Originally published for the Impact Dance Adjudicators Blog, 2017.

​I recently visited my mom's house. I had been judging a dance competition in the area and took the opportunity to visit family and to reminisce a bit. The house in question is one that my parents built when I was in high school. I lived there my junior and senior year before moving away to go to college, and, as you might expect, the house is packed full of memorabilia from that era of my life.


As I walk into my old bedroom, I am immediately thrown back in time. The walls are covered with pictures: me and my prom dates, me in a graduation robe, me in my first professional show. The closet is full of clothes I wore in high school (some of which are now back in style), and the bed is covered with an embarrassing number of fluffy stuffed animals.


The floor, however, is entirely taken over by the trophies from my own dance competition days. Big ones and small ones, plastic and marble, some announcing a low score and others proclaiming me a "Grand Champion". The one thing they have in common is that they are all a bit dusty, and chipping at the edges. I chuckle as I wipe some grime off of a plaque.


When I was seventeen, these trophies seemed so important to me. I agonized over them (pacing the blue carpet), assuming that the scores they announced would tell me how successful I would be in my professional career. If I looked hard enough, I thought, I could almost see my future in their gleaming surfaces. Now, with more than a decade of a professional career under my belt, I know that these trophies and the scores they announce hold almost no importance at all. In the grand scheme of things, no one cares that I was "Miss National Grand Fantastic Super Elite Platinum Soloist, 2006". I have never once been asked where I placed at Nationals.


Nonetheless, I don't regret participating in dance competitions. Quite the contrary: what I know now, in hindsight, is that dance competitions WERE important to my professional development, only it has nothing to do with the trophies now collecting dust in my teenage bedroom. Here are the three things dance competitions gave me that were not trophies.

1) A Training Ground:On average, young dancers who train at studios perform live once a year, twice if they are lucky. However, by participating in dance competitions, students receive additional opportunities to perform live, and to hone the craft of live performance. No one is born knowing how to command a stage - it takes time and practice. By performing live again and again at dance competitions, I learned to improvise when I forgot choreography. I learned how deal with annoying costume pieces that swayed my balance. I learned how to find a solid spotting point among the faces in the crowd [hint: the trick is to find the red EXIT sign in the back of the house]. I learned how to apply makeup efficiently and to quick change in under 1 minute. I learned how to be part of an ensemble, and to communicate with my teammates without using words. Most importantly, I learned how to captivate an audience. How to appear confident by focusing to the balcony. How to radiate fearlessness by taking up as much stage space as possible. How to take risks (and how to deal with the falls that might result), and how to commune with the people watching me, by taking my gut emotions and translating them through body language. In my professional life, I use all these skills daily. Because I had some wonderful teachers who encouraged us to choreograph our own dances, I was also exposed to the world of choreography through dance competitions. Admittedly, my first few pieces were cringeworthy, but through trial and error, I was able to clarify sloppy ideas and to weed out unnecessary movement. In short, dance competitions allowed me to experience what worked and what didn't, with very few consequences. It is a gift I will always be grateful for, and it has helped me develop a choreographic foundation that I draw from, even today.


2) Knowledge of How to Take (and to Apply) Professional CriticismReceiving notes (or corrections from a choreographer/director) is an inextricable part of any performer's career, and knowing how to take and apply them professionally is a skill that is not necessarily innate. I have witnessed many performers arguing against a note they have received, or, once they have received it, fail to apply it. I suspect that this is, at least in part, due to the fact that notes sometimes feel like a personal attack. For example, when a choreographer says, "You have to remember to straighten your arm completely!" it is hard not to hear, "Why can't you remember to straighten your arm?! You are subpar and I wish I had never hired you!" Because I received constructive criticism every time I competed (and usually from three different judges), receiving notes became par for the course, rather than something to take offense to. I learned that once I drilled my corrections until they became muscle memory, my dancing became better and my scores got higher. Subsequently, the little voice in my head that once whispered, "You are terrible! The choreographer hates you!" has quieted down a bit, and I now see notes as a way to better myself and my company. Now when I receive a note, I do my best to say, "Thank you," and work until I can do the movement correctly. Dance competitions gave me that.


