Some may know, or not know, that I have worked in most forms of entertainment most of my life.
It has taken me a long time to figure out how to carefully phrase my feelings regarding my experiences with the not-on-the-highlight-reel moments in said industry.
I hope this article will be funny, but I dread the backlash I will receive from certain people who disagree with my personal opinion.
These days it seems that opinions are kerosine on the fire of self-important groups that love a good pity party about how they are unfairly bullied or offended. (Yeah, I said that, quote master Mel atchur'service... tips accepted)
Here's what...
I don't care if you are offended by my opinion because I reserve the right to have a view point that doesn't jibe with various "group" or hive mentalities. The set up for this blog seems like I'm going to be discussing something serious, but I'm not. However, certain people will view it as serious because it challenges their own highlight reel of life.
Let us begin the power purge of stupidity... (Sound FX- vomiting)
In my life I have rolled through obstacles worthy of "adding to playlist" in one of those "controversial" indie documentaries that you see on your Netflix cue. The most irritating obstacles I've faced were not the ones worthy of any avant garde filmmaker's camera lens. They are the stupid and ridiculous offerings of bad "art" teachers.
When I say "art" I specifically mean: acting & comedy. (I do recognize that music, magic, painting, etc.. are ART, I'm just not hating on those forms in this particular blog)
I've never been one for group fun. If it is a group setting, forced fun, or team building in general, I tend to allow my brain a full spectrum of discomfort.
Somewhere deep down, I must be terribly paranoid about being forced into a cult. The old footage of the Jim Jones commune/cult, you know, the, "drink the koolaid and we will all die together" cult has always made me question the intelligence of human beings. The same goes for the goose stepping drones of Hitler's regime...parading around being assholes in spangly tailored outfits, convicted in the ideologies of an failed mentally ill person... thousands of them lined up in the street holding out their saluted arm, paying homage to an unattractive failed artist with half of a mustache and Shemp haircut... dead set on murdering millions of people because they reminded him of his mother's side of the family, i.e. Jews.
I never knew how that little stupid angry man was able to convince a nation of supposedly rational minded Germans (as they are known to be) to carry out such a tall order. But, I've always noted that my dad(a German) will do anything that someone with a name tag tells him to do... so there's that.
My point? Group fun usually ends up as being 'not fun' and typically reeks of the cult-like hive mentality.
I've experienced the discomfort and "beam me up" type thoughts many times in my life. I could give hundreds of examples, but I'll focus on one tiny slice of the whole pie.... Artist Workshops. (Acting, clowning, improvisation, etc..)
If you are reading this and have always thought about getting into the entertainment industry, in any field, I would urge you to take my advice as a trusted voice of reason. You don't have to, but I can prove that I have many scars and charred bits on my soul from being forced into shitty workshops to "learn the craft," or "expand awareness of the craft." Just saying that out loud gives me hemorrhoids.
Everyone with self-proclaimed "experience" wants you to feel that you have NO experience, and in order to achieve the desired results within such-n-such field of artistry, you must attend the fucking "workshop." You don't have to do this. It's best if you don't. You will not feel better about yourself after leaving the workshop, you will gain ZERO experience, and you will have mistakenly performed the metaphorical "naked dream" in front of an unsafe group of people who are being reassured by each failing moment, that THEY are better, and thusly... experienced.
You will never achieve experience by being in the presence of these tired vultures of the artist world. There is no seminar, workshop, or class that will ever teach you what you need to learn to be great on stage as a comedian. You just have to get on stage and do the thing you love because you love it. It isn't a competition, there's no right or wrong to art, there's only the audience's reaction to your success or failure to ENTERTAIN. Period.
Of course I believe that classes in things like dance, sculpting, painting,magic, gymnastics, aerial acrobatics, musical instruments... all of those classes teach something that has an actual technique or skill so you don't have to flounder around trying to figure it out all on your own.
The classes/workshops I am speaking of are of the more esoteric nature and are intended for the "serious" artist in the fields of nebulous art like acting or comedy. You can learn something from the technical slanted classes in theatre arts, but that's truly a one-class thing. You don't need years of study to learn how to play make believe. You did it just fine when you were a kid, right? Yeah, it's the same thing now only you can get paid for playing pretend or doing funny things on a stage.
