I should put it out there to you, dear reader, that I am sorry that I haven't had the opportunity to update this before today. Life is a little hard in a low-tech world... lack of computational devices and such.
I had my first class with Kristin Linklater on Thursday, followed by a second on Friday. Let me tell you this right now: when K. Link is involved, shit gets real - real quick. And on a very, super-quick side note, when you are a world-hopping, mega-famous voice guru and you want to put it out there to your students that you wish to be viewed in a state of apotheosis, you teach class on the fifteenth floor of a bell tower in a cathedral that over looks the city and is about the same age as the country it resides in. I'm not kidding. I'm not religious, but when the daylight comes pouring in the through the windows, I challenge anyone to say that they don't feel a little closer to God.
But I did promise a super-quick tangent, so now we're back.
Right away we were thrust into an exercise where we merely had to introduce to Kristin another member of our class. Seems harmless enough, but it is, like all delicious things in this life, a test; an evaluation; a gauntlet. What we found out, which should be obvious to anyone who has read Kristin's books or studied her philosophies of vocal production, is that there are physical blocks that we develop which inhibit our abilities to produce a more genuine, unadulterated sound. Which led me to immediately think of a cheese cloth... because I think of cheese cloths, or a sieve! Let's work with a sieve, a sieve of our own construction that keeps us from communicating effectively because the filter is indiscriminate. We can only let so much out, because we only let so much in, and just that easily I knew I was already being led down a road that I knew that I would, during this three-year journey, be made to travel.
I want to take a quick break from this to just make a point of information: Linklater would murder me dead if she ever read me using the pronoun "our" instead of "I", but let's face it, it's just good writing, and I'm going to go out on what appears to be an incredibly sturdy branch and posit that I'm not the only one here. I mean, if I was, she wouldn't have a job, and I wouldn't get to go to church/class.
The Afore-mentioned Road.
Every artist has to really know himself (grammar-fail - sorry ladies, deal with it) in order to really communicate to the rest of the world, so the thought of getting through this process without some serious introspection and contemplation had never really crossed my mind, what interests me is this (and this is where I'm going to get personal, o.k. Kristin? This one's for you.): The face that I wear for others is not purely my own, it's a manufactured face, it's a face of my own delineation. It is me and it isn't; it's absolutely honest, and yet it's a grotesque: a manipulated visage which is at it's heart a coping mechanism.
I have in New York, what I consider to be a quintessential NYC survival tool: The "Fuck You" Face. This is the face that I like to think that New Yorkers, who really are generally incredibly friendly, helpful, and lovely people, put on whenever they step out into the city to get to one place or another to keep from being overrun by the perils that this "concrete jungle where dreams are made of" sometimes throws at you. You put it on right before you walk out your door in the morning. When you go to a friend's place, you merely hang it on a hook next to your hat, scarf and jacket, where you can pick it up for the journey home. You might also have a "Work" Face, an "In-law" Face, and an "I-only-have-to-wear-this-face-for-another-three-hours-of-dealing-with-these-industry-assholes" Face. They are facets of ourselves, but not necessarily our truest selves.
What I came face-to-face with Thursday afternoon on the fifteenth floor of the bell tower was the distorted reflection of myself, the reflection that I designed and that I recognize, truly, as me... because it is me; but at the same time, taking a step back and bringing the frame into focus, seeing that the glass is warped to show what I want to show, what I feel safe presenting to everyone - the cartoon caricature, made real. I see "My" Face which is intended to be bold, belligerently over-confident and (please, Jesus) uplifting to those around me... because a calm, thoughtfully quiet introvert is no fun at a party. But does that mask which keeps all of the naughty things out and, admittedly stands as an amazing control for life's daily change-ups, keep me from really relating to you how I really want to relate to you?
Yes.
This isn't mind-blowing, but after some thought, I realized that there was a deep hope in me that I could somehow work on the truest self underneath the antic, use it for the work, and then quickly don it again to continue facing the day. Prostitution at it's finest, right? But the mirror and the frame were there in front of me and I was faced not only with the reflection, but also of the possibility that it may simply not be possible, and I am faced with the notion that, even then, there are some truths that can be extraneous. Scary-exhilarating stuff... the first step down a dark forest path that immediately takes a hard left into the thick.
That's that, and we continue to examine more each and every day. Is it possible to be fully open, fully honest, and fully vulnerable to the world and maintain sanity? Or does every good castle need it's walls? I know that I certainly have my hard-earned opinions, but we'll see what tomorrow holds...