3) ConnectionsThe most valuable thing I ever received from dance competitions were connections. I think students often forget that their judges are professional performers who not only have a lot of knowledge and clout in their field, but also have the ability to award scholarships! I was given scholarships to fantastic professional institutions and summer programs that not only helped me grow, but also put me in touch with MORE professional people who helped me to continue on my journey. Through this process, I left the competition world with a whole network of connections, many of which later resulted in professional jobs! However, the connections I made were not limited to the faculty only; they also included the people I was competing against! Believe it or not, I now work for a great many people I shared the stage with back in my high school days. In a nutshell: never underestimate the effect your fellow dancers might have on your life! Whether you are in L.A. or New York or Belgium, the dance world is a well-connected one, and if you choose to dance professionally, I can guarantee that you will be working alongside your competing peers. Some of them might even hire you! So, be polite, be friendly, and be professional! You never know where those connections might lead.


It has been fun reminiscing, but can't linger at my mom's house any longer - I have to get back to the city for rehearsal. Before I go though, I take one more look at the photographs (why did no one tell me that haircut looked so dorky?), I retrieve a pair of pants from the closet (they still fit me, and I forgot how cute they were) and I make sure to give all my stuffed animals a parting cuddle before I shut the door.


But, I'll admit, the trophies don't get a second glance.
*Ashley Marinelli is a Professional Dancer, Teacher, Adjudicator and Choreographer based in New York City. She is currently working in Utah at Tuacahn Center for the Arts where she is the Assistant Choreographer and performing in the regional productions of "Newsies", "Shrek" and "Mamma Mia" this summer.

Originally published on the Impact Dance Adjudicators "Judge's Blog", 5/9/20.

​This morning, I took my puppy to the dog park. Well, of course, it’s not a proper “dog park”, because all of the actual dog parks in Brooklyn have been gated and locked since the start of NYC’s stay-at-home orders. Rather, it’s a giant field covered in mud, grass, and lots and lots of dogs. Dogs who run off-leash between the hours of 7:00am and 9:00am.

We adopted our pup Lyanna in February. When we introduce her, people often mishear the name. “Leona?” they ask. “Anya? Wynonna?”. “Lyanna,” we repeat. “You know, Lyanna Mormont, The Lady of Bear Island?” They look at us blankly. “Her namesake is the tough little girl from Game of Thrones who leads the men into battle.” Most people then nod politely and admit they have never seen Game of Thrones. But Lyanna is not offended. She is too busy rolling in mud.

To distract her, I’ll usually toss a ball across the field. She’s only 6 months old and so we’re still working on the whole “fetch” thing. She seems to get the concept of finding the ball, but she hasn’t quite grasped the “bringing it back” part yet. Once she has the ball between her teeth, she will parade around the field, showing off her prize. Sometimes the other dogs get jealous and chase her, which she loves. Eventually, there will be a whole line of dogs following her, and she looks quite like her namesake indeed. 

While I watch her with a pride usually reserved for human children, I also chat with the other dog owners, who are all diligently wearing masks and staying six feet apart. Because my neighborhood in particular is something of an “epicenter of an epicenter” for the virus, and people are careful not to be careless. Aside from my partner (Lyanna’s dad), these dog owners are the only other humans I have seen in the flesh since March 12th, 2020, which seems like a lifetime ago now.  

At the beginning of March, my life was very different. I had just committed to a regular teaching slot at Peridance Capezio Center, and was setting choreography on International/Intensive Semester students. I was anticipating rehearsal for an upcoming performance at the McCarter Theater Center, and was also writing and choreographing a new show. Not to mention that it was audition season as well as competition season. My calendar was stacked.

In one week, everything changed. On Saturday March 7th, I was judging a dance competition with Spirit of Dance Awards. While on break, my fellow judges and I heard about a new virus that had been circulating, and we were encouraged to wash our hands more than usual. We speculated whether the virus would affect future competitions or not. The next week, my competition event was cancelled. Then gradually, all events were cancelled. The rest of my jobs followed suit. One week, I was an overbooked dancer, choreographer and director. The week after, I was unemployed. My friends and I estimated that quarantine would last one week, maybe two. Then Broadway announced that it was closing until Easter. “Easter!” we said “That seems excessive!” Oh, how little we knew.

