EPIC FAIL

In March 2019, I organized a dialogue for artists. While it wasn’t the first dialogue I had ever convened, it felt significant because it was the first one I had hosted after having done any research on what a dialogue is and how to convene one. 😂

Don’t get me wrong. Other meetings I had organized in the past had been successful by some standard, mostly because I was so determined to have a conversation about something important, or bring a group of people together, that it didn’t seem to matter to me how I did it, just that I did.

Taking classes at SFU over the last couple years, in the Dialogue and Civic Engagement Certificate, has given me some deeper perspective around the idea of bringing people together for a conversation. While having the initial idea combined with undying optimism, is a good start, it is not nearly enough to deal with complex issues on the fly. I think back on some of the conversations I had convened in the past, and realize now, that I was in over my head. The only thing keeping things on track were the social norms that people brought into the room, and my gut, which was the only tool I had to navigate some truly ugly moments.

The courses I’ve taken, have constantly challenged me to think about more planning, and always digging deeper. Looking for underlying assumptions, and searching for more powerful questions. For my final project in the Dialogue and Civic Engagement Certifcate, I decided to convene a dialogue of my own titled “EPIC FAIL: Fear and Failure in the Creative Process.”

My chosen method for the dialogue was to host a World Café. You can learn more about it here. In preparation for my event, I took part in an online World Café; a monthly World Café session that anyone can join. I found it to be a solid learning opportunity, as well as a very cool experience, and I would highly encourage anyone give it a try. Through this online dialogue, I got to have in-depth conversations with people from around the globe (South Africa, Australia, Burkina Faso, The Netherlands), about topics that matter.

In the spring, after some deep thought, and several meetings with my project advisor, it was finally time to host the dialogue I had been planning for months. I booked a room at the Roundhouse Community Centre, and got pretty excited about office supplies. My event was specifically aimed at artists, and 19 attended. There were dancers, a textile artist, a painter, filmmakers, comedians, a graphic designer, actors, theatrical improvisors, and musicians.



My goals for the dialogue were to foster:


  • A deeper collective understanding of fear and failure
  • Empathy between artists
  • Stronger relationships between Vancouver artists

We began the Dialogue with introductions and a group activity that was fun and energizing, and also highlighted the theme of failure. The leading questions we explored throughout the three hour event:

  • Share a story about a time when you experienced failure (or fear of failure) in your artistic practise?
  • What does failure or fear of failure feel like?
  • What are you learning or noticing about failure?
  • What can support us in our failures? How do we know when to quit?
Beautiful graphic recording done by my D&CE classmate Susanna Houwen.

One wonderful surprise was that when the topic of the dialogue is fear and failure, it actually makes it easy to incorporate those ideas into hosting. I started the day by talking about how nervous I was coming to the space, and how I was afraid no one would show up. Many people nodded, some laughed, and my comments seemed to acknowledge the nerves in the room. One learning I took away from convening this dialogue is: once you acknowledge that fear is present, and failure is possible, it seems to take the power away from those ideas.

By the closing circle at the end of the day, several people expressed that they had had epiphanies throughout the day. People talked about the relationship between expectations and failure. We talked about when your failure affects others. Accepting that risks lead to failure, and there is learning to be done in both the failure itself and how we react to it. We talked about how capitalism sets the tone of competition, and if everything is a competition, there are winners and losers – succeeders and failers. We talked about the shame of failure. We talked about death, and the deep motivating fear of not having a story to tell, not having an impactful life.

A colleague of mine, following the dialogue, sent me this Ted Talk by Jia Jiang, talking about 100 Days of Rejection. His project is an absolutely whimsical reminder of what can happen when we put fear aside and ask for what we want. His talk suggests that what can support us in our failure is a curiosity about it – asking why, acknowledging doubts, being persistent.

Now that I’ve finished the Dialogue & Civic Engagement program, I’ve had more time to reflect on some of the concepts and tools I have taken from the courses. I’ve noticed small changes in the way I listen, the way I allow silence to play more of a role in conversations, and the way I ask questions. I also feel much better equipped to organize tough conversations, to allow people to engage honestly in what is important to them. But most of all, I’ve spent the summer trying to get more curious about my failures (past, present, and future).

The Thinking Steps

Rå Power at Rapid Fire Theatre’s Improvaganza 2018. Photograph by Tamara Taylor.

Have you ever noticed that most improvised scenes start with an improvisor moving three steps down stage centre?

The audience yells a suggestion, or an edit happens, and the improvisor moves, as themselves, downstage. Once they hit centre stage, they make a choice. This moment is almost imperceptible, so you have to really look for it. Three neutral steps down stage, while we think: “I’m starting a scene. The suggestion is fire. I’ll be a firefighter.”