The worst of all classes I've attended in my life was one about 2.5 years ago. I can't say the name of the teachers but I will say this... it was a requirement for my job as a hospital clown to take this annual workshop. Each year brings forth new teachers, new techniques, a new approach to understanding the work as a comedy performer for sick kids. Well... this one particular workshop was akin to the feeling of being in a mind-control facility run by people who were products of the same terror they were selling... then add a French accent to one of the teachers and... Voila! Le Pie du Shit.
One of the teachers is a well-known comedic performer... or so I'm told. Apparently, in some circles of "serious clowning" he is the most respected teacher on the planet. Yeah, I said "serious clowning," and that's exactly why he sucks. If I said his name, I'm fairly certain that my car would be loaded with explosive clown noses... the gas loaded into those clown noses would be the methane from their own farts. These people love the smell of their own methane cloud. They love feeling like they are at the top of the REAL art form of comedy, i.e. the original purist form of comedy... that being the voice of humanity, the clown.
When I joined the circus back in 2009, I had NO idea that this weird clown worshipping cult existed. It isn't present in the circus world in the way that I'm talking about. I mean, you do get the idea that there's an underbelly of secret hand shaking that takes place among the generations of circus performers. However, that is more of a comradery thing though. Sort of a, "Hey, you busted your ass and lived on a train without your needs being met for basic survival too! We're friends!"
( I've always thought that the touring circus life was similar to military life... only we don't have guns, we have something more destructive... gossip. )
My life in the circus was incredible, incredibly painful, and well... just plain ol' incredible. I don't regret a moment of that journey.
The regret or deep dark dark sadness came after you leave the crazy train/circus life. This is where you enter what I have named....
THE STAINED AND FRAYED FRINGE OF THE WORN OUT IMPERIAL RUG
Have I pissed you off yet? If not, stick with me. You're in for a real tour de force of information that I think you will have a Grade A good time upon reading.
For 2. 5 years I've had this weight on my soul from this horrible workshop experience that I mentioned above. If I told the mainstream media about how a group of hospital clowns were subjected to verbal and borderline physical abuse for the desired outcome of being "funny for sick kids,"... well, they they would laugh it off as being a fabricated story to gain attention.
I'll never forget the set-up, and sucker punch to the face, I received after the week of intentional artistic abuse.
You know when psychologist's speak of the "wounded inner child," phenomena being the root of all adult problems? Yeah, this workshop beat the shit out of my inner child, strung it up on a fence naked, and then taunted it for 3 days until it took its own life. (Tragic humor, sorry.)
What's worse is that the taunting came from a teacher/devil that looked like a dominatrix vixen with a thick French accent. Nothing compares to being taunted in a French accent.
I now understand the scene from Monty Python's, "Holy Grail," where the French guard says, "I shall taunt you a second time-uh." Nobody knows just how demoralizing that is until it happens to them. This workshop was, as I've said, a requirement for my work at a children's hospital as a therapy clown.
I needed therapy after this workshop and any element of humor I once had was scattered throughout the solar system and headed straight for a brown dwarf star.
The day before the workshop, I had this looming dark feeling hovering over me. I felt like something bad was going to happen in the world. I have a very intact 6th sense and my psychic radar was howling like a tornado siren. I dismissed it because I could find no logical reason for the anxiety. The night before the workshop, I had a vivid dream of being in an apocalyptic scenario in which a MASSIVE world-ending tidal wave was coming straight for me. I tried to evacuate the city and warn everyone, but everyone was going about their day unaware of impending doom. I woke from the dream upon impact of the 100 story tall wave that hit my 1998 Saturn with a failing transmission. CRASH....
(gasping for air, covered in sweat, still feeling the realness of the dream, panting, panting more... ) "Oh, that was just a dream! Thank GOD! Oh, wow, I'm alive... It's workshop day, I better get up and get moving so I'm not late for that! This will be FUN!"
(tears of irony stream down my face)
I arrive at the theatre where this workshop was held and there's a weird silence that seems to be hovering over everyone. It's like subconsciously we all knew this would be the death of our joy?