It is now May 3rd, 2020. We are going on our third month of quarantine, which, in New York, is anticipated to extend to at least June 1st, if not longer. Needless to say, my life is very different now. Though I miss eating at restaurants and performing,  it’s certainly not all bad. In March, my weekends would include an early morning flight, 16-hour competition days, and a late night return, followed by weekdays of auditions, classes and rehearsals. Now, I wake up to birdcalls, throw on some sweatpants, feed my sleepy puppy and leisurely make my way to the dog park. There is almost no traffic, and the cherry blossoms on my block are blooming so violently that I can smell them through my mask. 

Lyanna has dropped her ball at my feet (which is, of course, now covered in dirt and slobber, thanks girl) and is playing with Lola, a 7 month old Golden Retriever, who is as fluffy and adorable as you are picturing in your head. Lola’s owner is an artist as well, and we often talk about her daughters, both of whom are gymnasts on an Olympic track. Today we talk about how her daughters are trying to keep up with their conditioning in quarantine, and what a difficult time they are having. Even though the whole world is experiencing a shutdown, her daughters worry that someone, somewhere, is out-training them, and that when Nationals are rescheduled (if they are), they will be out of stamina and skills. The uncertainty and unfairness makes them angry. They pace the house. They lash out.  (P.S. ESPN wrote a piece about her daughters. If you would like to read it, check out this link! http://www.espn.com/espn/feature/story/_/id/29071035/only-junior-elite-gymnast-new-york-city-annalise-newman-achee-training-brooklyn-apartment). 

I tell her that I can relate as an adult dancer, and can only imagine what it must feel like as a young athlete at such a crucial training period. As a young dancer, I insisted on sleeping in splits (DISCLAIMER: please don’t do this - it’s bad for your joints and circulation, which I learned later, but I guess we all do stupid things when we’re 14) and felt guilty and restless when I missed one week of ballet class to go on a family vacation. If I was a 14 year old trying to train now, I would absolutely be losing my mind in quarantine.

It made me think a bit (while I stood there watching Lyanna nibble Lola’s ear), how many young dancers must feel trapped at the moment. How many must feel cheated out of performing and making art. How many must feel that, through no real fault of their own, they are losing their technique, and hard-earned strength. It made me sad for them, and I wondered, what advice could I give them? Did I have any advice to give? 

When friends ask me how I’m doing I usually say, “You know. Weird.” It’s the most honest answer I can come up with at the moment. Lately, I haven’t felt like my typical creative, motivated self. Even though I see my talented friends teaching classes, organizing projects, or learning new skills, I don’t always want to participate, and that’s not like me. It feels like I’m lacking something fundamental about myself.

However, here’s the good news: if you feel this way, you’re not crazy. In fact, it’s a textbook “normal” reaction.  

The theory is outlined in this article from Psychology Today, if you’d like to read the whole thing (https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/darwins-subterranean-world/202003/corona-viewed-maslow-s-hierarchy-needs). 

If not, I’ll summarize.

Basically, there’s this scientific theory of human psychology called “Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs”. Think of it as a pyramid with a wide base and a small pointy tip, like those old food pyramid graphics. 

At the bottom of the pyramid is the first slice, labeled “Physiological” (which includes the most biologically basic things humans need to survive - water, air, food, etc). The second slice, above the first,  is called “Safety” (meaning both physical and emotional safety from threats). Above that is the third, “Love and Belonging” (or the desire to give and receive love). The fourth is “Esteem” (confidence and respect for oneself), and the fifth, at the very top of the pyramid, is “Self-Actualization” (the desire to better yourself, which includes hobbies, spiritual study, learning new skills, and making art).  

The theory goes that humans can’t even focus on the upper levels of the pyramid until more base needs are met. In other words, if you were choking on a grape, your brain would prioritize getting your airway clear so that you could breathe (“Physiological Need”) before it would start worrying whether or not your crush likes you (“Love and Belonging”).

But! Let’s say your crush gave you the Heimlich maneuver and you coughed up the grape. You breathe deeply. You take a sip of water. Physiological need: check! Then you look around to see if there are any more grapes around. You throw them in the trash, just to be sure it doesn’t happen again. Safety: check! Then you think about the fact that your crush saved your life. Your crush gives you a hug and says “I’m glad you’re alright!” Love and Belonging: check! Then you look around the cafeteria and you realize that everyone is watching you. You are immediately embarrassed and worry they will laugh at you. But a few seconds later, someone starts to applaud the heroic actions of your crush, and pretty soon the whole room is clapping. Self-Esteem: Check! Then you think about what a great story this would be for the standup routine you’re working on. And we’ve arrived at the top of the pyramid: Self-Actualization.