I think this is why a lot of shows have blackouts or a countdown off the top of scenes, to give time for this moment.

I call this phenomena The Thinking Steps; the time it takes for us as improvisors to make a choice.

These three steps aren’t necessarily bad. They are an opportunity to think; our processing time, where we repeat the suggestion a few times to find inspiration, where our director brain is thinking about what the show needs at this moment. “How can I bring a different emotional energy to the show?”

I hear a lot of students talk about “getting out of your head” and “being in the moment” as the ultimate goal for improvisors. They’re learning this language in books, or from other teachers, or heck, movies about improv. For me, “getting out of your head” is a misnomer. Planning and thinking can help us on stage – looking for the big picture, assessing what the audience might be craving, remembering notes we’ve been given to improve our performance, keeping each other physically safe.

Being “in our head” isn’t bad. I think the goal should be less about not planning, and more about not judging.

Judgement is what stops us from editing, what makes us second guess our impulse, and what allows us to have three different ideas that we waffle on as we take three steps downstage.

When you get off stage, and you feel like you were “in your head”, what exactly were you thinking of? Were you noticing a team mate who hadn’t been in yet, and hoping to start something with them in the next beat? Were you thinking about making sure you find your light this week? Were you extra aware of how the audience was reacting negatively to certain content and clocking that you should try to change the tone your show? I would argue that this kind of thinking is not bad, in fact, it is what keeps us safe and working toward a goal as an ensemble.

And sure, in this art form, there are those magical shows where you get off stage and it feels like every choice was effortless, that your body was leading, and that impulse was queen. But if I am being honest, the majority of the time, I find myself half in my impulse and half in my head. My experience in a show often depends on not if I am in my head, but where my head is at.

Our own self judgement, or the perceived judgment of others, slows us down, causes us hesitate, makes us second guess, and chips away at our commitment. Examples of the kind of thinking that may not be serving you would be: beating yourself up about a choice you made, not listening to your scene partner because you are worrying about a part of the show upcoming, or rolling your eyes at an improvisor from the backline for a choice they stuck with. Once judgment is present on stage, it affects everyone. Performers and audience. It allows everyone to think, “you’re right, this isn’t that good”.

Lately, I’ve been challenging my students and myself to make a choice right away. As soon as there is the impulse to initiate a scene, try and get a choice going. Don’t take the time to travel downstage to decide, just decide. Making a strong choice right away gets us busy so that our judgement can’t creep in.

-An emotional sound (grunt, laugh, yelp)
-A change in the rhythm of your breath (sigh, pant, cough)
-A change to your body (wavy arms, toes that lead, gentle hands)
-A change to your face (furrowed brow, tiny mouth, tense cheeks)

You don’t need to know why you’re doing it, or how you are going to justify it. Just trust you can.

Rå Power at Rapid Fire Theatre’s Improvaganza 2018. Photograph by Tamara Taylor.

A couple cool benefits:

If there is any tentative energy in your steps downstage, the audience can sense it, and it makes them worried. (Hell, it encourages THEIR judgment) By moving in a specific way, you lessen their sense of fear by not sharing your own.

Making a snap choice right away will make your entrance feel more complete – it will be full of that choice, rather than just being filled with your “neutral” self.

By the time you arrive downstage, you will have a clearer take on who you are, what you feel.

If you make a sound or breath choice, you will also have the added benefit of breathing, which puts you better in touch with your impulse and emotion.

If you make a physical choice, it’s likely the breath or sound will follow, so you’re golden there too.

Plus a fun side effect might be that you start a scene somewhere else on stage where scenes don’t usually happen. If you make the choice from the wing, maybe the scene will travel all over the stage, or take place “way too close” to the curtain. Making a choice right away can take us somewhere unexpected.

I’d like to give full props to Mick Napier, who got me thinking about making emotional sounds to start scenes, Susan Messing, who encouraged me to change my face, and Mike Kennard, who got me thinking about the connection between breath and impulse.

BURN OUT AND APATHY AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING MOJO

Content warning: this post includes discussion of sexual assault, though not in detail.

Oh where oh where did my mojo go?

I remember a time when I would work all day and all night, sometimes because I had to, but mostly because I wanted to. Thinking and talking about improv was pretty much all I wanted to do. Building communities and planning events and pushing myself to do things that scared me. Writing on this blog, even!

But since moving to Vancouver, I have needed to slow down. To sleep more, to say no to more opportunities, to shut my mouth to save my own neck. My brain has been occupied in a way like never before, by issues that are not inspiring little creative challenges but are deep, complex, all-consuming problems. It’s been three years of growth and learning. It’s been humbling, and its been painful.

