Being Yourself in the Arts

Sure, be yourself. But who are you, really?

In the third and final essay on authenticity and performance, the author recalls his personal experience in finding (and losing) himself as an artist.

How to Fail in Business While Trying Really Hard

When I started out in business, I immediately felt a disconnect between who I was and who I was portraying. On my first day of work on an early October day, I remember standing outside the ice rink on the east side entrance of 30 Rockefeller Center, wearing a crisp navy suit and tie. I peered up at the facade of the building and thought, “I’m ready to retire.” Sighing, I took one last look around outside and pushed through the revolving doors.

In that job, I delved into the tension between my self-schema and who I pretended to be at work. I shook hands, laughed at unfunny jokes, and “networked” to get ahead. Every so often,¹ my true self popped out, only to be summarily squashed under the weight of perceived expectations.

My colleagues and I played the parts of business professionals, but it seemed that nobody else believed in the charade either. What they did believe, however, was that all the other players believed in the charade.² And so, the grim and merry dance continued as a mutually reinforcing collective lie. Every once in a while, a glimmer of truth shined out of a colleague and met the same crushing fate as I did.

Looking back, I often daydreamed in that job, comparing where I was to where I could or should be. Perhaps, if I became an artist, I thought, I could be myself. I wouldn’t have to conceal the inner parts of me that the job’s schema rejected.

Eventually, I did become an artist, and what I discovered surprised me.

A Fledgling Comedian

My first time doing standup was a disaster. Like any rosy-eyed optimist, I thought it would go well. I invited a group of friends who told me I was funny and signed up for an open mic. I wore a turtleneck (as artists are mysterious types) and pontificated to the audience with five minutes of pre-rehearsed “jokes.” Nobody, not even my supportive friends, laughed, and succeeding comedians made fun of me for the rest of the show. Oh, and to nobody’s knowledge, it was my birthday. I could think of no better way to start in comedy.

After a requisite cool down period of about three years, I started performing more regularly. I still bombed often, but occasionally would do well when a crowd “got me.” I remember one show where the crowd was mostly young women. On the evening, I was running very late and, on a whim, wore light blue swim shorts. I hadn’t showered, so I made a bunch of jokes about being a disheveled piece of sh*t. Since the crowd was mostly girls, I joked about being a man. It killed. I was so excited. I finally found a strong opening bit.

At my next show, I tried the same material. I bombed. What happened?

That night, I came to the show from work. I dressed well, was on time, and combed my hair. I told the crowd I was a mess, but I looked like I could’ve given them financial advice. The premise made no sense. When I jumped into the bits about being a suspicious person of the opposite sex, the all-male audience wasn’t having any of it.

Two things had changed: first, the audience, and second, their perception of me.

Let’s Talk About Sets, Baby

A comedian is always after a laugh, so going forward I started to wear my light blue swim shorts to shows. After so much bombing, I figured wearing a costume was a small price to pay for a good reaction. I could be a bumbling, disheveled character that the audience could understand.

When I started in comedy, I thought it would be a natural fit to include some political humor in my set since I always enjoyed comedians like Jon Stewart and kept up with the news. In that same vein, I loved philosophy, and figured I could make the audience think with some absurd, philosophical humor. I resolved not to do the same, boring material that everyone else was doing about apartments in New York, dating in the city, and relationships.³

Fast forward a few shows, and my political and philosophical jokes bombed. I workshopped new material, and, being from New York, found some success with jokes about my crappy apartment. I was trying to date at the time, but it wasn’t working out, so I mined some new bits that way too. Eventually, I got a girlfriend, and our arguments and escapades transformed into jokes for my set.

Here I was, wearing light blue board shorts and disheveled hair, talking about apartments in New York, dating in the city, and relationships. Who was this guy?

Who Are You, Really?

Trading in my suit and tie for swim shorts and terse musings about dating, I developed a stage persona. In the pursuit of authenticity, I inadvertently created someone new.

Audiences need a consistent persona from the comedian or the jokes don’t make sense. Especially at the level of an open mic-er, an audience has no idea who the comedian is. The second he steps on stage, the audience develops a perception of the performer, and the comedian needs to understand exactly what it is to play with it. For the jokes to work, the comedian needs to develop a shared context with the audience that underpins the material.

Ever wonder why your close friends make you laugh so easily? It’s because you have years or even decades of built-in context with each other. You have a strong perception of who your friend is, developed inside jokes and stories to callback, and a mutual understanding of the situation. A comedian, especially one who’s unknown, needs to build those layers of context within seconds. That’s why standup comedy is so hard, and why it’s common to see singular performers with distinct personas (slacker, stoner, anxious, nerdy) talking about universal experiences (apartments, dating, relationships) on stage.

To succeed in standup, you need to create a compelling stage persona. You might think that’s easy; just be you! But think about it more deeply. Who are you, really? Sometimes, you’re a slacker. Other times, you work hard. Sometimes, you’re confident. Other times, you’re anxious. Sometimes, you’re an idiot. Other times, you’re smart.

The audience has a narrow vision of you on stage. You can only show them so much, especially in a limited amount of time. In the arts, you don’t have to be a corporate conformist. But you can’t be yourself either.

You must always be someone else.⁴

1. Some would argue it was quite often.
2. Or that the other players were at least willing participants in the game.
3. Word got out around the office that I was doing standup (coincidentally, word got out because I told everyone), and a colleague suggested these exact joke topics. It baffled and annoyed me. I wanted to do something different. I wanted to stay true to myself.
4. As an aside, I always felt uncomfortable with the “networking” required in business. Anything relating to sales, including selling myself, unnerved me. I thought I could get away from this in standup comedy, but I found that networking is even more necessary to succeed. In business, at least you provide something of value, so there’s less of a need to network. In the arts, judging talent is more nebulous. The people who succeed know successful people, which is how they get on shows and take the next steps up the ladder. When I realized I wanted to do shows, I forgot it was show business. And that’s to say nothing of the quid pro quo culture in show business, which makes actual business look like a Buddhist temple (or a Mormon church; thank you once again to my supportive Mormon audience.)

Originally published at https://shitstack.substack.com.