Last night I sent off my first playwriting fellowship application. The fellowship is with one of the theater companies I admire most in the world, right here in New York City. I have been inspired by many of their productions, philosophy, and leadership. I am quite certain they get inundated with applications and that landing even an interview is a long shot. No matter. I feel drawn to them and what they do so I’m tossing my hat in the ring.
While the play itself that I wrote this summer came pouring out of me, the personal statement didn’t flow as easily at first. The 2 questions for the personal statement were very straight forward: 1.) What kind of work do I want to make? and 2.) Why do I feel that this theatre company is the right place for me? I made a lot of notes and tossed around a lot of ideas. I’d like to think I did this in order to create a meaningful, concise statement. After a couple of weeks, I realized what I was doing. I was procrastinating. I was afraid to put my artist statement in writing and have it stare back at me. It felt like such a heavy, daunting task. What kind of work do I want to make, and why, and how, and with whom? In 750 words or less.
I would stare at a blank screen, unable to start, and then close my laptop. Last week, I put the fear aside. What’s the worst that would happen? I’d write a horrible artist statement that’s whiny and arrogant and lifeless. That’s all. And then I’d throw it in the trash having gotten all the rotten stuff out.
My artist statement wasn’t anything like that. I just answered as honestly as I could. I want to make work that has a lasting impact on how people see themselves and their contributions to humanity in a place that celebrates and supports artists. I expounded on that idea in multiple ways, but that’s the gist of it. And it felt good, really good, to say it aloud, on paper, for someone to read.
Everyone stumps for authenticity but no one tells you how hard it is to discover it, admit it, and live it. It opens us up for criticism of the very deepest part of our hearts. We give it over to someone to judge and critique and analyze. Someone peers into our essence and says, “Yes, you’re one of us” or “No, you’re not one of us.” “I get you” or “I don’t get you.” And that can be frightening. It certainly is for me, but I do it anyway because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. I couldn’t get up everyday if I didn’t feel like I was giving the world they very best that I’ve got.
Ultimately, we have to do it. We have to be frightened and stand up anyway and say, “This is who I am, what I care about, and I want to know if we can work on this whole business of building a better world together.” It’s an invitation, and it might be accepted and it might be rejected. As artists, that is our path no matter what our medium. We have to invite people in. Some will stick around and some will stay. It’s the only way to find our pack and to help one another. This is the way forward, and it feels good to be on the path.
Christa Avampato 