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Now Sleep.
I had my first class with Kristin Linklater on Thursday, followed by a second on Friday. Let me tell you this right now: when K. Link is involved, shit gets real - real quick. And on a very, super-quick side note, when you are a world-hopping, mega-famous voice guru and you want to put it out there to your students that you wish to be viewed in a state of apotheosis, you teach class on the fifteenth floor of a bell tower in a cathedral that over looks the city and is about the same age as the country it resides in. I'm not kidding. I'm not religious, but when the daylight comes pouring in the through the windows, I challenge anyone to say that they don't feel a little closer to God.
But I did promise a super-quick tangent, so now we're back.
Right away we were thrust into an exercise where we merely had to introduce to Kristin another member of our class. Seems harmless enough, but it is, like all delicious things in this life, a test; an evaluation; a gauntlet. What we found out, which should be obvious to anyone who has read Kristin's books or studied her philosophies of vocal production, is that there are physical blocks that we develop which inhibit our abilities to produce a more genuine, unadulterated sound. Which led me to immediately think of a cheese cloth... because I think of cheese cloths, or a sieve! Let's work with a sieve, a sieve of our own construction that keeps us from communicating effectively because the filter is indiscriminate. We can only let so much out, because we only let so much in, and just that easily I knew I was already being led down a road that I knew that I would, during this three-year journey, be made to travel.
I want to take a quick break from this to just make a point of information: Linklater would murder me dead if she ever read me using the pronoun "our" instead of "I", but let's face it, it's just good writing, and I'm going to go out on what appears to be an incredibly sturdy branch and posit that I'm not the only one here. I mean, if I was, she wouldn't have a job, and I wouldn't get to go to church/class.
The Afore-mentioned Road.
Every artist has to really know himself (grammar-fail - sorry ladies, deal with it) in order to really communicate to the rest of the world, so the thought of getting through this process without some serious introspection and contemplation had never really crossed my mind, what interests me is this (and this is where I'm going to get personal, o.k. Kristin? This one's for you.): The face that I wear for others is not purely my own, it's a manufactured face, it's a face of my own delineation. It is me and it isn't; it's absolutely honest, and yet it's a grotesque: a manipulated visage which is at it's heart a coping mechanism.
I have in New York, what I consider to be a quintessential NYC survival tool: The "Fuck You" Face. This is the face that I like to think that New Yorkers, who really are generally incredibly friendly, helpful, and lovely people, put on whenever they step out into the city to get to one place or another to keep from being overrun by the perils that this "concrete jungle where dreams are made of" sometimes throws at you. You put it on right before you walk out your door in the morning. When you go to a friend's place, you merely hang it on a hook next to your hat, scarf and jacket, where you can pick it up for the journey home. You might also have a "Work" Face, an "In-law" Face, and an "I-only-have-to-wear-this-face-for-another-three-hours-of-dealing-with-these-industry-assholes" Face. They are facets of ourselves, but not necessarily our truest selves.
What I came face-to-face with Thursday afternoon on the fifteenth floor of the bell tower was the distorted reflection of myself, the reflection that I designed and that I recognize, truly, as me... because it is me; but at the same time, taking a step back and bringing the frame into focus, seeing that the glass is warped to show what I want to show, what I feel safe presenting to everyone - the cartoon caricature, made real. I see "My" Face which is intended to be bold, belligerently over-confident and (please, Jesus) uplifting to those around me... because a calm, thoughtfully quiet introvert is no fun at a party. But does that mask which keeps all of the naughty things out and, admittedly stands as an amazing control for life's daily change-ups, keep me from really relating to you how I really want to relate to you?
Yes.
This isn't mind-blowing, but after some thought, I realized that there was a deep hope in me that I could somehow work on the truest self underneath the antic, use it for the work, and then quickly don it again to continue facing the day. Prostitution at it's finest, right? But the mirror and the frame were there in front of me and I was faced not only with the reflection, but also of the possibility that it may simply not be possible, and I am faced with the notion that, even then, there are some truths that can be extraneous. Scary-exhilarating stuff... the first step down a dark forest path that immediately takes a hard left into the thick.
That's that, and we continue to examine more each and every day. Is it possible to be fully open, fully honest, and fully vulnerable to the world and maintain sanity? Or does every good castle need it's walls? I know that I certainly have my hard-earned opinions, but we'll see what tomorrow holds...
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Now Sleep.
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