Everything That Went Wrong…
Often times after a production, those involved in the work will talk about things that went well. We share highlights of the show, positive audience responses, and if we're lucky, we share our excitement in packing a full house and standing ovations. While all of these are well worth celebrating - and I have definitely celebrated - I've decided to share with you, some of the things that went wrong before and during An Open Love Letter to Black Fathers, A Choreopoem.
I'm taking this route because we know so many people who don't take the leap, who stop themselves from following through on a project because they are afraid of the unknown, of the potential mistakes, of failing or making a fool of themselves. They believe there's more to learn/be/do before they can be successful, or will be so humiliated by a fumble and unable to recover. And I want them to know, it's all part of the process of winning.
So let's talk fumbles. Glitches. Not-so-happy surprises. The shadowy moments that found me questioning whether or not I was making the right decisions, or even knew what the hell I was doing as the director, writer, producer and lead artist of this work. To be clear: Yes I always knew exactly I was doing. And No. I rarely had a clue. Yes and No. Always and Rarely. I Knew and I was Clueless.
Like at the very beginning, when I interviewed the first woman about her daddy-daughter experience. "What are you gonna do with this interview," she asked. I had no idea. I knew it would somehow end up on stage, but in those research moments, I only had questions. I had no answers.
And when I wrote the first grant for the piece. For those of you who submit funding proposals, you know that the questions are very specific. You are expected to know your project in and out, from start to finish, from big picture to nuance. I didn't. I rarely do. I know what I'm interested in, what I'm curious about, what topics I'm passionate about investigating; but I don't know what the project is. Not until after I write the first proposal. I move forward without knowing, and allow the proposal questions to guide me in discovering what the project wants to be. How it wants to manifest. Open Love Letter was no exception.
Then there are the times when you are ready but the cosmic forces are not. Like when it was time for rehearsals, and I hadn't yet reserved all of the space due to lack of availability and funds. And like showing up prepared to direct your entire ensemble, only for half of them to be stuck in bridge traffic for an hour OR for all but one person to have last minute conflicts, leaving you with 1 actor staring at you, expecting you to know what only 2 of you could possibly cover for the next 3 hours.
Oh yeah, and then it was 5 weeks 'til showtime and the 6th character in the script was still under-developed. Yes, there was originally a 6th character in the play. The writer (oh, is that me?) simply couldn't flesh her out enough so we... well... we had a sort of a "farewell" ceremony for that character during a rehearsal, and lay her to rest. And then there were 5. Five characters. Oh, but then it was 4 weeks 'til show time and we still hadn't cast that 5th character.
And then that feel-good rehearsal when I couldn't explain the meaning of the "Family Anthem" song to my vocalists without bawling my face off. I mean, I was SOBBING. Clearly, it didn't feel good. But it was essential to the development of this work.
Maybe public tears will never be your experience... so how about when the design elements (lights, music, costumes) are finalized WAY past the deadlines, and it's a week before the show and you've finessed every character and every scene except your own because, well, you're a performer but you're also the director so your cast gets first priority? And then it's opening night and there's a glitch in the light board so ALL of the house lights stay on during the most vulnerable scene of the show. And the letter you were supposed to read aloud during a very tender moment in the play, wasn't pre-set on the altar so you have nothing to read (and the lights work now so your spotlight is on, in all its glory).
And then you still need 2 volunteers, you forgot to outreach to 3 very important organizations, you hit a really sour note during your solo and your boob falls out of your costume. I mean really. REALLY. Stuff happens, man. And all this happened during some phase of An Open Love Letter to Black Fathers. (Well the boob thing happened during another show, but it's worth noting here, right?)
The truth is, in 20 years, I've yet to be part of a production run that doesn't have its glitches, or blindside me and force me to make decisions on the spot, that may have been different with more time to consider. The only certainty I ever have is that this is my work to do. This means, it's my work to discover. To labor. To figure out and bring forth unto its fullest manifestation. No. Matter. What.
You just gotta surrender to learning and falling along the way. With no judgement, no guilt, no beating yourself up. And definitely no pretending. Don't "fake it 'til you make it", not when you work for yourself. Not when you really want to know grow. Ask questions and learn what you don't know (along the way).
Step up, screw up, succeed. In that order. Step up, screw up, succeed.
Trust your calling and trust the journey. The highlights will appear. Your audience (clients, patrons, students) will respond. And if you're lucky, the venue will be filled and someone will clap for you, for all that they've just witnessed.
And you'll accept the applause as a comforting nod for all of the decisions and mistakes you've made along the way...
You’ll accept it as encouragement to make a lot more.
Here’s to moving forward, after your boob falls out on stage.
~DelinaDream