The Thinking Steps

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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.

What is your scene saying?

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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.

Back to School!

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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.

Facing Your Fears

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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.

Finding Fun in Others (aka. Happy Birthday, Kory!)

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Kory improvising with an audience member at Rapid Fire’s BONFIRE Festival. Photograph by Billy Wong.

My friend Kory Mathewson made a simple request for this 29th birthday; reflections on “finding fun in others”.

I would like to start this birthday message by telling you about Kory. He is a top tier improvisor with Rapid Fire Theatre in Edmonton, where he tours with a rad show called TedxRFT. He is one of my favourite people in the world to be on stage with because no idea is too ‘out there’, no game is too experimental. His response to my ideas is always, “Let’s do it, Amer!”. Whether it’s an improvised parliamentary-style debate, a musical, or a show full of challenging pulse-edits, Kory is always up for taking a risk on stage.

Kory is a truly gifted improvisor, I think in part because of his broad experience of the world.  He’s not the type of performer who exists in a echo chamber, spending 6 days a week workshopping in a theatre; he’s constantly trying new things, traveling, and learning. He studies computing science, and biomedical engineering. He builds websites, and software, and ROBOTS(!!). He likes rock climbing, cycling, “schvitzing”, making up nasty slang words, and seeking out the best food in the city. He chases weird experiences, and it makes you want to do the same.

Once he invited me to the university for a CT Scan, and a researcher complimented me the symmetry of my brain!
Once we were bike riding and we quietly watched a family of beavers screeching on the riverbank!
Once, in Austin, we stopped at every bar on the way to a party and did 98 whiskey shots!

So, how does this all relate to “Finding Fun in Others”?

Kory and I having a laugh riot at BONFIRE 2014. Photograph by Billy Wong.

Kory is a master at making you feel like a million bucks. When you’re in a conversation with Kory, he immediately digs deeper than “How are you?” or “What’s new?”.  He makes the whole conversation about you by asking so many questions. He says “yeah!” and “absolutely!” non-stop. He wants to talk about you rather than himself. He takes any kernel of information and expands upon it. He can talk to anyone about anything for EVER.

Kory consistently strikes up conversations with strangers in elevators. When I first met him, I wondered, “Why? Why would he do this?” At first, I assumed it wasn’t genuine; he was just teasing the person he was talking to, or he had some other agenda. But I now know that Kory is just that curious. He is legitimately interested in what a random teen is eating for lunch, or where a bartender first tasted a certain liqueur, or why you like the dress you are wearing.

There are so many days in our lives where we feel insignificant, like the little things we do are inconsequential or routine. Kory is a great example of someone who shines a spotlight on little details, and makes you feel like you are the most interesting person in the room.

Kory has taught me to find the fun in others by helping them find the fun in themselves.

Happy birthday, Kor!

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Kory and I wearing matching “BUTT” shirts. Photograph by Marc-Julien Objois. http://marcjulienobjois.com/

Photographs by Billy Wong (http://www.semigravity.com/) and Marc-Julien Objois (http://marcjulienobjois.com).

7 Theatresports Habit-breakers

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Photograph of Rapid Fire Theatre by Marc-Julien Objois. http://marcjulienobjois.com/

When I was in my second year at Rapid Fire Theatre, I was convinced that the reason I was struggling on stage was because I was playing short form Theatresports™ (the format created by Calgary’s Keith Johnstone). I was positive that once I was doing long form improv, a lot of my troubles would go away. I blamed the format for my inability to commit to scenes, and thought playing games pandered to the lowest common denominator. Not only was an improv snob, I was wrong.

I later learned it’s never the format’s fault.

Looking back, I now know that short form and long form improv are the same. Sure, there are different structures to explore, but in the end, a good scene is a good scene, whether it stands alone or is sandwiched between other scenes. As a student in Red Deer recently put it, “It’s just the size of the canvas”. If you can do a great short form scene, you can probably do a solid long form, and vice versa.

This is all to say, I believe that Theatresports™ is a worthwhile structure to invest in. I’ve heard a lot of players who are newer to the form say they’re sick of it, they want to try something new. My message to them is: then try something new! The format is just the vessel for whatever you want to explore creatively. Any skill you want to explore can be explored through Theatresports™. You can create a longer story by tying your scenes together narratively. You can explore all the edits in the world (tap, sweep, pulse, flock). You can share personal stories in a mini-Armando. Don’t get caught up in the structure: it’s there to shape the show, not to be the show.