Anyways...
The workshop teachers were poised at the other side of the room, the sunlight was grazing their faces, and their boundaries- as thick as bricks.
My immediate gut feeling/intuition was that these two people were having an affair with one another. My secondary observation was, "why isn't that woman wearing shoes? Gross." (Shoeless people in public settings gross me out. I feel like they are forcing intimacy or something? I don't know, it bothers me on a deep level though.)
My third observation was that everyone in the workshop had their guard down. I felt like I should also drop my guard because, "hey, this is going to be fun right?" Wrong. So fucking wrong.
The first exercise was some sort of game that determines how clever you are. I hate those. These games typically have a million rules to them and most of the time you just get caught up in the rules and then are told, (when you fail) "You can't over think it, just do."
FUCK YOU. Don't set up an improvisational game that has 43 rules to it that all require a college level knowledge of syntax in order to succeed, and then say, "you are thinking about that too much." No, No, I'm not, I'm merely integrating the rules of your stupid fucking game into my head so that I don't show my ass in front of a room of people who are ready to watch anyone but themselves FAIL.
I should mention that I "won the game." This was the FIRST time in my life that I have ever won any of these over-complicated improv games. I was shocked by this victory. I might have even gloated in my own head over the success of this hurdle that once evaded me.
This success was short lived, and I soon realized that these asshole teachers were only playing this game to figure out who they would take down a few pegs. I wouldn't be writing this blog right now if I had just played dumb and failed the stupid game. I wouldn't have been the object of their public lynching sessions.
The guardian angel that sits on my shoulder was saying, "Melodee, just stay positive, the day is almost over, just smile and be thankful, and enjoy the process."
We played more stupid ass games and I swallowed more rage and discomfort, and the day was coming to and end- Finally. When we were all leaving, I was smiling at the teachers and said, "Thank you for the day, I'm looking forward to tomorrow."
The French bitch demon from hell taunted me with the following statement... "ha ha, You are so funny Melodee. You are like a robot. A little robot saying what she is suppose to say."
In my mind I wanted to be like, "Yes, I am a robot, and I'm programmed to rip the smug smile of your smug fucking face.... (destruction sounds)..."
But instead, like a chump, I took a deep breath and said, "No, I am just being positive. But whatever, good night."
I left the workshop and thought that I needed to drink heavily in order to cope with my rage. I ended up going to Applebees with two of the other workshop people and we drank beer and talked shit. It was awesome and healing. I shook off the day and the robot comment, and worked out extremely hard when I got home. I lifted a lot of weight, did 45 minutes of ass blasting cardio, and punched some shit... and I felt good.
That night I had another dream...
My Grandmother(the wisest person I ever knew) had never visited me in a dream since her passing. That night, she showed up and the setting was a church, and she was trying to tell me something major but instead I was confused and then was scolded by church members who told me I couldn't park the car in the space I had parked it in. This is funny for a lot of reasons... I'll see if you can put together the metaphor after you read the blog.
Day Two of Le Voyage avec Devil.... or something...
We arrived early that day, everyone was tired and feeling a false sense of security. We walked into the room and again, in all her barefoot glory, was the Dominatrix Clown of France and the "Brilliant" Stylings of the Royal Thread on the Fringy Imperial Rug of clowning.
This male teacher, the "Royal Thread on the Fringe," is touted as being THE authority on everything clowning related. Nothing about this man is funny. Nothing. He looks like the most miserable sack of shit in the world. His face has permanent anger lines, he never smiles, and he makes gross generalizations about "the craft" that make the weaker minded people shutter with awe and reverence.
If anyone actually stopped to think about what he was saying, you would think, "Who the hell does he think he is? That's total bullshit!" It is total bullshit. Filled to the brim of self-satisfaction and narcissism, he spouts advice on the "art" of making people laugh as though he holds some sort of divine alchemist cook-book to "what is serious comedy." Oxymoron anyone?
Day two required at least 33% of our individual light bodies or over-souls in order to power through the 4th Seal of the Apocalypse. Only to be broken by the French Succubus and her Divine Revered Clown buddy. I had no idea that I would be the sacrificed lamb in their 'end of days' workshop on hospital clowning.