I moved to Vancouver on January 1st, 2016. The Ghomeshi trial started February 1st.

Most areas of my life have been pretty stable since moving. I am lucky enough have a very supportive partner, a semi-steady contract teaching improv, an apartment in Vancouver that I haven’t been evicted from. All of this is to say, based on the enormous heaviness I feel, I can’t imagine the pain that other folks are carrying around with them.

In the last three years, over ten men that I know personally have been accused of misconduct. About half of sexual assault, and the rest for some variety of shitty behaviour including but not limited to: abuse of power, using the stage as an excuse to grope or degrade women, and a myriad of Aziz Ansari-type garbage.

It feels like every time a celebrity is accused of sexual misconduct, someone in my artistic community is too. I can track it on a timeline over the past several years.

As in Hollywood, the scope and scale of these abuses are varied: some appear to be one-time incidents, others habitual patterns. Some are purposely malicious, others subconscious, societally-trained fuck ups, others mental health issues. Very little has been or can be proven, most organizations are scared to take action, and most of these men continue to work in the industry.

Photography by Ryan Parker, 2018. https://ryanparkerphotography.com/

Over the last few years, I’ve received a lot of phone calls from men – some accused, some wondering if they will be accused, all very scared. All of them wanting a woman to tell them that they didn’t do anything wrong, that they never did anything to me, that it’ll be ok.

And here’s the deal: statistically, it is likely they all did what they were accused of.

So, how does one grapple with the fact that an accusation will likely never be proven, that a man who was once a friend maintains his innocence, that an organization claims they cannot take action, that a community is divided, and oh, did we lose track that there is a human being, a woman, has been violently harmed not only by the original act, but by the pushing and pulling of this “process”? It overwhelms me.

And then there are the men I know who have not been accused per se, but you hear rumours, or your intuition tingles at the back of your neck. How many times in the past three years, about to get on stage, have I asked myself,  “But how much of a creep is he, really?”

I have read over 20 Anti-Harassment Policies and Codes of Conduct this year, served on a few committees, and spent countless hours talking about them. Most discussions come down to a few key discussion points: Anonymous reporting or not? Who builds the investigation panel? Plain language or legalese?

And really to me, the question is: who are you trying to protect? The people in your organization, or the organization itself?

For example: a policy that places the organization’s director automatically on the investigation panel is good for the organization because it allows the director to know in detail everything that is going on, but it may prevent complainants from coming forward if the director is the source of the complaint, or if they appear to be aligned with the interests of certain people in the organization. To me, good policy accounts for every worse case scenario. What if the complaint is about the organization’s board? Its leaders? A volunteer? How can you do your very best to ensure a fair investigation, that protects the complainant?

Sidebar: this lecture by Sarah Ahmed captures the stresses of the complaints process, how it is important as an act of resistance, and can over time lead to positive change in institutions. 

This past summer, as the Kavanaugh nomination dominated the media, I started to feel deeply apathetic. Several people told me to just keep my head down and protect myself, so I was trying. Trying to not let it affect me. But then, around the time of the Kavanaugh hearings in September, I reached a breaking point. I felt so far away from myself. I am an emotional person, to a fault sometimes, but it is not in my nature to just tune out my feelings. I realized that I needed to stop being complacent, stop rationalizing, and listen to my gut. My gut is telling me to get far away from these accused people, because when I am near them, I am supporting them.

To be clear, I am not looking for sympathy here. I share this with you so that if you are feeling this way, you know that I am too. Because I have made mistakes in the past, and downplayed forms of misogyny both on stage and off. Because I have unwittingly supported abusers for too long, with my energy, my skills, and my willful ignorance. I share this with you in the hopes that you will feel inspired to make change in your community.

How as a society do we deal with these accused men? I think that is an important topic, and one that is surfacing, and will continue to surface, for years to come. I sincerely don’t know the answer. I do believe in apologies, rehabilitation and recovery some day. But right now, most of all, I believe we should all be taking real action to support survivors.

I don’t have the answers, but I have learned this: an organization’s policy and company culture deeply impacts how safe an organization is for women, trans* and gender non-binary people. If company culture is healthy, but there is no policy, then a complaint processes will be dealt with in an ad hoc way which may, in turn, may damage the culture. If company culture is unhealthy, and you have a strong policy, it will not be implemented because there is not a willingness to change, learn or grow. Ultimately, company culture and policy work together to build healthier spaces.