Now that we’re all on the same page thanks to the silly story about the grape, most well-adjusted people spend the majority of their lives in the top two slices of the pyramid (Self-Actualisation and Esteem). It is where we feel safe enough to ride bikes, play board games, and make jewelry. However, the virus and the immediate impact it has on our lives (whether we are in physical or psychological danger) sends us right back down to the bottom of the pyramid. When we fear for our basic need to stay alive, perhaps fear for our financial safety, we don’t have the energy to focus on making a new app, writing a symphony, or staying in shape. It’s way less important to our brains than “staying alive”, and thank goodness it is. It’s one of the reasons humans have survived as long as we have!

Because the cultural, political, social and scientific landscape is constantly in flux during this time, our brains feel different levels of safety (or are on different rungs of the Hierarchy) each and every day, and that’s totally normal!

Once I learned this, I decided to start being a little more patient with my brain. It’s only trying to keep me safe, after all. Now, I don’t try and force it to be creative. I don’t force myself to take virtual class if I’m not feeling it (chances are my brain would be preoccupied anyway). What I try to do (and what I would advise if you are feeling trapped or anxious) is to give myself some grace, not beat myself up, and enjoy whatever rung of the pyramid I happen to be on today.

Some days, I am at the bottom of the pyramid. When I’m at the bottom, I give myself permission to put on fuzzy socks, make tea and watch a documentary. I allow myself to enjoy it without feeling guilty that I’m not “working out”. I know my technique won’t disappear if I skip barre for one day (which is the secret your ballet teachers don’t tell you - just don’t skip it for a long time). Besides, “taking a break” allows you to fill the well of your creativity so you can use it later. For example, maybe I’ll use the documentary as a jumping off point for the next piece I create! If not, at least I’ll be a more developed and informed human being, which is never a bad thing. Also, taking a day off means you’ll be more motivated and excited when you do feel the desire to get dancy or creative. The bottom of the pyramid is about reminding yourself that you are alive and safe, and that it’s a good thing. 

Some days, I’m in the middle of the pyramid. On those days, I’ll put on my favorite bathing suit and dance around the apartment. Sometimes Lyanna joins in. It’s nice just feeling the shift of my weight on the floor, with no choreography or training exercises in mind. It reminds me why I like to dance in the first place, without the added stress of training or goal-setting. Listening to an old song I used to love, or baking a pie that I used to make with my Grandma has the same effect. The middle of the pyramid is about reminding yourself that you love and are loved, and that it’s a good thing.

Today, however, I’m at the top of the pyramid.

I watch my puppy chase a squirrel (she and the squirrels have been at war for a while now: Squirrels 3, Lyanna 1) and I think about all the places I want to take her hiking.

I get a sudden urge to learn how to use a pottery wheel. It’s a strange desire, but I don’t question it. I have time now, after all, and I never had time for such frivolous things in my old life. Why not take advantage? 

Or perhaps I’ll choreograph. Teach a virtual class. Learn to paint. Go running. Play the clarinet. The possibilities seem endless.

But as my dog and I leave the park, I suddenly know exactly what I’m going to do today.

“I think I’m going to write a blog!” I tell Lyanna. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

But she has found an interesting stick, and doesn’t seem to hear.

​

Originally written for Impact Dance Adjudicators, 2/1/17

About a year ago, I had a quiet birthday party at my apartment. Well, it was a quiet birthday party until the party was crashed by 75 freshman from the nearby conservatory. Instead of immediately ordering them out, I , the gracious birthday girl, decided to let them stay and continue their merry-making (which would prove to be a terrible judgement call on my part, but I digress...)

When the hoard of screaming teenagers became to much for my late-twenty-something psyche, I retreated to my rooftop, only to find that several of the teenagers had already infiltrated that sanctuary. Before long I found myself in conversation with a young man who informed me that he was a dance major at the afore-mentioned conservatory (in a tone that told me that I should be impressed by such a fact).  Keeping things amicable, I mentioned that I was a professional dancer who had earned a B.F.A. herself. He asked who I danced for and I went on to list the choreographers I was working with and the various projects I was involved in.  He looked at me with some disdain and said,

 "So, you're a freelancer?" 

