Why We Do This

Thursday night of last week, Charades opened at the IGNITE festival. Due to our rushed schedule, it was the first time we had a real audience.

We were able to rediscover how real Shauna Johannesen's writing is, how absolutely funny Peter Dorrius' portrayal of Stu is, how much heart Bobbi Goddard put into Darcy, and how much Jennifer Bates and I needed from each other as Erica and Mike.

I flubbed a few lines, but we have to practice instant forgiveness when performing. The audience laughed at moments we had not anticipated. You could hear a pin drop when Erica walks out the door, for maybe the last time, when the story came to its conclusion.

Backstage we hugged each other,  smiled and laughed. We made self deprecating comments and countered the ones others made about themselves. We changed, and exited the stage doors to meet with our audience. I made a straight line for outside. I'm never sure what to do with myself at those times.

Outside, while trying to decide with other IGNITE'ers what the plan would be for the night, my father called my cell phone. He was practical, but there was something heavy in his voice.

His father had passed away earlier that day. His father. My namesake. The only Grandparent I was ever able to really get to know and spend time with, was gone.

My heart broke further as my father told me he could not even make his own father's funeral due to professional responsibilities. Dad and I spoke for a length, probably the longest in a while, about many things. Hearing his voice almost broke me. He said "I love you too son" when I told him I did, and it's very uncommon for him to say that.

The expression on audience members faces after a show is a surprise to me at times. Complete strangers have come up to me and offered a hand to shake.

Older men have looked me right in the eyes and said with a flat delivery "Spectacular work." Not flowery at all, just concise clipped words.

"We really enjoyed you" the little elderly ladies say, and smile again when I use "Miss" in my reply.

I almost always reply, "No, thank you. Thank you for letting me do this" or "No, thank you, without you we can't do this."

Sometimes they shake their heads and laugh a little bit. Sometimes they ask what I mean.

What I mean is just what I said. These people are strangers to me. I'm very awkward around them. I practice humility and generosity. The performance is nothing without an audience that wishes to be entertained, enlightened, evoked, or enraged.

Without the audience, there is no theatre. Is there art without an observer? Smarter people then I have said yes. Smarter people have said no. Others just look me straight in the eye and say "Whatever, as long as it's not just art for the sake of art."

We do this for every person who will listen to us, who will let us play for them. For every person who will join us in a suspension of disbelief for a short period of time, either as an escape, an outlet, an experiment, or just a good time. Sometimes a good cry too.

My Grandfather was never able to see me perform. The schedule between his passing through the city and my performances never lined up. Sadly, in his last pass through Calgary it was my Joe Job and other responsibilities that kept me from seeing him. I had thought "No worries, I'll make sure to get out to visit him this summer."

I can't beat myself up for that.

Do I do this for him? Who was I doing this for before? Am I doing it for the audience or myself?

I'm doing this because it's the only thing that I know how to do. And I don't even know how to do it really. It's the only thing that even when it stresses me out it's worth it. Why is it worth it? I'm good with computers. Why don't I just do that? I don't want to do that. So why do I do this? Who do I do this for if not myself?

I do this for myself. I do this for everyone who sees my show, or any show. I do this because it's participating in culture, in life, and not just sitting on my couch wishing I was doing it. I do this because storytelling is all we really have from one generation to another, and I am a born storyteller.

My sisters reminded me that our grandfather would sometimes have a few beverages and then try to recite The Shooting of Dan McGrew. I can hear his voice, and see his eyebrows raise as punctuation on the line "the Lady that's known as Lou". There would be a wicked smile in his eyes at that point, and he would lean over and give his wife a peck when he got to say that line.

I don't know how to speak really about what my grandfather means to me. I'm still figuring it out. As the man who's name I carry forward, I only hope I can do him proud and pass that name on again. But I can't really put into words him and I.

If I have a chance to speak, I'll try to get through The Shooting of Dan McGrew. It was probably the first live recitation of prose, and bit of live theatre,  that I can remember from my youth. Fitting. I think Granddad will enjoy it.