Policy is indeed a good place to start, but there is also some awesome, additional work to be done in improv communities. Clear guidelines around debriefing shows, pre- and post-show check-ins (where people can speak plainly and don’t have to make jokes to feel safe), ensemble discussions about physical and content boundaries, intimacy training, anti-oppression training, creating shows and workshops centred around identity, and facilitated dialogues on these topics can help every single improvisor improve and grow.

I think sometimes when people meet me, they are surprised I am a “comedian”, because I am so serious. I am serious when I don’t find something funny. And I am deeply serious about making our creative spaces safer.

Just a hot reminder: making jokes about rape at a meeting about a Code of Conduct policy is not funny.

So, anyway, I guess that’s why I haven’t been writing on my blog.

Matching Outfits: The Secret to Improv

Photograph by Chelsea Petrakis. http://www.chelseapetrakis.com/

My mom asked me the other day, “What happened to your blog?”. This confirmed two things:

  1. I haven’t written in far too long. Apologies to you, Dear Reader! It has been a busy summer for this li’l improvisor, and if I am being completely honest, a challenging one. The great news is though, as the autumn leaves fall, I’m back baby!
  2. My MOM reads my blog. Which is pretty much the best thing that has ever happened to me. If my mom wants to read my intellectual ramblings, then heck, I should write them down.

So, here goes!

It just so happened that in July, I was at a festival with a high concentration of fierce, brilliant women improvisors. We’re talking crème-de-la-crème here. And it JUST so happened, at that same festival, one of the headlining acts was detained, and couldn’t make it. And so, a time slot needed to be filled. And it just so happened, the festival directors asked six of these fierce, brilliant women I mentioned before to perform.

It’s rare, an opportunity like this, and it’s pretty much my favourite way to improvise. Find a relatively high-stakes scenario (like performing on the sold-out final night of a festival). Put together a random assemblage of performers who you admire. Decide right before the show what you will attempt to do. Do a couple circle warm ups. There’s not much more you can do to be ready. You don’t have time to worry, days leading up to your show. You don’t have the woulda-shoulda-couldas post-show.

The best part? Improv actually feels spontaneous.

Our show was electric. From the first second we were on stage I felt like I was glowing from the inside out. How could I not be? I was on stage with one of my oldest friends, and the brightest talent, Kirsten Rasmussen. Next to me was one of my creative besties, the ever-rad Ember Konopaki. Then there was Leigh Cameron, who I performed with in a VIIF ensemble, who is brilliant with characters, and a gorgeous weirdo. Oh, and as if that wasn’t mirth enough, Kristen Schier was there too! She’s an absolute beacon of positivity and inspiration. And Laura Doorneweerd from Amsterdam, who has a great mind for form, and a beautiful patience when performing. Basically, you took a bunch of my heroes and put them on stage together. We were also joined by a musician who I had just met, named Kyle, who was also pretty damn special. Oh, and did I mention, we all wore matching outfits and it looked FUCKING GREAT?!

Witches melting. Photograph by Chelsea Petrakis http://www.chelseapetrakis.com/

We had planned to do a form that Kirsten had pitched: alternating matching scenes (where improvisors join the energy of the other characters on stage) with an increasing number of improvisors (first 2, then 3, then 4, 5, 6), with more grounded two-person scenes. By the third beat of the show, which was a very funny group game about basketball players who are constantly losing the ball, we all had jumped in, and the format was OUT THE WINDOW. We were flying beat to beat, completely flowing in agreement, soaking up the whole stage, throwing in a song in the middle of a group game, making some amazing callbacks, and ending on a bookend to the beginning of the show.

When it was all over, I was shocked. The audience also seemed shocked. They stood up for an ovation. I was awash in the whole mystical experience.

How could we have done such a cohesive show? Some of the women hardly knew one another. We didn’t rehearse. We randomly asked for a musician, having no idea how we would use him. And between you and me, our outfits could have matched more… HOW WAS THIS SHOW EVEN POSSIBLE?

We had no idea what would happen. They audience understood that too. And that excitement, when combined with the power of our training, our belief in one another, our commitment to good work, and our trust in the moment gave us an amazing show.  That’s the magic of true spontaneity.

Surfing the Chaord

“Last Wish”: Dave ‘climbing a rope made up his clothes’. Photograph by Patty Varasano. http://www.varasano.de/

This post is derived from a talk I was invited to give at Nerd Nite Vancouver on January 25, 2017. 