Here are some ways to shake up Theatresports™ if you are finding shows repetitive:

1. Make the Strangest Team You Can
Look around your ensemble and create the weirdest, most unbalanced team you can. Make a team of the people you never play with (maybe they’re from a different generation, maybe they are socially awkward, maybe you don’t get along). Make a team of people who seem to all have the same skill (a team of drivers, a team of monkeywrenchers). Ask an alumni you don’t know to sit in with you. Guaranteed there will be surprises in this show.

2. Mash Up Games
Ever played an Alphabet-backwards scene? Or a Moving Bodies Dubbing scene? Or Stage Directions using an exercise manual as the directions? Many handles are flexible and can be jammed together in wild and interesting ways. Can these games absolutely tank? Yes! But you know what they say: no risk, no reward!

3. Give All the Power to the Captain
Tell the captain of your team that they should decide all of the games for the whole match, and that you would love it if they kept them a secret from you. Tell them you want to be thrown into scenes, directed, and made to do things you don’t normally do.

4. Change up the Judges
If you have player judges, try audience judges, or do a Danish match, where the audience yells which team they prefer each round.

5. Find a Meta-Narrative
You can’t force this one, but it’s a great way to change things up. Keep your eyes open for patterns that emerge outside of scenes. How can what you do in scenes play into, or contrast, what you are doing out of scenes? If these meta-narratives take over the show, you have failed, but if they are spontaneous, they can add an electric energy to the show.

6. Mix Up Team Size
If you always do 3 on 3 matches, or 4 on 4, see what happens when you create teams of 2 or 5 or 1 performer. First off, the dynamics of the whole show will shift in terms of what you games you can play (He Said She Said is a great game for 2 people, but impossible for 1). Secondly, a meta-narrative may emerge (in the case of 5 vs. 1, it’s almost certain the solo performer will win the match. The audience loves an underdog).

7. Adjust the Tools
Ask the judges to get rid of their number 3s. Try a couple weeks in a row where your judges (or host) are very strict with the Basket/Ring of Shame/Paper Bag. Try a match with time restrictions on each scene of varying length. Challenge teams to do a scene with no suggestion. Try a week with or without a musical accompanist.

Photograph of Rapid Fire Theatre by the amazing Marc-Julien Objois. http://marcjulienobjois.com/

Curious Monkey

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Has a gif ever made you cry?

If you asked me last week if people ever cried while watching gifs, I would have said likely not. Yet, I now understand the contrary, because this silly one made me burst into tears the moment I watched it.

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The shock and amazement on the monkey’s face is so genuine that it brought me to tears. Such innocent wonder is something that we see children experience, but as adults, it is rare. I guess it’s hard to truly buy into a magic trick once you understand the definition of a “trick”.

A lot of our training in improvisation is focused on undoing the behaviours that were piled onto us as we grew up. These behaviours are valuable in the outside world; they keep us safe and allow us to be accepted socially. But on stage, we want to be vulnerable, impulsive, and open to any possibility. Pretty much the opposite of how we are supposed to act day to day.

The joy of improvisation is that we can play with unapologetic curiosity. We can react hugely to any offer our partner gives us. We can be boldly gullible, insanely innocent, and so sweet its stubborn. We can be voraciously curious about where the scene will take us next. We can be dazzled by the wonder of our imagination.

Sometimes you just need to weep about a monkey gif to be reminded of this.

Living in the Moment is Ageless

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Performance at Creative Age Festival, 2011.

“I’m too old for that” is a statement I wish we could cut out of everyone’s vocabulary, including mine. As someone who essentially plays for a living, when I hear anyone say those words, I try to convince them otherwise.

You think you’re too old to take an improv class? Well, I can tell you from first hand experience, some of the most fearless improvisors I have ever worked with are in their 80s.

As you’re probably aware, the arts are being talked about more frequently as a way to improve the overall quality of life of older people. Taking part in a creative pursuit can by improve mood, memory, and physical health in our senior citizens. Plus, I believe art-making may be one of the best solutions out there for bringing generations together.

