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What does not kill me makes me stronger
Mar. 29th, 2007 07:05 pmTo borrow and misquote the immortal Crash Davis in "Bull Durham," SCA arts competitions, like strike-outs, are "boring. Besides that, they're fascist."
See, I never saw the point of going to all the trouble to make myself something I need, only to deprive myself of its use so it could sit on a table for people to ooh and ahh over it. You wanna ooh and ahh over it, do that while I'm wearing it or using it. You want to talk to me about it, TALK to me about it. Be brave enough to make comments to my face, don't hide behind a piece of paper and a bunch of meaningless numbers. Have enough respect for me to treat me as an adult.
However, when I began my SCA performance career, it was in a kingdom that didn't camp much. I had nowhere else to give it a shot so I did it at a royal bardic championship. The full bore shakes and adrenalin meltdown were so spectactular that total strangers came up to me for the rest of the event to see if I was ok. The only reason I kept beating my head on this particular brick wall was that (a) people were supportive, (b) it was the only way to fight the fear and (c) it was the only game in town.
So I did my homework. I did danceband duty and "recorder-and" sessions with Jannequinne and listened to all the early music recordings I could get my hands on and memorized songs and beat my head on the brick wall in front of audiences. My second time out of the barn I had to follow a friend who was a much more experienced performer and who had the audience laughing with a filk about fighter chicks. I chickened. I dumped the period Robin Hood ballad and gave them Patsy Cline. They laughed in all the right places. They applauded. People asked for the lyrics. I still had the shakes and wasn't proud of my material. It was too easy. I felt like a liar. I had cheated and been allowed to get away with it - and I still sucked.
The years went by. I got better, but still shook. I tried to find tricks to make things less scary. And I noticed what got rewarded. Sometimes the pseudoCeltoidfilkmonkeys beat the truly inspiring poet. Sometimes a pretty dress meant more than what was coming out of the wearer's mouth. I thought it was lame and unfair and wrong.
Then one fine day at a local arts event I was begged, do you hear me, BEGGED to enter the bardic competition because, you see, we only have one entrant and we can't run it unless there are at least two. The other entrant was a newbie so green she hid behind her copy and quavered her two pieces into her page in a barely audible monotone. I clubbed her to the ground like the harp seal she was merely because I sucked less. Oh, look, another accomplishment not to be proud of, despite some very kind commentary by the judges.
You know something? It's OK not to compete. It's OK for my audience not to like my performance or my material. After all, Eminem is not crying in a corner because I don't like rap. This epiphany freed my mind, Neo, no blue pill necessary. (Or was it a red pill?) My confidence grew exponentially as a result.
No more merciless scribbling going on where I can see or hear it while I'm trying to concentrate and when they should be listening and having a perfectly normal subjective response to my performance.
No more numbers trying to quantify the unquantifiable.
No more riding the adrenalin roller coaster with white knuckles because of the voices in my head telling me every breath matters.
No more feeling frustrated or hurt because somebody likes something else better.
Making peace with the ephemeral nature of something that once done is gone and cannot be taken back.
No more believing the lies about objective judging. Response to art is subjective, dammit. Have the guts to admit it.
"Hey y'all, watch THIS!"
See, I never saw the point of going to all the trouble to make myself something I need, only to deprive myself of its use so it could sit on a table for people to ooh and ahh over it. You wanna ooh and ahh over it, do that while I'm wearing it or using it. You want to talk to me about it, TALK to me about it. Be brave enough to make comments to my face, don't hide behind a piece of paper and a bunch of meaningless numbers. Have enough respect for me to treat me as an adult.
However, when I began my SCA performance career, it was in a kingdom that didn't camp much. I had nowhere else to give it a shot so I did it at a royal bardic championship. The full bore shakes and adrenalin meltdown were so spectactular that total strangers came up to me for the rest of the event to see if I was ok. The only reason I kept beating my head on this particular brick wall was that (a) people were supportive, (b) it was the only way to fight the fear and (c) it was the only game in town.
So I did my homework. I did danceband duty and "recorder-and" sessions with Jannequinne and listened to all the early music recordings I could get my hands on and memorized songs and beat my head on the brick wall in front of audiences. My second time out of the barn I had to follow a friend who was a much more experienced performer and who had the audience laughing with a filk about fighter chicks. I chickened. I dumped the period Robin Hood ballad and gave them Patsy Cline. They laughed in all the right places. They applauded. People asked for the lyrics. I still had the shakes and wasn't proud of my material. It was too easy. I felt like a liar. I had cheated and been allowed to get away with it - and I still sucked.
The years went by. I got better, but still shook. I tried to find tricks to make things less scary. And I noticed what got rewarded. Sometimes the pseudoCeltoidfilkmonkeys beat the truly inspiring poet. Sometimes a pretty dress meant more than what was coming out of the wearer's mouth. I thought it was lame and unfair and wrong.
Then one fine day at a local arts event I was begged, do you hear me, BEGGED to enter the bardic competition because, you see, we only have one entrant and we can't run it unless there are at least two. The other entrant was a newbie so green she hid behind her copy and quavered her two pieces into her page in a barely audible monotone. I clubbed her to the ground like the harp seal she was merely because I sucked less. Oh, look, another accomplishment not to be proud of, despite some very kind commentary by the judges.
You know something? It's OK not to compete. It's OK for my audience not to like my performance or my material. After all, Eminem is not crying in a corner because I don't like rap. This epiphany freed my mind, Neo, no blue pill necessary. (Or was it a red pill?) My confidence grew exponentially as a result.
No more merciless scribbling going on where I can see or hear it while I'm trying to concentrate and when they should be listening and having a perfectly normal subjective response to my performance.
No more numbers trying to quantify the unquantifiable.
No more riding the adrenalin roller coaster with white knuckles because of the voices in my head telling me every breath matters.
No more feeling frustrated or hurt because somebody likes something else better.
Making peace with the ephemeral nature of something that once done is gone and cannot be taken back.
No more believing the lies about objective judging. Response to art is subjective, dammit. Have the guts to admit it.
"Hey y'all, watch THIS!"