Improv as we know (that is, improv for improv’s sake) it is a relatively new art form. When theatrical improvisation started gaining popularity in the 1960s, it was a rather radical concept. The founding voices of modern improvisation are, to me, voices of rebellion, mischief, and innovation. Keith Johnstone (inventor of Theatresports, and Maestro) talks about his experiences watching professional wrestling, and longing to bring the wild energy of those performances back to traditional theatre spaces. Del Close (founder of Improv Olympic, father of long form improvisation) is quoted as saying, “Fall, then figure out what to do on the way down.” Viola Spolin invented Theater Games that allowed people from different cultural backgrounds to express themselves freely, with little theatrical training. To me, all these voices call for more expression, more vulnerability, more curiosity, and more chaos.

Me and Nerd Nite Vancouver. Photograph by Lindsey Elliot. http://lindsaysdiet.com/home

Improvisation is inherently risky because it puts process in front of an audience, rather than a polished, rehearsed product. A scene might fall flat, an actor might freeze, the audience might be uncomfortable. Things seldom go as planned. But herein also lies the joy of improvisation; the moments of true surprise, the triumphs of unlocking a group’s impulses, and the catharsis that occurs when a whole room feels something together.

Over time though, as improv has gained popularity, it has moved further away from being process on stage. As audiences more commonly understand the concept of improvisation (thanks to media like Who’s Line is it Anyway?, and Don’t Think Twice), and as a growing number of actors perform improv, we have are constantly carving out and defining what a improv is. We have expectations about what an improv show is or should be. We practise how to successfully play games, how to teach edits, and how to use common language about improv. Most shows start with a host coming out, asking for three audience suggestions as a warm up, and then bringing out the improvisors. Many word-at-a-time stories end with “The moral of the story is…”. Many open scenes start with a person opening a cupboard and pouring a cup of water. I understand why we teach students how to succeed, but I also wonder if we should be teaching students to experiment more. If an improv show can be anything, than why does a lot of improv around the world look more or less the same?

In one of my courses at Simon Fraser University (Dialogue 701: The Practice of Engagement), we recently talked about the concept of the chaordic space.

Image source: Chaordic Commons http://www.chaordic.org/

‘Chaordic space’ is a term coined by Dee Hock; the founder and former CEO of VISA. The term identifies the intentional blending of qualities of both chaos and order in an organizational process.  In the context of my course, we were talking about how to find the chaordic space build a safe place for generative dialogue; when you are preparing to bring people together, you want to have some structure, but leave space for the unexpected without predetermined outcomes.

I think there is a clear application to improvisation here. When we step on stage to do a show, what are the expectations we put on ourselves as performers, and our audiences? Do we have predetermined outcomes? Do we have an inkling about how the show will likely feel? Order has its place, but if there is too much order in improv, shows can read as safe, boring, fearful, and controlled.

On the other hand, total chaos is… well, chaos. Ideas don’t connect, no patterns are found. It’s hard to tell a story. The reason we play set structures in improvisation is the create a container with which to improvise in. We often get suggestions from the audience to narrow our focus, to provide inspiration. Without any structure, the openness can be stifling.

To work in the chaordic space is a balancing act – it is where the unexpected happens, where the audience is as surprised as the performers. I think in the chaordic space lives improvisation at its best.

So, how can we build improv shows that challenge what is expected of improv? How can we create organizational culture that supports the inherent uncertainty of true risk taking? How can we push ourselves to be less comfortable, and more curious?

Several months ago, I had the pleasure of taking part in a show called Last Wish, directed by the amazing Maja Dekleva Lapajne. I think her theatre company, Kolektiv Narobov from Ljubljana, Slovenia, is one of the most interesting improv companies on the planet, and they are consistently doing challenging work. In thinking about the chaordic space, to me, Last Wish exemplifies a show that existed in teetering space between success and failure, organization and radical freedom.

“Last Wish”: a scene where Daniel is now a chair. Photograph by Patty Varasano. http://www.varasano.de/

The concept of the piece was simple: one microphone in a spotlight, where any of the performers could step up and share what they wished for the show. It could be a wish for a particular improv scene, or a wish for the audience, for fellow actors, or the space. In workshop, Maja helped us establish trust in our ensemble, she fed our curiosity, and trained us to be patient with our choices. The result of her excellent direction was a surprising, chaotic, and wonderful improvised show.

We didn’t take a suggestion, we just agreed to let themes emerge in the first few beats. We did scenes in the dark. We had a conga line. We did scenes in heaven. We endowed audience members as people in our lives we needed to apologize to, and apologized to them. We told a great escape story. We had silent scenes underscored by music. We climbed on each other. We made inside jokes. We cried. We looked behind the curtains. We had a dance party with the audience. Some of it was pretty bad. Some of it was the best improv I have ever done. Some people in the audience thought it was indulgent and hated it. Some others loved it. I think some people were bored. Looking back, it was one of the best creative experiences of my life.

