Regards from an out-of-work-actress

Dear Friends,

I think it's time I bite the bullet and tell you what you already know: I am an unemployed actress. Some people ask how auditions are going, some people suggest I find singing gigs, some people ask what I've been in. I can't imagine what it might feel like for some of my colleagues who haven't booked a job since graduating college. I can't imagine what it feels like to be anyone other than myself, for that matter.

So this message is from me alone.

According to The Guardian, approximately 92% of the acting industry are unemployed at any given time. So in order to have a job, I need to be in the top 8%. What does it mean to be on top? Have the vocal chops of a siren? Be able to be both pretty and candid in the same moment? Perhaps it just means "fit the costume" or "have killer legs in heels". Perhaps it means having a strong social media following. Perhaps it means knowing the director.

For some, the road to success is arduous. I recently attended a workshop where the director recounted finding a rotisserie chicken in a Sainsbury's dumpster - he now could eat for a week while working on a profit-share show. I hear of artists who are hundreds of pounds into their overdrafts in their pursuit of "the dream", and I wonder, is that what I need to do to be successful? Moreover, am I willing to do this to be successful?

Audition Day

Audition details are not something I normally share on my blog. Please Lord help me to be truthful in what I write.... 

Today, I had an audition.

Leading up to the audition, I dissected my text, finding new meaning every time I changed my perspective. I wrote out the lyrics over and over again to ensure encoding. I practiced to get the intonation perfectly (that means sing the right notes, Pops). I warmed up vocally, physically, mentally. I put on makeup, but not too much makeup. I ironed my shirt. I said a prayer, and I was out the door. I was twenty-five minutes early. 

In my head, I saw my audition perfectly. I practiced at home, monitoring everything from the slightest of glances to the stances I took. I'd disciplined my wayward eyebrow acting to be intentional and appropriate. I knew when my hands would hold tension, and when they would release. I imagined how I would address the panel (there were four people on my hypothetical panel). I'd be kind to the MD (who I actually know and have worked with before, so that was a huge plus). I knew exactly what I would say to the pianist, how I would explain the cut in my music, the key change, the clef change, the tempo. 

From the getgo, things didn't go as I imagined. When I asked, "how are you?" both the MD and Director responded, so I continued conversation with the MD while failing to acknowledge the director properly. Then I explained the cut as I'd practiced, which went as planned (woohoo). I sat down to begin, but the stool they had in the room was much taller than the chair I'd rehearsed with at home. The acoustics in the room were dry. The director wasn't looking at me. I wasn't looking at him. I was facing him, but at a 45°angle to the room, unlike my imagined scenario, where I was perpendicular to the walls. I sang the word "power" with reticence, completely unlike my rehearsed gusto!

Well, I guess it's safe to say things didn't go as planned. They didn't go poorly, though. They went well. I know that with the workshops I've been attending, the attention I've paid to my technique, text analysis, presentation - I know that I did a good job. But for me, to be in the top 8% I needed to go in there and show them that they had to choose me. I showed them a girl that would be good to work with; I needed to show them a girl they just had to work with.

So, I bought myself a green curry for the trip home and hung out with Archie for an extra hour and a half just because I could. I forced myself to do a promo shift, and had a wonderful cycle up the River Wandle. I bought dark chocolate ginger cookies from Tescos (seriously, their new bakery project will be the death of me). I texted a few friends, called Gilday, revisited my job search (to replace the bereaved coffee shop job). 

And now it's quarter to eleven on a Friday, night, and I feel alright.

Thanks for reading.