I answered in the affirmative.

 "Oh," he said, "well, I'm not going to be a freelancer, that's for sure." 

Puzzled by his response, I inquired whether it was his intention to join a ballet company, or one of the few (see: 2) modern companies that I knew kept dancers as full-time, salaried employees.

"Oh, ballet's not really my thing. I just find it so rigid, you know?" the youth explained condescendingly, "and those modern companies are so old school! No - I intend to work with..." and he went on to list several choreographers that my freelancer friends danced for. 

I thought about telling him. I really did. As a more experienced dancer to a less-experienced one, I wanted to help him out, despite his rudeness, because I know how rough our business  can be (and I also wanted to knock him down a few pegs). But, as I watched him drink his drink a little too quickly, I remembered that I had a legion of liabilities in my apartment and went to make sure they weren't wrecking the place. 

Despite the vivid memories I have of that night (including, but not limited to the time a teen-aged door-keeper tried to charge me a $10 cover to get back into my own apartment, and the time when one of the kids discovered my age and remarked, with 0% irony, "Oh, but don't worry! You still look hot for  being that old!"), it was my conversation with the boy on the rooftop that popped into my head as I read Sarah Anne Austin 's beautifully articulated piece "Is American Modern Dance A Pyramid Scheme?", which has been making its rounds on the internet. 

If you haven't read the article, I advise that you do, here: Is American Modern Dance A Pyramid Scheme?, but for purposes of this response, I will summarize as succinctly as I know how.

 Is American Modern Dance a Pyramid Scheme?

Yes, Austin confirms. Yes it is.

Because there are so few opportunities to earn a living wage as a modern dancer or dance-maker (what with so few steady, salaried positions out there), most performers end up teaching at the university level, training more dancers, who end up teaching at the university level. Who train more dancers who end up teaching at the university level.....

You see where this is going? This system as it currently exists, falls under the definition of "Pyramid Scheme" as it is defined by the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (a program in which “participants attempt to make money solely by recruiting new participants into the program"). 

If Pyramid Schemes are deemed ILLEGAL and ACTIONABLE by the U.S. Government, then how can we fault rooftop boy for assuming that he can make a living wage outside of such a system?  If we cannot fault him, then perhaps we can no longer regard him as the  pretentious [unprintable name] we once thought he was.

Damn it.

"But shouldn't he be better informed?" you ask. "Even if the system is flawed, shouldn't he be  better educated about the business he is  spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to be educated in?"

And the answer is, yes. Yes he should.

But he's not.

Why is he not?

He's not informed because (as far as I know, and please correct me if I'm wrong) very few, if any, B.F.A. programs teach students about the practical aspects of living life as a working dancer, freelance or otherwise. 

We are taught technique and performance skills  (in fact, until these things are coming out of ours ears), we are taught theory (dance history and choreographic theory and music theory and anatomy and nutrition), but what we are not taught is HOW the business of dance works. And that, I would argue, is the most important thing we need to know.

The problem, as I see it, is that the education our university students are currently receiving assumes that there are jobs to be had. To secure these jobs (the university system seems to say), one must only perfect technique, study theory, and be a smart, self-tending employee.  But that is, unfortunately, not how our business works, especially in this day and age.  In this day and age, we freelance. We ALL freelance (even the lucky people who posses those steady jobs). And the university system does nothing to prepare us for this.

So, what's to be done?

Well, if you asked me, I would propose that the education that our students receive (which they are putting themselves into crippling debt to receive) be geared towards helping them succeed in the current market, by which I mean,

We need to teach students about personal brand management. 

We need to teach them about marketing. 

We need to teach them about non-profits, for-profits, unions, representation, fundraising, grant writing, team building, project management and financial planning. 

If we teach these skills, then the next generation of American modern dancers and dance-makers will have the ability to become, not only the consumers of dance (as Austin hopes for) but the PRODUCERS OF NEW DANCE JOBS! If we trained our young dancers to become successful dance-business-people and sound dance-employers, they would have the know-how and financial support to put more dance jobs out there (which is the thing we lack in the first place)!  It would jump start the whole system!

