Years ago, after a play I'd performed in came to a close, I walked up East 8th Street with my cast-mate and good friend Sarah. "What was that point of that?!" I cried. "There was nobody even in the audience." The little black box theater I was referring to was once a haven - a gritty little space where compelling stories were told in front of intimate, but packed rooms of 20. My frustration that evening reminded me just how distant a memory those performances now were.
As I paced back and forth just outside a busy apartment complex, Sarah listened patiently. The truth is, I 'd been struggling to find my meaning as an actor for quite some time - a realization once as clear as the sight of the Statue of Liberty from the Brooklyn Bridge.
Now, I'd lost my sense of purpose. The days where I believed a monologue I delivered, or a scene I was part of would somehow make a dent in the world by shaping the mind of someone who sat raptured in those creaky black chairs had come to close, or at least a long sabbatical. If people weren't even willing to show up why even bother? I thought.
As my little rant finally came to a close, Sarah offered a positive word or two of encouragement. But it took me quite some time to realize something that would thankfully realign me with my old perspective on the importance of artistic expression.
Before it matters to someone else, it must first matter to YOU.
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