I am convinced that I can learn anything well enough to do it onstage. It is a confidence borne partly from experience—I learned to juggle a soccer ball passably well in one week while recovering from covid—and partly from, not desperation but some less tragic cousin, dogged pursuit? On three separate occasions this spring I was asked if I played basketball; casting was still open for Lincoln Center’s Flex directed by Lileana Blain-Cruz, who in 2019 directed one of the most compelling shows I’ve ever seen. She’s on my list big time. While it is true that I have never played basketball a day in my life, each time someone asked I begged to be considered. Get me an audition and I will be on the court tomorrow. It was this mindset that prompted me to give an insane answer when a casting director asked me last week if I play an instrument. “Hi Laura. I do not. I used to a very long time ago I could maybe pick up violin if given the time.”
I played the violin for six years over a decade ago. There are very few memories that remain from that time, none of which have to do with playing the instrument. I recall battling Rachel Hamilton for first chair, the excavated gem quality of my cracked rosin, a humiliating all-state audition where it was discovered that I couldn’t site-read, my collapsible music stand, Kim Tichenor’s house, the fluorescent yellow and pink lines of tape on my fingerboard and the tacky residue they left behind when finger placement finally became muscle memory.
In the myth I’ve made of my childhood I was exceptionally talented. Had I not quit, I would have been a celebrated professional gymnast, or violinist, or figure skater. Objectively I was probably good at those things in the way all children are good at the activities they like—little elastic sponge-brains soaking up new skills without any notions of embarrassment or failure—but I was not extraordinary, which is not to say that those were useless endeavors. From what I remember, gymnastics and figure skating were victims of a short attention span, but violin ended because I lost my primary motivation: applause. After my mom and I moved to Philly I was no longer part of an orchestra and found myself 670 miles from the only people who had the time and inclination to “watch me practice” (god bless grandparents). Without competition or audience, I couldn’t be bothered.
In a recent newsletter about motivation, Haley Nahmann makes a distinction between natural motivations and superficial ones.
Cleaning your kitchen because you love your space versus because you fear you’re a slob…Going on a walk because your body feels stiff versus because you’re afraid you’re being lazy. Being generous because you love someone versus because you want to be seen as a good person.
I’d like to think that had I known its future utility, I would have stuck with the violin. But that is probably not true: a superficial motive. Creative endeavors require they be ends in themselves. Sometimes we talk about pursuing art the same way we talk about falling in love: it’s a sickness that once contracted cannot be cured. In the brilliant new play Invasive Species, writer and performer Maia Novi asks: What if acting was a disease, brought on by the poisonous bite of an invasive species of insect called the Acting Bug? What if we actors are all afflicted with a strange illness that causes us to lie about, to pretend to be, to forget even, who we really are?
The question is a relatable one, but I still wonder about this draw towards powerlessness—something from the outside is working on you; you have been infected; you have no other recourse than to prostrate yourself before the omnipotent art gods. This feels true and yet it is in such direct conflict with the lived reality of being an artist, which requires constant active dedication in the face of impossible odds. It is a choice, it is a lot of choices actually. And what is more terrifying than being totally responsible for your actions and their consequences?
As the solstice approached I was having a lot of thoughts about my choices, which at first made me feel bad. Shouldn’t I feel so overcome that there is no room to doubt? But as with love and faith, convictions only grow stronger by examination. Oddly enough, I am not lacking in motivation which is usually when I start to overthink my life—see the multiple weeks I was physically incapable of doing anything other than watching Downton Abbey—on the contrary, I have been working quite a bit, but it has been mostly the behinds the scenes stuff. I was really struggling to put my feelings into words but then I talked to Seth, who knows everything about me before I do. He said it sounded like I was experiencing “loneliness in my career,” a phrase that has reverberated in my head since. Not unhappy, not unmotivated, just a little lonely, just want someone to watch me practice.
What a bittersweet insight <3
All of those childhood endeavors did not go to waste. From those experiences you learned what is most fulfilling to you and I believe it is what drives your desire to perform. I did (and do) lovingly “watch” you practice your art and hone your skills as I did throughout your childhood. I am CERTAIN you will succeed at whatever you determine to be your goal!
PS Your violin still awaits in the corner of your bedroom.
Love,
Mamz