By creating a simple container for the improvised content, we were able to take risks, while trusting we could change the trajectory of the show at any time. Our director urged us to let go of what we thought the show should be, and just let it happen. While on stage, I felt the clear pull of expectations on the show, and felt my fellow ensemble members push to abandon them. Once we got past that, it truly felt like anything could happen. When I came off stage, it felt like I had been caught up in a whimsical wave of impulse.

I want to feel this on stage more often.

What is your scene saying?

Photograph by the amazing Patty Varasano.

A couple years ago, a long-time fan came up to me after an improv show and said she noticed a pattern of behaviour in the stories we were telling. She observed that “being an orphan” was often used as a punchline in our scenes. She then, very gently, suggested that this was problematic because there were likely people with different family structures in the audience, and it was unfair to constantly use orphaned children as the brunt of jokes. I politely listened to her speak, but the whole time I was thinking to myself, “I guess we do mention orphans a lot, but we are clearly talking about orphans in the archetypical Dickensian sense! We aren’t commenting on what it must like to actually be an orphan!”

RED FLAG! My emotional reaction to this legitimate observation was absolute garbage, and it exposed in me the defensive feeling that so many people in positions of power must be feeling these days. Instead of listening empathetically, acknowledging my role in the narrative I was a part of, and working to change it, my gut reaction was to pay lip service to the complaint, while actually dismissing it.

And this is a big problem. After all, there are a lot of words other than “orphan” you could substitute into this all-too-familiar story.

Given the recent events in America, and the fierce ripples being felt here in Canada, I think, as artists, we all must reflect on what our work means. Some people are saying this week’s #BoycottHamilton controversy is a distraction from the real issues happening in the States, but to me, it is a strong reminder of my crucial role as an artist.

The deeper messages of the stories we tell on stage have lasting impact, and therefore we are responsible for them. We make meaning when we improvise, when we make art, when we communicate. Improvisation is part of a dialogue about our world, about ourselves, and about each other.

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Photograph by Patty Varasano.

Improvisors Joe Bill and Mark Sutton from Chicago, talk about how the scene isn’t about fixing a bike, or painting a fence, or taming a lion. The scene is about relationships; it’s about humanity. Kevin MacDonald, from Kids in the Hall, calls this “The About About”. Scenes aren’t about scouts on a camping trip, or businesspeople out for lunch, scenes are commentary on youthful independence, or ruthless corporate culture.

At Rapid Fire Theatre, we talk about “punching up” or “punching down” in our scene work. Punching down is poking fun at a person with little or no societal power (ie. making jokes about homeless people), while punching up is satirizing a person in a position of power (skewering an ignorant dictator, satirizing a billionaire, mocking the patriarchy). Punching up opens a dialogue about an issue and questions the inherent power dynamic in our society, punching down is a cruel, privileged, lazy way to shock people. You can improvise a scene about any topic; it’s what you say about the topic that matters.

Are your scenes about the courage of a child who is silenced, the bravery of a woman protagonist, or how to embrace a different way of life other than your own? Or do your scenes lean on cultural stereotypes, shrug at rape culture, or back away from saying anything important at all?

When I get off stage, I hope that the audience better understand my joys, fears, and curiosities about the world. It’s true that some stories are hyper-political, and others are less-so, but as long as we bring self-awareness to our work, we will tell stories that are deeply important to us.

If we are complacent, safe, and choose to say that theatre is “just for entertainment”, I think we are doing a disservice to our rights and freedoms. We are silencing ourselves from doing work that matters, and we are taking away the audiences’ ability to see themselves reflected on stage.

Our world is in too much danger to perpetuate ignorance. We have to stop making excuses for scenes that punch down, and scenes that reinforce dangerous patterns of behaviour with no consequence. Artistic Directors, instructors, and fellow performers, in a time where the arts may be faced with more censorship than ever before, I urge you to use your voice for good. Inspire. Provoke. Share your passion.

Photographs of the Würzburger Improtheaterfestival by Patty Varasano. “An Artist’s Duty” video with Nina Simone released by her estate.

2 Fast 2 Curious

Improvising as a duo can be exposing, terrifying, and one of the most liberating experiences you will have as an improvisor. You have your partner, yourself, and that’s it.

Rapid Fire Theatre’s Rå Power. Photograph by the amazing Aaron Pedersen. http://www.aaronpedersen.co/

The year was 2006. Capri pants were in. Katie Holmes inexplicably married Tom Cruise. And I formed my first improv duo with a fellow Rapid Fire Theatre improvisor Marc Schulte. We were called Bacon n’ Eggs. Why were we called that? As with most improv troupe names, no one really knows or cares!