The day began with a very uncomfortable "game" in which you are forced to close your eyes and massage the person next to you. No, I'm not joking.
She would walk around with her feet out, all barefooty n' lilithy, and say sensual shit in the ears of her soon-to-be slaughtered clown lambs like, "yes, good, c'est bon, just feel zee room, touch your partner'rrr, and feel zee breaking of zee boundary... c'est bon."
All the while, there's some sort of erotic new agey massage music playing in the background.
My inner thoughts were racing with things like, "this isn't weird right? No, this is pretty weird Mel... I feel weird about this... I don't understand. Oh, we are still doing this, oh man... this is still happening... okay it has to be over soon right? Shit, we are STILL doing this? Okay this is fucking weird. I hate this."
I would look around at other people, and I felt like they thought it was weird too, but everyone seemed to be "takin' it." Again... this is the beginning of the cult thing that I am fearful of... "the koolaid can't be THAT bad right? Oh fuck, I'm dying." Or the, "Wait. Why am I living in a commune with barefoot people that share sexual partners? I just wanted to learn gardening? Welp, I guess it's too late to cut out of here."
We get through that, it was weird- rape shower was needed, boundaries broken, confusion and shame...
Then we get to do yet another "game" where again, eyes are closed, and this time we get to "kill" one another... but only one person would be the "killer"... This type of game is supposed to be fun, but when your fucking eyes are closed, you end up getting hurt and feeling like prey.
This specific game of hurty "cat and mouse," was yet another game that I victoriously won. Again, this doesn't happen to me typically. I'm not a team player and I don't care about shit like that enough to try to win.
I somehow avoided being "killed" by the "cat" and was told after the game was over with that I had won the game. The French witch said in her thick accent, "Melodee, tisk tisk tisk, you were not killed by zee cat. You did not play zee game. Zee fun is to be killed by zee cat. You are much too clever Melodee, perhaps you are zee cat, no?"
(this was not a compliment because she basically meant that I ruined the fun for everyone... by not being killed by a fucking clown cat chasing clown rats...all of which are blind and it's pure fucking luck that I wasn't "killed.")
In my head, I wanted to say, "No bitch, I survived your stupid fucking cat game because I'm a fucking survivor, you don't know my story bitch." But instead, I was a chump, and said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought the object of the game was to escape the cat's lethal bite? No? Oh, okay. Whoops. Sorry."
To which she replied, "It's okay Melodee, my clever little cat. Very clever little cat...."(trailing off in a horror movie doom/final words you hear before you see a demon crawling on the ceiling)
**I should mention that I'm writing all of this so that I can officially let it go.***
Day three of the bullshit...
This was the crucifixion of the inner child day. All forms of humiliation were in full force on Day three. All of us double timing it with our crown of thorns and clown noses on, jogging up to Crucifixion hill, all of us praying for a quick death.
The other teacher, the well-known comedic performer that was with the French demon, didn't add anything to the workshop except for judgmental looks and the occasional shitty demoralizing remark to someone as he continued surfing the web on his laptop.
Everyone was afraid of stating the obvious, "This kind of fucking sucks, right? Is (name of teachers) kind of fucking horrible people?"
Yes, yes they are. They are pieces of shit. Why are they pieces of shit? Because shit used to be something, but is now just waste material that reeks up the room until it get's buried and becomes fertilizer for things that are far more beautiful than it ever was.
The major thing that happened on Day three was another game that involved role playing. (oh just wait) We pretended to walk into a hospital room and we had to make up an imaginary game in which the room was something it wasn't. Example: You can't walk in and acknowledge that it is a hospital room with a sick kid in it. You have to instead walk in and pretend that it is the fucking zoo, or a space ship, or whatever it fucking isn't.
I know that game sounds like an interesting technique that might have the possibility of being fun for a child who isn't feeling great about life... but listen to me, it wasn't that game. There were no rules for the game other than to pretend the room was something it wasn't, and mime things that went along with your pretend game... "there is no right or wrong in zee game, zee game is play!"
