Irritated, I stare at the square of bulbs surrounding the mirror in my dressing room. They’re too bright and glitzy. I wear no makeup in this play and it frustrates me that the only lighting in the dressing room comes from these obnoxious, kitschy bare bulbs.
In week one, these lights were a fairy tale-iconic reminders that I’d “made it.” I was the lead in an off-Broadway play for the Roundabout Theater Company. The Roundabout’s productions have won over twenty Tony Awards and have featured famous actors like Claire Danes and Kathleen Turner. But it is now week seventeen. I have seen these lights, worn this costume, and performed this play eight times a week for four months.
The once charming and quirky striped green sweater seems cheesy and old. I want to shatter these bulbs, curl up in the corner, and sleep. But the lights shine scornfully in my face, yelling, “Brighten up! This is show business!” No matter how tired, I must enter the theater, make people laugh, make people cry, give them the night they paid fifty dollars for.
Places are called. I slap myself a few times. I bend over and touch my toes, then roll up very slowly to quiet my mind. Still can’t focus. I walk onstage in the dark. Frustrated, I look at my props and concentrate on them as hard as I can, imagining them in my character’s life. The clothes at my feet are cheap, tattered and trashy-looking. Did her mother buy her that computer? Is that sweatshirt her ex-boyfriends? My imagination pulls me frantically into her world.
Acting teachers say one should not be conscious of being on a stage, being watched. An actor should live fully in the world of the play. I never believed anyone could really do this. Aren’t we always conscious that this is make-believe?
Not tonight. When the lights come up, not one part of my mind thinks this is a play. For the next two hours, I am not a stressed, tired Columbia student performing a play. I am a confused, socially inept, pregnant teenager in Salem, Oregon. I wonder if this abortion will hurt. Will my mom take away my dog if she finds out? I feel I’ve slept in this bedroom every night of my life. I don’t think about the audience.
I don’t remember if they laughed.
Returning to my dressing room, I feel elated. Do I need to be miserable to achieve my best work? I think so. Now, I want to come back tomorrow night and try to achieve that focus again. Though this was my 128th performance of this show, I learned something. Performing has never felt so fulfilling. Maybe true art requires pain and sacrifice.
If so, a little bit of that never killed anyone.
SARAH STEELE is a freshman in Columbia College whose major is undecided. She is also an aspiring actress, but likes to keep that separate from her life at Columbia and so may be secretive about it.