I'm getting excited just thinking about it!

But, before we start teaching our students to be successful dance-business-people, we need to understand, ourselves, that this IS a business, regardless of the passion we have for it or the fun we have doing it. It is an unpopular view, I know, to regard what we do as cold, hard business and not "free artistic creation", but the fact is that the cold, hard stuff exists, and it is much better that we understand and control that aspect, rather letting ourselves get swept along in its current, without any agency or information. 

Dance is a business now (at least, until the American government starts supporting the arts more fully, the way many European governments do) and we have accept this, so that we are ahead of the curve, so that we have control over the art we want to create. We need to accept this for ourselves, and then we have to impart this to the next generation. That will be the greatest hurdle, I think. 

But once we pass that hurdle, think of the possibilities! There could be jobs for all of the 75 freshman at my birthday party! Perhaps, rooftop boy and I could have had a mutually-informed conversation! Perhaps, even, we could become friends!

Or perhaps arts conservatory freshman will always be terrible and pretentious.

Probably the latter.

But shouldn't we find out for sure?

There has been, of late, a paradigm shift in my life.

A week before I went into rehearsal for my last show, my father died. It was not entirely abrupt, but when it happened, I was changed. My whole life tilted on its axis, and when I went into rehearsals everything seemed frivolous and unimportant. Near the end of the contract, a friend of mine also died. She was my age at the time, and  the news struck a part of me that I never knew was there.

The show I was doing was Mary Poppins and in the show, George Banks has a line  where he says, "I have rediscovered the human race...and I do not apologize for understanding that there are more important things in life than making money."

The audience usually applauded. I usually rolled my eyes. 

We all know this. Hallmark tells us. Movies tell us. At this point, saying so is almost cliche.

But then, one day, it clicked. Exchange the word "money" for "great performance" and I am on the other side of the divide. 

Ever since I was a kid, I put my dedication to performance first. For the sake of my training, I gave up birthday parties and school trips. I often passed on sweets and celebrations. I  gave up sleep. When I became a professional, I gave up a steady paycheck. I gave up living in one place for any amount of time. I gave up relationships and friendships. I gave up being with my family when they needed me, or maybe just wanted me. Whether or not I gave up my sanity is arguable. 

But, since this shift, I have been re-evaluating this philosophy, and I no longer think it is healthy.

I'm not saying that we should give up on great performances. I'm not saying that we should not aspire to great art. I'm not saying that you should drop our careers every time our sibling has the flu. I don't even advocate working less: the shift is much more subtle, and much more incisive.

The difference is this:

I now want my art to be an expression of my human life, not my life to be an expression of the art I make. This is an important distinction because it makes me human first, and an artist second. In other words, I want my "Hello! My name is.." tag to read "Ashley (person with various loves and passions)" as opposed to "Artist (who makes beautiful work and does human-like things when convenient)". 

My younger self would see this shift in priority as a proclamation of blasphemy (even writing it down now feels like heresy), but I now I know that "human first" is truly what I am, and perhaps, have grown to be.

And don't you know, I still think that I am becoming the artist I meant to be all along. I simply think that this realization is the next step in my process of maturation, and unfortunately, I don't think it is a step  that every artist has the pleasure of experiencing. I am aware enough to be grateful for this, despite the circumstances that led me here.

So today I propose a toast, to full people, dense people. People who see and live and experience horror, love, terror, joy and fright. This one is for the humans, and especially the humans who, through their lives and creations, make their more enlightening experiences accessible to many more.

To all of the complex human beings, who happen speak of their vibrant lives in the language of art, we salute you. 

I am a performer. My boyfriend has a 9 to 5.

I often tell friends that I am dating a muggle. 

When I told him this, however, he was not exactly ecstatic.

"What makes you the wizards?" he inquired, with a slight hint of "I'm-sort-of-not-joking" in his voice. "Maybe we are the wizards and you are the muggles." To me, this reply was so ludicrous that I laughed heartily, wiped a tear from my eye and went back to stir-frying. When I looked back at him, however, he was still awaiting my answer.

It got me thinking.

After spending time ruminating on the subject, I realized (with some shock and horror) that I operate, psychologically, within an "us and them" worldview.

Let me explain.