I began working with seniors through improv workshops put on by Edmonton’s GeriActors, Festival of Edmonton Seniors Theatre, and The Creative Age Festival. David Barnet, who was my professor at The University of Alberta, and is involved with these organizations, was a big part of why I got involved, and I am so thankful I did. He’s said to me in the past that it takes a certain type of person to work with seniors; someone with openness and flexibility, someone who can really  to really let the performers’ voices shine through. He certainly achieves this in his work.

Leading workshops for senior citizens is one of the most rewarding experiences I have had in my career as an artist. Sure, there are challenges, like memory or mobility, but overall, leading a workshop for older people is just like leading one for any other age group. In fact, in some ways, it’s easier. Many of the seniors I met are in the enviable position of just not giving a fuck. They have lived so much life that the panic most people feel when doing improv for the first time just isn’t there. Like kids, they can just let go and be surprised. It is thrilling to watch a 90-year old woman do something unexpected.

Inspired by these workshops, I started collaborating on projects with my grandfather (my ‘Dido’), Nick Shostak, Senior. Well, maybe less collaborating, and more coercing him to help me. Through these projects, I have experienced different sides of him that I had never seen before, and watched him take creative risks.

In 2011, we did a piece called My Dido The Orator , as part of Latitude 53’s IN/STALL/ED. We recreated my Dido’s living room in a parking stall in the McCauley neighbourhood, and passersby stopped by to chat and hear his stories. My Dido was an absolute showman, laughing and engaging folks all day. One of the most impactful parts of the project was that the more stories Dido told, the more stories the audience started telling. At one point there were 10 or 15 people, sitting cross-legged on the ground of a parking lot, exchanging stories about coming to Canada, about politics, about the neighbourhood.

Then there was The Slow Flash Mob, which I put together in 2013. The focus of the event was to enliven a lovely, but often empty, park in Edmonton with intergenerational activities. This project was also an experiment for me, to explore the challenges a citizen might face trying to put on an event, as part of my work with Make Something Edmonton. 

My Dido was the spokesperson for The Slow Flash Mob, and my friend Mike Robertson kindly helped us make a video to promote and raise funds for the event.

We also got to do an interview on TV. Dido seemed so excited to be at the station. He was curious about everything that was going on, talking to people who walked through the waiting area, and it was a rare moment where he seemed nervous. During our interview he seemed emotional, and made a great impression.

Slow Flash Mob SquareThe Slow Flash Mob event itself came with its challenges; attendance was lower than I had hoped, the weather was spotty, and I received some feedback that the park I chose was too inaccessible for many senior citizens. But despite these issues, the people who did attend expressed how important the event was, and how much they appreciated it.

Most significantly to me though, my Dido showed up right on time. He had a nametag that he made for himself, that proudly said NICK. I watched him walk excitedly down the many wooden steps to the park. This was his party, and he was genuinely in his element. And god, that made me happy. To see someone in his 80s trying improv, tai chi, playing board games. His attitude is certainly the one I hope to have in my golden years.

All of these projects serve as a reminder that seniors find all the same things exciting as you and I (sex jokes, physical humour, flirting, donuts), and they are eager to engage, just like us. They are vibrant, funny, fierce individuals. More importantly, these experiences helped me articulate that there is a gap between our generations that we can close through collaboration, and this benefits anyone at any age in life.

If you’re looking for someone to jam on an idea, or are looking for volunteers or instructors to work with seniors, please get in touch! Improvisation for senior citizens is something I think every community should explore.

The Improvisor is Present

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Improvisors Tom Hill & Devin Mackenize of Hip.Bang! Photograph by Marc-Julien Objois. http://marcjulienobjois.com/

Eye contact. It’s scary with loved ones. It’s impossibly scary with strangers. It’s imperative for improvisors.

I remember the first day I was introduced to the work of Marina Abramović. I was a university student taking a survey course of 20th century art. As a woman of Slavic decent, with a flair for the dramatic, who also loved walking for long periods of time, I felt we had a lot in common. I was shocked by the brutality and gore of her Rhythm series, and moved by the romantic qualities of her work with her lover-collaborator Ulay.

