I am a self-conscious actor, yet I sometimes work at it half-heartedly. Now and again. Half-hearted and hesitant—I blush easily, which makes radio the perfect venue for the experiment (and if you write for that type of character, a blushing, stammering sort, I’m your man).
Here is a recent example of “Mark Aldrich, Comedy Performer” from 2014 (I am the secret housemate, the third voice heard in this radio improvisation which was broadcast live while we were doing it):
I was utterly free as a bird as a performer exactly once.
There is no record on paper or video of the single performance of the group Venus Effluvia. I do not even know how I remember our name, especially since I only remember two of its three member’s names, and I was one of them. At least mine is one of the two I remember.
We performed two songs, neither of which I remember, again. Correction: we sort-of lip-synced to a tape of two songs but we actually played our instruments, three ukuleles. We strummed them, and a ukelele played by performers who do not know how to play a stringed instrument can sound better than many things, it has been proved.
(The whole thing was most likely inspired by Andy Kaufman’s famous “Mighty Mouse” lip-sync act and also by a genuine fear of flop-sweat that was created by the fact that none of us had come up with anything until the night before. I was recruited to participate the day of the performance, because I had a car and could drive one of the performers to the venue. As with many of the projects I have found myself in, the publicity preceded the creativity or was itself the creativity: We were on the advertised bill—in the newspaper—but we had no act.)
It was a visual joke of performance art more than anything else, or anything at all: the three of us wore identical black suits and ties and each of us wore a plain cardboard box taped around our heads. That is why I said we “sort-of” lip-synched. I think someone’s girlfriend drew a smiley face on each box with a magic marker after they were taped shut. Her work is where art ended.
This was in the summer of 1990, I was 21, and our afternoon audience in a coffeehouse in Cold Spring, NY, ironically or honestly requested an encore, which we did not give. There is such a thing as an honestly ironic appreciation, or ironically honest, and I may have met it that day. Adverbs demand air quotes.
But that cardboard box was my friend. I could not see anyone’s face or reaction so I clearly remembered our minimal choreography, which we had developed and rehearsed in an hour backstage, and I even soloed on my ukulele. I am certain our effort was an embarrassment of poverty, but I lost myself in that box of non-self.
We were paid $20, split three ways; to this day, that five bucks is the only money I have earned as a performer. But that box-mask brought out a performer in me whom I have rarely otherwise met.
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“Authenticity” is a word that is much used in contemporary life. It is most often used to compliment someone when his or her outward presentation appears to be happily close to what we think is an inner self. “He keeps it real,” is a phrase I think I have heard too many times. There is a reason I prefer writing to performing—and sometimes I even blush while writing—and that is the myth of control I am choosing to embrace; that idea that I am giving the world my authentic self when writing, with no pollution from other influences. Staring at a piece of paper or at a computer screen is like staring at the inside of a cardboard box, and the self-consciousness, my self-centeredness, my self, melts away.
But that may be something I tell myself. Where’s my box?
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Some of this first appeared last year.
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