The Agony, The Ecstasy, and Resolution

We all have a passion. Something that drives us, that inspires us to get up in the morning, to stay awake a little longer at night, to dare ourselves to try something outside our realm of comfort, to tear ourselves apart for the love of it. In my world, that would be art. 

I lost faith in myself as a director two years ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to it, honestly. It wasn’t… a lost belief in my talent. It came down to a recognition that I don’t much care to hold the hand of sensitive, self-doubting artists. Why? Well, firstly, I don’t believe that any problem in theater – no matter how important a show may seem – is equivalent to the real life drama of, say, having one’s home flooded by a broken levy… or watching a loved one die from cancer. I’m sorry. It’s just, well, as important as it may seem… it’s just a thing and not life itself. But… my second reason is that facing those demons – to me – is a personal journey. One that I should not have to shoulder for someone else, because I’ve got enough emotional agony and ecstasy dealing with my own. And I think it’s rather like the ruby slippers. One has to figure out one has the tools to get out of the Land of Oz.   A personal power that can only come from self. Not from flimsy ego soothing empty praises.

Maybe that’s cold. I wonder if I were a man if my intolerance of hypersensitivity would make me a better director. I don’t know. That’s kind of irrelevant to my purpose here anyway. What is my purpose? Well… inevitably the things that bug us about people manifest their ugly little heads in our own sentiments and behaviors. So, yup, I’ve been having quite a brood about my artistic capability. And because I have antipathy towards indulging it in others, I loathe to admit it, never mind seek the comfort of an ego boost with a validation of someone else telling me I’m talented.

So why am I writing this? Do I not completely contradict myself by setting that previous statement on the screen for others to see? Maybe. But this isn’t a plea for compliments, readers. It’s the backstory of my epiphany.

Since taking the path away from theater … and as I spend many hours debating the politics of our nation here… I set my jaw firmly with the notion that one shouldn’t point any fingers without taking a hard look at oneself. That… to be a better human being, I should look into the mirror and see my own flaws and contributions to problems. And believe you me, I do. I am very hard on myself. Very. Very. Very. 

And the good of that… is? Not a damn thing. 

Yeah, I’ve had a miserable couple of days where I turned my writing inside and out trying to label it, trying to look for its possible flaws. I saw one very huge one and let that… well, I let it cripple me into believing I just wasn’t any good. At which point I realized I was acting like a prima donna. Maybe I wasn’t telling anyone… but I was really becoming quite useless and destroying the thing that made me so happy to be.

That mirror needed some dusting.

Because what I realized when I got over myself and reassessed the larger picture again… is that looking at oneself honestly isn’t just an attempt to see the chinks and cracks of imperfection. If there is a problem, it isn’t just an opportunity to lament it to the point of uselessness. It’s about identifying a problem and how one contributed to the creation… because by doing so, one… I… can see the means to step back and start over with a better end. To own the good stuff and let it shed the light to make those ruby slippers sparkle.

Will this change in attitude alter my sympathy for other artists in agony? I’m not sure. I do know I have an infinitely greater appreciation for the accomplishment of all artistic endeavors and strive not to waste the positive impressions that enter my mind. I still think it is a personal journey. At least, it is for me. And I’ve only just started. But at least I’ve got the shoes.