspondence to the author from David Harrison, then her partner, could have stood in as a useful response:
What's important is loving the audience. It's not about what you feel as a performer when you're up there -- it's not about your personal catharsis. As an audience member, I want you to make me feel something. That's why I come to the theater. The artists I have the most respect for, and I'm most moved by, are those who give so much of their hearts. To me, a good performance is, in its essence, an act of love.
So beautifully put. In other words: It's not just that I love what I do -- it's that I'd like to share this love with you, and I expect you to demand that of me. It's hard to find fault with that.
