Lawton herself takes a modest view of her abilities. "I'm very hard-working, and I'm very dedicated, and I'm willing to try anything. I don't get embarrassed very easily," Lawton says. "I don't think I have a lot of natural raw talent. I have a willingness."
Looking back on that statement, I still feel that holds true. I have continued to develop my craft, but that reflects more of my fierce dedication than anything else. Scanning through the rest of the article, I see some things that have changed: I was married, I hadn't held a 'day job' in over six years, I was happy to stay in Boston for my career...and at the close of the article, I see the biggest change:
"I had a teacher say to me, `Just do it until it's not fun anymore. As long as it's fun, it's the greatest job in the world. And when it's not fun, it's the worst.' "
So has there ever been a time when she hasn't found it fun?
She laughs again. "Not yet."
The search for the joy and passion were what tempted me back into school in the first place. Theatre hadn't become a joyless place, but the career itself had started looking more and more like a job. I wanted to rekindle the glow - both professionally and personally in my work. And I look back over my time here, and I've definitely had flickers of that reignited. And to be honest, in many ways I feel that I love theatre more deeply now than I ever have. Somehow I haven't been able to maintain that glow of joy in my performance, though, and it does seem to be the note I get most often from my school critique panels.
Something interesting happened in the full mainstage production which we just completed. I started the rehearsal process excited and inspired by my two roles. (I think 'thrilled' was actually the word I used). I had been challenged by my tutors to push beyond my usual solid (what I have referred to as 'serviceable') work and allow myself to be brilliant. With these two smaller roles, I felt the unique opportunity to play and push boundaries; to create something memorable and new.
Now, the rehearsal process was unlike anything I've ever experienced in my career. Our cast of 18 jumped in on the first day with group improvisation and devision, rather than a traditional read-through of the script. As a matter of fact, we never had a read-through...never heard the entire play until the end of the third week when we did our first run-through. A week into rehearsal, and because we were rehearsing scenes out of order...I still had not spoken a line out loud. I found it difficult to keep the story line straight, and to develop a strong sense of the journey of the play. The design team was devising along with us, so although we had a clear dimension of the stage, we had no clue what costumes (or shoes), props, or set pieces would be in play. It was much like rehearsing a film (you jump into the process mid-stream, with only your scene and lines in hand), except without the clear vision of storyboards to lead your way. I could see how this process would be highly successful with a much smaller cast - and I would love to participate in devising theatre in this actor-led, organic manner. However, my experience was that for 18 people to successfully organically stage large group scenes and maintain audience sight lines, or to improvise battle scenes with quarterstaffs on a deep thrust stage requires a huge amount of time (and danger) to undertake.
Now, anyone who has ever worked with me knows that about 2/3 the way through a rehearsal process I have a major meltdown. I have my lines, my blocking, my script well-actioned...everything should be falling into place, but it is still mechanical and disconnected...and I fall into an absolute panicked-weeping-mess. "I don't know what I'm doing." "I'm lost." "What the hell do I think I'm doing being an actor?!" I seek help, I get it, I struggle, and I usually connect and start having fun again. It is something predictable for me, so even though it always feels like the end of the world, there is something in the back of my mind that also knows that this is just part of my process. I love rehearsals. I probably love them more than performing. I love the permission to explore and fail and play. And even the predictable melt-down is not a drag...I know it is a temporary phase.
So, yes...I had my meltdown.
And while the director summarily dismissed me with, "You just think you're struggling," the movement director took interest in helping me. She came in an hour before rehearsal one morning to work on physically differentiating my two characters. I still was feeling disconnected from the work, but I focused on creating the hooks for each character. I employed every single technique that I could remember from the last seven months of training and threw each of them at the roles. I did vocal work, animal work, Laban movement, textual analysis, Lorna's in-depth character work (both the written and physical work). I tried opposites, counter-intuitive choices, Yat work, answered my Stanislavskian questions. I started coming in an hour or two before rehearsal with a fellow classmate to do creative warm-ups to try to free up my mind and body to make unpredictable choices.
Nothing.
I finally decided - screw it - I'm just going to go back to what I know. What I did before school. But I couldn't figure out what that was. And there it was. We were at performance. I had been given more rehearsal time than I have EVER had to put up a professional show, and opening night came and went and I wasn't....I wasn't....present. My confidence: shattered. My ability to judge my own work for quality: evaporated. My joy: absent. The holy triumvirate of the actor - and all had abandoned me.
And I become overwhelmed with grief. True grief. I have felt this kind of sorrow only one other time in my life. "I love you. I have loved you all my life. I don't know how not to love you. But if I stay with you - it will destroy me."
And so, dear friends, I am standing in unknown territory. If there is one thing I've always known for a fact - it is that I am meant to be an actor. It has always been clear. And now it is not.
I still have time left on this course to explore...and I don't discount the strength that simply going home to New York might revive. But as a close friend just reminded me: the last 8 months in New York, the ones when I had been accepted into school and wasn't auditioning were some of the happiest she has known me to be in a long time. So maybe this is more of a slow dawning. I certainly don't feel reactionary. I know to many, it seems like I had a singular bad experience and I'm overreacting. "Don't let one show throw you!" Trust me, I've been through bad shows before. I've had directors that I butt heads with, teachers who have wanted to undermine my personal balance in order to create excitement in my art, bad experiences on stage. I've been miscast, misguided, mistaken, and done jobs I'm not proud of. But none of them has shaken my very core. Every other negative experience has left me hungry to create better art. This one has left me feeling like I don't have better art to give.
I still need processing time. I not only need to digest this experience, I need more time to grow and explore. And I don't feel like the question is answered. If I decide to stay with acting, it will be after a long, hard consideration of whether it is capable of bringing me happiness - and MUST be accompanied by some reemergence of confidence and self-critical judgement. If I decide to change course, then I know that theatre will stay in my life - it just will have to be redefined in what capacity.
My friends have been quick to comfort, my family has extended their support in whatever I choose, my boyfriend has reminded me that I am going to be fine - no matter what. I feel very blessed by the amount of love that has surrounded me.
So, ... um.... no nice little bow to wrap up this one.
