Hi-Ho The Glamorous Life: The Prosaic Side of Passion

Marissa Skudlarek, late, lamenting.

This column was not written out of passion. It comes to you a day late, after many hours of agonized rumination and then one hasty writing sprint. I am writing it with grim determination and a clenched jaw.

I didn’t know I’d have such a hard time writing about Passion and Desire, our blog-themes for this month. I’ve come to the conclusion, though, that they frighten me. And before you accuse me of being a bourgeois good-girl who was socialized to deny and fear her own desires, hear me out.

Passion has messed me up, and I’m not just talking about the sleepless nights and the bittersweet agonies that everyone undergoes when they have a crush. I mean the very idea of passion as the highest goal in life. There’s an OKCupid question that asks “Which is more important, passion or loyalty?” Years ago, I unhesitatingly answered “Passion.” Now, I’m not so sure. Loyalty’s important too. Or perhaps devotion – a word that seems to combine the better qualities of both loyalty and passion.

My father is fond of the motto “Follow your bliss,” which I do think is a good way of ensuring that the world stays full of joy and passion and creativity. But the trouble is that one cannot follow one’s bliss every moment of the day. The dishes still need to be washed; the tub needs to be scrubbed; I need to work forty hours a week in an office in order to live in this beautiful city. And, even in my artistic life, it’s not all delightful creativity and following of bliss: I need to send boring emails, I need to write even if I feel like the Muse has turned her back on me. Some people make it sound as though once you’ve discovered your passion, you’ll never be unhappy or uncertain again. I find that patently untrue.

I guess I’m trying to push back against the idea of Passion and Desire as always being these romantic, positive, heart-throbbing things. Like most abstract concepts, they work in mysterious ways.

In Allison Page’s last blog post, she talks about her play Hilarity, which I think is fair to describe as a “passion project.” But look at the way she talks about it: “I’m making it not because I think it’s for everyone and that they’ll love it and lose their minds. I’m making it because I couldn’t let it go. It’s been brewing for 4 years in my brain, and at some point I just figured that I had to find a way to make it happen because otherwise I’ll be forever bitter at myself for not doing it. It just stuck with me like nothing else has, and I have to think that’s because I need to do it.” We usually consider passion to mean a kind of romantic fervor, but for Allison, passion is stubborn and single-minded.

That’s pretty much how I felt last year, too, when I self-produced my play Pleiades: I did it because I couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. It also took me months to admit to myself that it was something I needed to do, that it was what I desired! The idea did not come to me in a rapture; I considered it until I was sure I could make it work, and then I set about my task with determination.

I produced a play because I couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. I write this column because I’d regret it and feel ashamed of myself if I didn’t. That’s passion of a sort, but not the hearts-and-flowers kind.

Working Title: The Trade or… Did You Exchange a Walk On Part in the War For a Lead Role in a Cage?

This week Will Leschber looks at the age old question would you rather…

“I’d rather die drunk, broke at 34 and have people around a dinner table talk about me than live to be rich and sober at 90 and nobody remember who I was.”

So says the aspiring Jazz Drummer artist, played by Miles Teller, in this year’s electric film Whiplash. There’s something in this statement that all artists can relate to. I certainly do. Even though I personally don’t agree with the sentiments, I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about it. I’d love to have it both ways. To have my cake and eat it too.

I aways want a win-win but sometimes artistic success feels like a trade for happiness. As artists, whether we work at film or theater or writing or painting or just work at thinking about how we should make something instead of just talking about how we used to make stuff… (Sigh)…we’ve all thought about that golden ring of longevity. How long will we grasp for it? We each make up our own answer.

Is the passionate kid in music school, lead only by his desire to be great, going to succeed? The film, Whiplash, posits a very grey and muddy answer. What can we sacrifice and still consider ourselves a success? Is anyone we know going to be one of the greatest artists of the 20th century? Probably not. But who knows, anything is possible. Especially when you are young and possibility still rolls forward like a endless hallway of open doors. Will we remain bullheaded and stubbornly pursue our art above everything else? Or will we compromise and trade a little of those all consuming young dreams for some happiness and comfort? Everyone reckons with the trade eventually. Do these things really have to be poles of each other?

I remember a time in my life when all I wanted to do was act and create and live the artist dream of dedicating everything to my craft and making something of significance that would live on and shine on like a crazy diamond years beyond my lifetime. It turns out that pursuing one goal and blocking everything else out wasn’t even what I wanted. I wanted a balance and a life and a craft and job and a family and a sexy wife and a little baby girl on the way. 😉 I turns out adulthood is more about juggling than throwing a single ball as hard and fast as you can. It is for me at least. I think many young creators play with these notions of posterity, legacy and significance. Old ones too! Maybe I just thought about it more when I was younger, in college and felt that everything was ahead. Without the ever-expanding experience that comes with age, could I even tell the difference between what was most important?

Reminds me of a song that rolls back through memory.

“So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.

Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?

Did you exchange
a walk on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year.

Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.”

I had so many dorm room conversations about craft and what we would do if we could live off acting. I’ve also had many conversations about friends who left LA or no longer did plays or stopped making music after being burnt out by bad teachers or bills or harsh critics or time enough without successful encouragement.

In the last few weeks, I haven’t talked about much local theater and that’s poor form for a Theater Pub blogger. I’m sorry, dear audience. However, I do think there is something note worthy about the pulsing vein that is running through this year in movies. It radiates with solo artists and their struggle with their creative process and finding their place amongst meaning. Whiplash, Birdman, Boyhood, Selma, The Grand Budapest Hotel, The Theory of Everything, Mr Turner, Nightcrawler, the list goes on this year. This pull between perceived significance and perceived insignificance, is a demon that not just every creative person I know thinks about, but every individual person I know thinks about. We all want to be remembered.

I’ve found a space that has no need of bullying teachers screaming and slapping my craft to make me better. I’ll soon have a sweet daughter that will challenge me in ways I can’t imagine. Those bullheaded dreams I had in younger days may not have come to pass, but I’m glad I had them. They were good dreams. They brought me to where I am today. I’m happy to look back but I’m equally happy to be here. And If I had one thing to say to that clear eyed, long haired university student that I used to be, it would be “Wish You Were Here…and don’t worry, you will be one day.”