The art of owning up

An artist’s testimonial of a journey to being able to say who she is like nobody’s judging.

@DRTdesigns @acting_out_drama_school

A couple of weeks ago, during a rare mid-week brunch with a friend, I casually mentioned that I was rehearsing for a new production of an Ibsen play. My friend of a good few years looked at me in shock and said that she never knew I was into ‘that stuff’.

Funny, because I’ve known with all certainty that acting was my thing since the age of eleven (and nope, I’m not twelve anymore). In fact, before acting, there was only one short phase when I wanted to become something else: a kindergarten teacher. Not because I loved children (I do like them now), but because I wanted to be in the position of power and to teach my future groupmate-likes how to behave.

But when you look at my life choices, you would never have thought that I knew that early who I wanted to be. I, myself, am sometimes shocked when I consider the state of my life: I work in a corporation, quietly doing translations and talking to patients of a medical company, am more than slightly socially awkward and rather scared of crowds. Some of the people from my survival job would surely find it unthinkable to learn I spend half of my salary on theatre tickets and that each day after work I get to rehearse, train, write, research and audition.

I think it started somewhere around the time when I was a chubby, sweet, and terrified unpopular kid. I was way too sensitive for a post-communist school system, and very quickly learn that I should keep my ambitions small and ‘normal’ (possibly the most vague and unpleasant word ever). So, over the years, I mastered the art of replying that ‘even though I didn’t know what I wanted from life, I quite liked languages, or you know, travelling and stuff.’ I do love those, but the fact remains that I never managed to utter: ‘acting’.

I now believe it’s because I glorified the performing arts. From my perspective, there was nothing better, no higher, more interesting or fulfilling profession. So, when I’d see the most talented, confident, and beautiful people and hear they didn’t want to become actors, or dancers, or playwrights, I would secretly suspect that their self-esteem was not as high as they made it look. What it all comes down to is that for many years, I have continuously failed to believe in myself enough to want for myself what was the best in my eyes.

And I know I’m not alone in this. One of my best friends has gone through the whole high school telling everyone how she wanted to study veterinary science, when in fact she knew with all certainty in the world that medicine was the only option for her. The difference is, once it came to the exams, she excelled and just sent her papers off secretly, to then casually announce that she had a place to study medicine. Everyone was happy for her. She didn’t have to do extra training, go to auditions, or save money to pay for courses: she read the same books, took the same exams, and never had to admit that studying medicine was her biggest dream until it became reality.

That same year, knowing perfectly that performing arts was everything to me, I didn’t even attempt to get into a drama school. The first time I dared to say out loud that I wanted to be an actress to anyone else than my Dear Diary happened a few years later. I participated at a weekend acting workshop and a very warm and expressive lady assembled us all in a circle and was asking one by one if we wanted to be actors. When she looked into my eyes and, I said something in the lines of: ‘maybe, possibly, I wouldn’t mind’. Needless to say, that was not good enough for her.

After my big ‘coming out’, I felt exhausted, shaky in the knees and wonderfully liberated. Funnily enough, in the grand scheme of things, my first ‘coming out’ wasn’t even a real one: I was in a workshop full of strangers, all of whom wanted to be actors and I never saw any of them again. Not a big deal. But something changed that day and after that, admitting I wanted to be an actress became a tiny bit easier each time around.

I could have started much earlier, but I also know many people who started later, for various reasons: because it didn’t feel like a job, because it was too insecure or because they had too good grades to not study something brainy and prestigious.

All those reasons are perfectly valid. I know that if I was putting the same amount of energy as I am putting into my day job, rehearsals, writing, studies, training, and artistic projects into anything else, I could be a stable, successful, and able-to-plan-her-annual-leave-in-January adult now. I often wish I could be as passionate about any stable profession as I am passionate about performing. But whatever I’d choose, it would be an awfully miserable stable, because I would be lying to myself.

A good question before embarking professionally on a creative journey would be to ask yourself if you would still be pursuing this particular activity if it wasn’t to bring you any money or status ever. In my case, most of the time I am okay with working a survival job just to pay for all the cool artistic things that I do.

I’m not gonna lie, there are bad days as well. Sometimes it gets to me that people my age start having savings, buying apartments, going on holidays or just, being able to not worry about money. And their family members have a tangible list of successes to brag about.  Some of those people might have worked harder than me, but I doubt that many of them do an equivalent of a full-time job, full-time education, auditioning and sending off work in their regular week. I feel like the creative field is one of the most, if not the most, unfair in this regard: usually, the amount of work you put in should start reflecting in your security, financial status, and prestige after a while.

I’ve recently applied for a ticket-selling position at one of the new-writing theatres in Edinburgh. I have studied arts, have years of experience in customer service and retail and I work with computers daily. I indicated full flexibility, readiness to work evenings, weekends, and nights for a very close to minimal remuneration and…less than 24h after submitting my application, I got a response that, ‘unfortunately, other candidates were more suitable for the position’.

The fact that it can be so crushing, depressing, and frustrating, is another important reason to open up. Some people might ignore the revelation, a few might even laugh, but thanks to telling people what I was really into, I found my tribe and people who understand how it feels to get rejections from jobs you’re technically overqualified for.

It’s funny because I have made so many choices in my life, but I don’t count performing as one. I believe it has chosen me.