Do I Dare?: A Theatrical Sabbatical
by Jenna Pastuszek
I recently asked a wildly successful NYC agent if he had any advice for theatrical actors living through our current theatre-less predicament.
His answer shocked me.
I asked: “What’s your advice for actors right now? What should we be doing?”
I thought he was going to say work on your marketing materials. Revamp your website. Update your clips on Actors Access. Clean out your audition book.
I thought he was going to say work on your craft. Read plays. Watch shows. Download packets. Consume content. Take zoom dance classes. Pick up an instrument. Learn new special skills.
I thought he was going to say work on your networking. Reach out to collaborators. Take pay-to-play classes. Meet gatekeepers. Spend money coaching with fancy people. Invest in a home production studio.
Instead, he said, “Give yourself permission to take a year off.”
…da fuk?
Waitwaitwaitwaitwait- Someone who makes his living from working actors is telling actors that the best thing they can do right now is CONSIDER THIS A GAP YEAR?!?!?!
The world IS upside down.
He elaborated: Now is the time to give yourself breathing room. To relax the death grip that we all have on our careers. Those that don’t will be burnt out by the time traditional theatre does come back. And when things do come back, they’ll come B.A.C.K.
He suggested: Find joy outside of our industry walls, lean into exploring outside interests, do things that make you feel accomplished and energized. If that includes singing, then sing because it makes you happy. Sing because working on this skill brings you personal joy and fulfillment. Sing because you love it.
He concluded: Find other meaningful ways to fill your day instead of obsessing and worrying about when theatre will return. Find centering and grounding. Find peace. And in doing this, actors will best be able to serve the longevity of their careers.
I felt heat rising in my chest, my skin tingling. I could practically hear my body screaming back through my muted microphone, “BUT I CALL MYSELF AN ARTIST! I’ve spent every waking moment since NYU graduation forcing myself to PROVE IT to everyone I know. I MUST ALWAYS BE MOVING FORWARD! I MUST KEEP GOING! I MUST I MUST I MUST!”
I suddenly became a spinning, floating head above the zoom room.
Time stopped. A new idea popped into my brain:
…What if I stopped trying to prove it?
…What if I didn’t actually have anything to prove?
…Who am I really trying to prove it to anyway?
….
Me.
I’m trying to prove it to me.
I’ve been trying to prove to myself that I am what I say I am.
(Me: “You say you’re an artist?” Me: “…Yeah?” Me: “Oh yeah? Prove it.”)
Ouch with the brutal truth.
Over the past few months, I’ve been raging a battle with my artistic self-identity because in quarantine, I’ve become a full time teacher - something that I claimed I didn’t want to do when I graduated with an elementary education degree, said f*ck that, and moved to NYC to pursue musical theatre ten years ago.
From March 12th until writing this piece back in August, I woke up everyday asking myself, “How can you even think of yourself as an ‘artist’ when you haven’t produced any art? When you haven’t been doing what you’re ‘supposed to be doing’ as an actor right now which, in my brain’s television inspired fantasy, is living in a huge (def. rent free) artistic collective Williamsburg loft with the Little Fires Everywhere version of Kerry Washington as a roomie, sleeping till 3, paint brush lodged in my messy bun, rotting Thai food in the fridge, dedicating every waking moment to exploring the intricacies and debunking outdated theories, over black cups of coffee and cigarettes, of my craft?”
…what if I just knew in my heart and soul that I was an artist and, given the current dumpster fire circumstances of the world, that was enough?
…What if I loved and accepted myself BEFORE fulfilling my definition of ultimate creative success?
My head came floating back down into the zoom call, and I could hear this wonderfully brilliant, kindhearted agent give me the reframe that I had been searching for FOR MONTHS.
Give myself permission to see 2020 differently, to see this as “a year off”.
Inhale, exhale.
The fire in my chest melts into a cool steady heartbeat.
I smile, feel a weight lift off my shoulders, and laugh, thinking, “Huh. In this sabbatical year of doing whatever I want, you know what I really want to keep doing?”
…I want to keep teaching.
I want to keep showing up in service of other artists. Showing up in service of artists finding their unique voices, their strength, of artists seeking permission to create, of sharing their gifts, of building new things, of telling themselves and others new stories about possibility, of healing themselves and others through art. I want to keep showing up in service of putting art into artless spaces. I want to keep showing up so that I can encourage other artists to show up for themselves and for the things and people that matter to them. I want to keep showing up in service of expanding our views of what’s artistically possible, during and after a global pandemic.
Not because there’s nothing else to do.
Not because New York City is “dead”.
But because I truly couldn’t imagine spending my theatrical gap year doing anything else as grounding, as centering, as joyful, and as fulfilling as helping other creatives unlock their creative voices.
In helping others, I can help myself. And I can do it with confidence knowing that theatre and art will come back into all of our lives on the other side of this. Hell, if theatre can survive the bubonic plague, it can survive COVID-19.
I am an artist because I say I’m an artist.
I don’t need to prove it. I can just be it.
Teaching.
That’s the fulfilling work that I’ll be doing during my “year off”.
That, and baking bread.
What about you?