Abramović’s art is definitely not for everyone. She’s violent, and inward-gazing, and what some people say is the problem with the contemporary art world. But for me, she is a woman who lives in a world defined by her personal mythology, and values being in the moment above all else. I think my favourite work is 1977’s, Breathing In Breathing Out, when her Ulay, shoved tampons up their noses, locked mouths and breathed in each other’s air until one of them asphyxiated.

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So what does this wild stuff have to do with improv? Besides the fact that some of her performances are pretty funny, there are plenty of other parallels. Abramović speaks about the importance of risk taking, failure, and process over product, but more than anything Abramović, to me, embodies to me what it means to be in the moment.

You’re probably familiar with her 2010 work The Artist is Present. Clips of it were circulating around Facebook, and it ran at the MoMA for 3 months. In this work, we see the transformational affect that eye contact can have.

When we relax, let go of our social masks (smiling, cracking jokes, aka. the ticks we have that keep us safe), and breathe, there is so much there.

I recently had students start scenes this way. With only eye contact, breath and physical proximity as a starting point, once students really connected through the gaze, they started to feel genuine emotion, and connect feelings to implied relationships with their scene partner.

“I felt like we were going to fight.”
“I know I disappointed him.”
“With every breath the relationship changed.”

All this information, from just seeing and being seen. By the time class was over, everyone in the room had glassy, shiny eyes. We were all more emotionally engaged than when we’d arrived.

When in doubt, breathe, and look at your partner. Trust that the rest is already there. So much of improv is about building up structure, but there is value in simplifying too, in stripping away.

As Abramović says, “In the gaze… everything happens.”

Photograph of Hip.Bang! by Marc-Julien Objois. http://marcjulienobjois.com/

The Eventual Plateau

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There are months, and even years, in my improv career where I have felt completely stuck. I’ve felt like I was doing everything “right”, and yet, I just couldn’t seem to break out of the same old habits. I was playing the same British lady in every show, gravitating toward the same games, and getting the same notes over and over again. I just couldn’t seem to take genuine risks because they didn’t even occur to me. True risks were not even on my radar. I asked myself the dreaded question, “Am I actually getting worse?”.

Over the years, I started thinking of this feeling as plateau; a flat-line in my development, after a previous period of progress. If you’re an improvisor, artist, or creative, you probably know the feeling.

When you first start improvising, every class feels like you’re learning something new. There are so many milestones! Completing your very first class, the first character you play in a scene, your first class show in front of an audience! It seems like at every turn, there is a new concept for you to wrap your head around, and new risks for you to take!

But eventually, you plateau.  I mean, everyone is different; sometimes you’ll plateau after you reach a goal (ie. “I auditioned and made it into a company!”), or sometimes you’ll plateau from fatigue (ie. “I don’t have energy to workshop every week”), or sometimes you’ll plateau from hubris (ie.  “I took Level 3, I have nothing left to learn.”). Regardless, there will be a moment where you feel suddenly self-conscious, your director is frustrated with you, and you want to quit improvising.

I’ve seen so many young improvisors quit at their first big plateau. It’s the first time they’ve felt frustrated in an otherwise extremely positive experience, and they feel like there’s something flawed within themselves. It’s tragic, really, because once you’ve been improvising for a while, you start to notice this pattern of growth / plateau / growth / plateau. You get used to it. Once you can identify what’s going on, you can more easily tackle it head on.

Some ideas on how to break out of your plateau:

Talk to someone you look up to
If you’re feeling this way, articulate it. Sometimes even being aware of it is enough.

Read a book about improv or creativity.
My improv brother from another mother, Kory Mathewson, has a great list here. Montreal Improv has cool mini-reviews for a lot of books here.

Reinvest in improv workshops
When’s the last time you took a class? Take another one. Travel for an intensive, seek out an instructor you’ve always wanted to learn from, or revisit an instructor you loved before.

Watch an improv show at another theatre
How often do you seek out improv at a different theatre? What are they doing differently? What do they do well?

Watch an improv show at your theatre
If you’re not in a show, do you usually watch it? Ask yourself, what is this show missing? Look for patterns and gaps in the show.

Improvisation is 100% process. In any process, there are peaks, valleys and plateaus. In any process, there is frustration, whether we like to admit it or not. In every process, it’s possible you are getting worse, but in the end, if you stick with it, it will make you better.