The "us/wizards" are my clan and I:  the hard-working, underpaid, misunderstood but extremely talented performing artists of NYC (and sometimes LA, Chicago, D.C. and the  European cities we deem worthy). They are the people I turn to for community, for solidarity and for understanding. They are the people that comprehend why I want to take class all the time, why weekends don't happen every week and why I have cried more in a theater than I have cried anywhere else in my life.

The "them/muggles" are people with 9 to 5 jobs. They are the semi-soulless drones who have given up on imagination, who never had the guts to follow their dreams and who have never [insert inspirational but flowery phrase here].

Of course I am being facetious. Sort of. And therein lies the problem. 

What started out as a joke is now injuring our perception. As artists, we have fallen into the trap of "us and them" because, I believe, we feel insecurity. Even in this era of the "lauded artist", when actors and singers make more money than doctors or government officials, the fact is we still think of ourselves and second-class citizens, as circus freaks who have to prove, to our families and to society, that we have made the right choice, that we weren't crazy to have done what we did and do. Deep down, we want to attest that our lives are valid and our seemingly frivolous undertakings have worth. 

The problem is that we did this by overcompensating, by insisting that we are magical, different, even extraordinary. We have played into the stereotype of the circus freak, but to the extreme, and we now believe (buried deep underneath all of that social nicety) that we are better. We did the noble thing when others gave up, and by doing this, we have isolated ourselves, creating an (at times, pretentious) artist bubble, which is warm and comforting and "special".

Exacerbating the problem is the seemingly harmless "do what you love" fallacy. This phrase is bandied about by self-help gurus, high school guidance counselors and by your well-meaning Aunt Marge. It's so pervasive, in fact, that we don't bother to stop and question it's validity. But it deserves to be questioned because if everyone simply "did what they loved," a great number of people would starve to death. Admit it: even those of us who "do what we love" end up doing things we hate in order to do the things we love. No matter what you do for your life's work, there is always a trade off. The demi-sucky always pays for the moments of wonderful.

Case in point, my muggle is a brilliant writer and musician but does both of these things in his downtime (which is a decent amount of time, actually, when you work 9 to 5). However, it surprises both his friends and I that he does not pursue creative work full time, and we often ask why he does not.  

The answer he gives is an insightful one. He says that he hopes to publish someday, but that he enjoys creative work more when it is not tied up with money making. When he doesn't have to worry about surviving off of his creative labors, the process is much more fun, and way less stressful.

So, in light of these various ponderings, I want to propose that the phrase "do what you love" be amended. I think it should instead be "do what you love and are good at and you believe has value and is sustainable for your life". Not as easy to put on a poster with a sunset in the background, but probably more useful.

Does this mean that I am unhappy living my life as a gypsy? Not at all. In fact, I believe that my work and life fulfill the criteria of the amended "do what you love" admonition. Therefore, I have no desire find a 9 to 5. 

However, I think it is valuable to realize that this particular "us and them" prejudice does exist. With all prejudices, it is dangerous because it makes us discount people before getting to know them. It makes us dismiss their good ideas and their sometimes groundbreaking contributions before ever having heard them. Thinking "us and them"/"wizard and muggle" is a habit, akin to saying "JK" in conversation: it was once a joke, but it has slowly become part of the way we talk, and thus, the way we think.

It is time to pop the bubble, it is time to own our own validity without having to give ourselves airs and, for goodness sake, let's give the muggles a chance. Sometimes, they say the darnedest things.

Once upon a time, in a magical kingdom called New York, in a castle off of 8th Avenue, I was gearing up to take a dance class. As I was warming up, I spotted someone I knew, who was also taking the class. I had worked with him ten years previously, back when I was a teenager, but had not seen him since. I promptly reintroduced myself (shyness is not a personal quality I often broker) and we got to talking about our lives and what we had been doing over the past decade. He commented that I looked more mature, and we laughed about how naive I had been as a teenager. 

The whole conversation got me thinking about my last ten years and the scars I had to show for it.  Physical and mental, debilitating and skin deep, there were many. 

The doors opened and we went into class.

Later, I was watching my prodigal friend dance. It was a fun, sensual and almost silly combination and he was clearly enjoying himself, lost in a moment here, lost in a moment there. Then, something hit me.