Okay... So I'm thinking, "I got this shit. I can easily play a game of imagination . No problem. No rules? Great. Let's do this!"
Well, apparently their were rules... secret demonic French rules that only applied to "imagination that I don't like." If she didn't like you turning the room into a game of "playing like it was a carnival" then she would stop you and scream at you and humiliate you by saying that you didn't understand the game. Meanwhile, you saw the other people in the workshop come up with shit and they weren't stopped mid-game, nor were they reprimanded publicly? There's more to it than what I'm saying but rest assured, other teams didn't play the game correctly either but they weren't hung on the fence and flogged. I remember this one moment during the exploitation of my partner and I, a moment that could've been disastrous. I had 2 choices. I could be the biggest most sarcastic "Lewis Black" type smart ass/funny/angry yelling and over-doing the game to the point of it being obvious that I hated them.... OR.... I could have a nervous breakdown and go back into the room and Thor kick this bitches teeth out. I chose the first option.
After I Lewis Blacked my way out of the beating/game then she kind of looked at me like a wounded demon puppy and said, "that will be all Melodee." The day ended after that. The last day of the workshop, I was in full psychosis. My spirit was broken, my soul was missing, and I felt the rage of 20,000 rabid wolves. I can honestly say that I have rarely felt this way in my life. It takes a lot to push me that far down the rabbit hole of darkness. I'm naturally the kind of person that would say, "No, I'm good, things happen, but I'm going to be great, no worries." (as a raging fire consumes my car, my wallet has been stolen, and I have pneumonia and my dog died) So... for these workshop TEACHERS to destroy my spirit the way they did, I honestly feel that they should issue a disclaimer....
"We know you want to be a funnier comedy performer for sick kids in a hospital. This workshop will not be fun, rewarding, nor will it enhance your growth in any possible way. In fact, there's a 88% chance that you will end your life after experiencing this psychological warfare. Your inner child will be dismembered and strewn about the etheric realm, and you will need a coping mechanism installed before you return to work and watch actual children die. This soul sacrificing and slaughtering of all that is holy and pure, is required to be a serious clown. We know that this paradox or oxymoron of 'serious clowning' can be snickered within the confines of your mind, but, through the process of this workshop and many other workshops like this one, you will not have the energy, nor wit, nor thirst for laughter to be able to snicker at the term 'serious clowning' or 'serious comedian.' You will be a mere hull of what you once were. You will resent the job of making other's laugh and you will want to make people cry. There's beauty in tears, pain, and serious clowning. In fact, the only way to be a successful clown is to be a miserable old fuck that overcomplicates something as simple as giving joy to others. You see, it isn't about that for us old miserable smug farting clowns anymore. Nigh! It is about making anyone who has talent feel like they will never be good enough or deep enough to use a whoopee cushion, play pretend games with kids, or to just fucking smile and mean it. It is the role of the old miserable fuck workshops in acting/comedy to kill your dream and ruin all the hallmark moments wrapped up in your confidence. Lastly, we will charge thousands of dollars to make you feel like shit about your God given ability to bring joy to others through your art. "
So...
I say to you, people who still have joy in your heart, please don't sell this spark of divinity to miserable hacks on the stained fringe of the Imperial carpet. Nobody is an expert on art. Nobody. You can learn things that inspire you through teachers that are worthy of your inspiration. If they make you feel beaten, without worth or value, full of doubt about your desire to be an artist, they are not teachers. They are terrorists.
I hope this blog somehow gets circulated to the people who have been wondering why they feel like shit about themselves after taking classes with these so-called "experts and brilliant teachers of art." Ask your heart how you feel when you take a class or workshop from one of these "brilliant" teachers. If you don't feel uplifted, full of joy, and thirsty for the experience of self-expression, then you aren't being taught anything. Your spark is being chipped away slowly & expensively, by those who aren't worth the shit on your shoe.
That's all I gotta say. If anyone in the world of 'serious artists' wants to shame me for what I said, then I ask you to do it publicly so that everyone will know to avoid your overpriced bullshit workshops in the future.
I'm out.
Ps. I'm better now.
No comments:
Post a Comment