In which Our Hero becomes Our Zero
“When Julian enter, was he with [scene partner] or was he alone?”
Audience: “Alone.”
At least I’m consistent.
(That’s a crap joke, but I’m keeping it.)
I’ve now attended two classes here.
Both had a final presentation.
In both final presentations, I received a mark of zero.
Zero is a bad mark.
It means:
- You were boring.
- You weren’t even interesting enough to get specific notes.
- We could not see your pleasure.
- You were not beautiful.
- We do not love you.
- Goodbye.
The Week
Monday: We received our assignments. I chose a partner I liked — skilled, smart, fun.
Tuesday: We rehearsed and found a stupid little game we loved.
Wednesday: We showed it to a trial audience. They couldn’t see the game. So we added another on top.
Thursday: We played again. We had fun.
Friday: We talked through our plan. Then, right before going onstage, my partner suggested a new one:
“Milk the opening if it works. Only go to the game if we need to.”
The drumbeats sounded. Our turn.
We entered.
The audience laughed once.
I thought, Aha! They’re laughing at me!
(Still kinda true: I set up something he executed.)
I did it again. No dice.
My partner panicked:
“We need to do the game!”
And before we even played the game, we were kicked off.
The Problem
I loved rehearsing with him. Genuinely. It was a highlight of my week.
But when I entered the stage, I didn’t open myself. I didn’t share with the audience enough pleasure of being on stage.
And so: I wasn’t lovable.
I’ve only opened myself once on stage. People found me beautiful.
How do I get back there?
Is this lack of openness also a problem in my relationships?
Am I in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing?
Is this biomedical?
Will clown school eventually teach me to play well with others?
Right now, I feel like a lonely, isolated lump of clay.
An ugly one.
It’s not fun to feel like an ugly lump of clay.
Maybe if I did therapy for an hour every day, I’d get better at opening myself. Then I just do that on stage, but lighter.
If the hypothesis is that success comes from being open and light and generous, then at least the openness part is something I can train on my own.
Once my father leaves on Tuesday, I’ll try that.
I’m not leaving yet. The clay’s still on the wheel.
It’s really. Not fun. To be clay.
💩
Also, two students told me they thought Head Teacher was unfair — that I’d actually been beautiful. I trust the opinions of the expert few over the uninformed many. Still, something relaxed in me when I heard that. This must be why people commiserate.
Comments About Me
“Who do we like? We like [my scene partner].”
“You are not beautiful.”
“Do we love him? Not at all.”
“When Julian enter, was he with [Scene Partner] or was he alone?” Audience: “Alone.”
“Zero, zero, zero.”
Learnings
- Start with the fun part.
- Stick to the plan. You made it for a reason. (Definitely don’t abandon the plan shortly before going on stage.)
- Learn that it’s pleasant to be open.
My French classmate learned this. Others have too.
So why the hell is it so hard for me?
I even had a potentially fruitful relationship recently undermined because of this non-openness.
Do I like this? Am I choosing contexts that reinforce it?
After class, one of my peers said:
“I feel joy when I open myself on stage.”
He meant it kindly. I appreciated it.
I just don’t fucking know how.
This isn’t about wanting to. It’s a skill gap.
And it’s funny — my teacher said I’m best when I’m subtle and open, not when I’m pushing.
And now all I want to do is push.
So maybe I should just… give up?
That can’t be right.
Fuck if I know.
A friend who knows me very well commented on these last three lines: “fuck off. Don’t you play better when you’re down 2 and 0? Congrats, you’re now down 2 and 0.”
This must be why people share their emotions.
Julian Wise 