But not in the evil sold-my-soul-to-the-devil way (at least I think). I’m talking about selling this project.
This project that we have poured our hearts and souls into.
The hearts and souls of multiple artists, their words, their directions, their art, their music, their puppets, their time.
All of this I am attempting to sell to theatre companies across the country. Convince total strangers that we are worth investing in. That we have something that is unlike anything they’ve ever seen before. We’re trying to be surrogates of what we believe Chicago theatre is. And that what we’re doing is low cost but high profit.
And I have to say it’s been frustrating.
I know that with putting yourself out there, as an artist or as a general human being, you need to develop tough skin. But this endeavor, this crazy, seemingly impossible, dream has been all Scott and I have been able to talk about, think about, and work on for months and months and now it’s come down to the part where we need to convince other people to believe in us.
Over and over and over and over again.
And I’m trying to figure out how to not take this so personally.
How do I build a wall around my emotions so that when someone says that we are not worth their time, I don’t crumble into a puddle of tears? How do I grow chain-mail skin so that when someone tells me that they don’t have any time for outside performers, I don’t absorb their criticism into my bloodstream? What do I need to do to create a moat around my heart so that when someone says that we are crazy to attempt this endeavor, my heart doesn’t dissolve into a pile of ash?
These are the things they don’t prepare you for. (They being every professor, adviser, and mentor you’ve had) They tell you that you can’t take it personally, but don’t teach you how to arm yourself for that. They tell you that your art is not attached to you, so when your art is critiqued, you are not being attacked, but I don’t know how to cut that cord. My art is my words, my words are my voice, and my voice is what makes me who I am; so how am I to disconnect that so that my art and I stand separate?
I don’t have an answer. I don’t have sage pieces of advice for this dilemma, other than I can’t get numb to it. Because if I become numb to the hurt, I fear that I won’t know what it means to be human.
