The Commedia

I wrote THE COMMEDIA during a challenging couple of months when my mind falsly translated every interaction from my peers and mentors into a single repetitive statement: “You’re a terrible performer, you untalented hack and you shouldn’t be doing this.”

This peice came about largly because I needed to make it, to heal myself and try to teach my inner monologue to be kinder. When I was reflecting on what kind of performer I wanted to be, I found a really heroic symbol in the clown. Clowns have a capacity to play without fear and make an earnest attempt to connect with the audience, despite making a literal fool of themselves. But they are also symbols of maniacal, mischevious (sometimes homicidal) ruthlessness. I found that the duality of these tragic clowns is a beautiful representation of trying to make a living as an actor. Who better to (loosely) model my hero after than the great Canio in Pagliacci?

When I was casting, I realized that the people whom I really wanted to use to tell this story of finding bravery and forgiveness, were the incrediblly talented , powerful women who centered my universe. My all-women cast understood immediately the aggressive love that Patty and Frankie needed, and I felt that support from my multi-faceted cast, many of whom were also parts of my wonderful production team for this very technically heavy project. It truly takes a village to raise a circus tent in your living room.

I wanted this story to give Patty, Frankie and every other artist who is struggling in the pursuit of their dreams, a glamorously freaky wake-up call: Stop focusing on the criticism and instead focus on blazing your path forward. I often strive for “perfection” because it protects you from criticism. But perfect is painfully boring, not worth the suffering. So if you can identify the piece of yourself that’s holding you back from trying something brilliantly weird, take out your shears and start pruning.