Over the past ten years, my friend had probably accumulated the same amount of scars as I had, if not more. Yet, here he was, living his life to its extent. Despite my scars, there I was, enjoying myself just as much. In this realization, I stumbled upon a truism I had never before put into words. 

Though our lives often seem silly or even frivolous (at this moment, for example, I was literally watching my friend shake his ass), there is serious grit underneath the glitter. There is serious heartache underneath the fun, but that's what makes the fun important, mesmerizing and even worth watching. Glitter, after all, is actually composed of tiny shards of shaved metal or hard plastic (true story - look it up). If you stand back far enough, it may look delicate or trivial, but it wouldn't look the way it does if it wasn't made of something hard enough to endure assault, or even make scars of its own. 

There is serious sadness in what we do. Serious rejection. Serious struggle. Also, life happens. Friends die, families fall apart, injuries sap our determination and we find ourselves broke or broken or both. 

But that is why the glitter is beautiful, and, dare I say, important. It is made up of serious, threatening things, that are then redirected into something silly, something joyous and perhaps, something trivial. When we turn shards of metal into glitter we effectively heal ourselves. When we turn shards of metal into glitter, we remind others that they have the same capability. 

And so the two prodigal friends shook their asses. They shook them hard and with abandon. And, for a moment at least, they lived the happiest happy ever after there ever was.

The End

A wise person once told me something a wise person once told him. The saying goes, "Being a working artist means that you are trying to get your work seen. After that, the job is the vacation."

I agree. Having just celebrated my 20-year audition anniversary, (audishiversary, if you will)  I have done a lot of "working". 

SIDE NOTE: Yes, I was one of those kids you see at auditions. My first audition was for an Edy's Ice Cream Commercial. We did the moonwalk on camera. They went with a toddler instead. My second audition was for the Music Man revival. I met Lea Michelle, we were best friends for a day, but neither of us booked it.

Living in NYC is a whirlwind. We all know that (and if you didn't, there are umpteen magazine articles waiting to tell you), but especially as an artist in this city, it often feels as if you are the infantry, slogging through the mud, lugging your heavy physical (and metaphysical) gear, continuously being made to wait in the trenches.

Now, everyone's trenches look a little different. Your trench might be the crowded acting class that you wanted to take, even if you manage to get in. They can be the hoops you have to jump through every time you try to get funding for a project. They might be circuitous route you have to take to get to a gig, trying to get your double bass past that large woman on the subway because your client doesn't have enough money to pay for your cab. No matter the circumstance, trenches are always crowded, psychologically hellish, too hot, too cold or simply unbearable.

Then why do we do it? For the vacation package, naturally. I've had some beautiful "vacations" (or, "won some battles" depending on which metaphor you prefer), and each one justifies the "work" (/"time spent in the trenches").

So what do we do in the meantime? If we want the payoff, how can we make the trenches more bearable?

I'm not pretending that I have all the answers, but I do believe that the solution comes in the form a question:

Who are we fighting? 

Answer:

It's a good question, but before we talk about who we are fighting, let's talk about who we are not fighting. 

We are not fighting our fellow trench-mates. The people in the mud next to you are on the same team. Likely, they will be the difference between your success and your failure, your symbolic life and death. Remember: no man ever won a infantry charge by himself (David of "David and Goliath" fame does not count, I'm sorry). You don't have to like your fellow soldiers, though it's much more enjoyable if you do (laughing in the trenches is the best way to stave off melancholy), but you do have work with them. Without help, we will remain individually stuck in the mud. With a leg up over the embankment, we all eventually end up on higher ground, a million strong, ready to engage the enemy.


But who is the enemy?


The enemy is not necessarily "the establishment" or even the people on the other side of the table. The enemy is mediocrity. The enemy is bad work and unintentionally recycled ideas and the "let's do it because it's easy" sentiment. We all enlisted because we were inspired by something great. So we need to keep pushing forward - we need to be the new great.

But battles are not always the best way to do this. Sometimes you have fewer soldiers, or less ammo, or less political clout. Sometimes, the best course of action is not to retreat, but to desert. 

Don't like either of the opposing sides? Grab some trench-mates and escape. Make your own world. Build a third party. Fight the enemy with creation, rather than destruction.  

That's what I think.

But that's just me.