Me and Marc Schulte in 2007 at Rapid Fire Theatre. Photograph by Tiffany Panas.

Before my first duo sets, I’d feel sickly nervous before we’d hit the stage. I was petrified of blanking, stressed about embarrassing myself, and not knowing how we were possibly going to pull off a 30 minute set. Normally, when I played Theatresports™ , we’d play short form scenes on teams of four. I was most comfortable being the third or fourth person to enter a scene, and I had no idea how to be on stage longer than three minutes. I was good at supporting other peoples’ ideas, but not super comfortable with investing in my own.

And then Marc and I would start our show. It felt like a free fall. For the first time, I felt out of control. Marc constantly surprised me with his choices, and with the extra space on stage, I even started to surprise myself. Marc constantly had my back, and I had his. There was a true sense of discovery. I didn’t have time to judge my own ideas, or hesitate in the wings, and so, I just had to trust in my ideas.

That’s the real joy of playing in a duo. You push yourselves to places you never thought possible, because you are forced to trust each other wholeheartedly. What you create is the synthesis of your two creatives selves, and the only limit is your curiosity.

So how can you find the right person to form a duo with? First, I’d say, think of all your duo partner options, and think BIG (just because someone is more experienced than you doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not interested in pairing up with you). Who is that person that you admire, and find unpredictable? Maybe it scares you a bit to perform with them? Maybe you’ve done scenes you’ve absolutely loved with them before? There’s a good chance this duo dynamic is worth investigating.

My latest duo is with long time pal Joleen Ballendine of Rapid Fire Theatre. We’ve been performing together in ensembles for years, but never just the two of us. When we decided to form a duo, we talked about how the troupe could serve us. Your duo can create the space you need to work on a particular challenge, or to try out a new form or style. Your duo should inspire you! After all, it’s 50% YOU!

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Rapid Fire Theatre’s Rå Power. Photograph by the amazing Aaron Pedersen. http://www.aaronpedersen.co/

Joleen and I talked about how we both have been performing for most of improv lives with a lot of great duo partners, who happened to be men. We both identified a tendency for our role in these duos to be driving narrative, and grounding scenes. We decided that the most exciting direction for our troupe would be for us to push in the complete opposite direction. We wanted to do a non-narrative show, where we focus on following impulse, however weird, and we just generally, go a bit nuts.

And so, 10 years after my first duo, Rå Power was born. Our show encompasses all the things we love in improv: sometimes we sing, often we dance, we push each other to share truths. There is no structure, which terrifies us both. It’s a place where we get to do the things we don’t often do. And every one of our shows so far has been dark and meta and something I am proud of.
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Want to dip your toe into a duo? Instant Theatre often runs classes specifically around forming a duo and finding your unique dynamic. Plus, Instant’s monthly show Double Down explores spontaneous pairings of improvisors randomly selected to perform their first duo set. Come see for yourself!

Back to School!

Photograph by Ryan Parker for Work of Arts Magazine. Pictured with Adam Rozenhart.

The leaves are changing colour. The air is crisp. Time to buy some new sneakers, sparkly duotangs, and get back to class!

For me, for the first time in nearly 10 years, I am returning to the classroom this week to start a certificate program at Simon Fraser University in Dialogue & Civic Engagement. I have been looking for a way to marry my love of applied improv, and my experience as an engaged (possibly too-engaged) citizen.

I am hoping that this program will push me to further understand how the philosophies behind improvisation can be applied to communication, problem solving, and community leadership. Already, I am loving the readings for the course, which emphasize listening and collaboration, as the way to truly make change.

Over the next two years, I will also be doing a practicum related to community engagement. Right now, I have no idea what that will look like, but I can assure you, it will involve getting people excited about sharing ideas using improv techniques! Wish me luck!

Photograph by Ryan Parker (http://pkphotograph.smugmug.com/), for The University of Alberta’s Work of Arts Magazine. Article: “Arts Leaders in a City of Champions” by Justin Bell.

What’s in a Laugh?

Photograph by Edmonton's Billy Wong.

Photograph by Edmonton’s Billy Wong.

My improv buddies in Edmonton used to joke about LPMs: Laughs per Minute; a fictitious indicator of perceived success. For us, this was a joke, but for many improv companies, audience laughter is what defines a show as good. Without audience laughter, how can we tell if an audience is engaged in the performance?

If you have ever been on stage and received a warm response from the crowd, you probably know that audience feedback feels incredible. Making a huge crowd roar with laughter is one of the best feelings on earth, but laughter is just one of many responses we can solicit as improvisors.

Becoming addicted to laughter as the only and best response from an audience can become problematic when this goal begins to undercut the quality of scene work. An improvisor trying to make the audience laugh is very different from one playing honestly that happens to receive laughter. And, on stage, little is worse than the stanky smell of desperation.

Putting some thought into why audiences laugh can help alleviate some of the pressure to “be funny” as an improvisor, and allow us to trust that reactions will come, as long as we are in the moment.

Recently, in speaking to some students, I came up with four different types of laughter.

Laughter of Discomfort
We laugh when something shocks us. This is nervous, awkward laughter. We all know examples of this we have experienced. Being shocked can be thought provoking, but it can also be a cheap way to get a response.

Laughter of the Intellect
We laugh when something tickles us intellectually. A fun pun, a clever homonym, an impressive rhyme. These laughs often come during punchline games like 99 Blanks, World’s Worst, or Sex with Me. This laugh usually sounds like it is coming from the neck up.

Laughter of Recognition
We laugh when we hear something specific, something we relate to, or something that triggers a memory. In an improv scene, “run down, aquamarine 1986 Toyota Tercel” may get a laugh, whereas “car” may not. We laugh at specific images, and at things we relate to. This can be cathartic, deeper laughter, coming from the gut.

Laughter of Surprise
We laugh when something unexpected happens. If you are playing a scene in line at a grocery store, and you unleash a harrowing, Wilhelm-esque scream out of frustration, you may get a laugh because it is a surprising thing to do in this context. The audience is especially delighted when the improvisor is just as surprised as they are. This kind of laughter happens when improv is at its best, it is magical and involuntary.

All of these types of laughter are valid responses from an audience, but I think variety is the goal. Below is a Ted Talk from Sophie Scott, where she speaks about the difference between involuntary “helpless” laughter, and “posed” social laughter. Next time you are at an improv show, challenge yourself to listen for the laughter. What do you hear?

[ted id=2236]


Photograph by Billy Wong (http://www.semigravity.com/) for Rapid Fire Theatre‘s BONFIRE Festival.

Facing Your Fears

What is the worst that could happen on stage?

There is no limit to how many awful on-stage moments we can dream up when we are standing backstage. Fear and judgement are the evil siblings to joy and trust, and we all have moments before, during or after a show where the whispers of our nagging fears take hold.

“I’ll embarrass myself.”
“People will think I’m dumb.”
“I won’t have anything to say.”
“If I follow my impulse, I will say something offensive.”
“I’ll trip and fall.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about fear, and how we can better use what scares us rather than try and stifle it. As Jan Henderson, a clown teacher at the University of Alberta says, “What you resist will persist.”

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Graham Meyers & Kirsten Rasmussen at VIIF 2013. Photography by Liam Robert.

A few years ago, when I had to opportunity to direct the ensemble at the Vancouver Improv Festival, I took a gamble on a format. I had the whole ensemble write down their on-stage fears. We didn’t workshop it. Half the ensemble would do this mystery format, the other half would do one we spent a whole day working on.

We had huge sheets of paper, with the fears written on them. I reworded all the fears to be active challenges, that could be played.

“I am controlling.”
“I am too loud.”
“I am blank.”
“I ask only questions.”
“I am furniture.”

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In this photo, Ben is playing “I am furniture.” Kareem Badr & Ben Gorodetsky at VIIF 2013. Photography by Liam Robert.

I wrote out about 20 different fears; all of them very different. Performers would step forward, read the fear off their paper, and hold it up so that the audience could read it too. Each person knew their own challenge, but not their scene partner’s. The chances of getting your own fear were low, but not impossible. Then two performers would do a scene together, playing out their challenge. The combinations of fears (“I am too angry” with “I’m annoying”, or “I can’t stop laughing” with “I am robotic”) lead to really bizarre and delightful scenework.

I think this show was successful because:
-It could have utterly failed. The show in itself was scary, and committing to it was a risk.
-The audience was let in; they saw both challenges, and watched the players discover each other’s  in the moment
-The improvisors committed 100%; the scenes did not look like the improv scenes we often watch. Each scene had a completely unique dynamic.

Once a fear is no longer something you are working against, or resisting, it becomes fun to play. Tripping a lot, or mumbling a lot, are great choices, as long as they are choices. The audience knows when we are nervous, or trying to hide something, but if we embrace it and do it more, we can harness our fears for good. And, once we stop resisting something, that feeling will pass, and we can move on to something new.

The gang at the Hideout Theatre in Austin, Texas, recently performed this format, directed by the lovely Roy Janik, at their 47-hour improv marathon. It reminded me how much I loved this experience!  You can read all the great fears that the Austin improvisors wrote down here.

Photographs of the 2013 Vancouver International Improv Festival by Liam Robert Photography.