For Part 1 of this series, “Unleash the Hounds!” click here.
An improvisor who wants access to a free flow of ideas needs to unleash her creative imagination from the shackles of self-judgment and self-censorship. He needs to let go of worrying what others will think of him. As the renowned improv teacher Keith Johnstone asserts, it’s this very spontaneity that brings us closer to the power of authentic performance: “We struggle against our imaginations, especially when we try to be imaginative…[but]…we are not responsible for the content of our imaginations.”[1] Such release marks a crucial first step for early improvisors.
Judgment can be a brutal idea-squelcher.
(Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment, image courtesy of Wikimedia)
Eventually, of course, we can—and I would argue, need to—move to greater sophistication. While making internal space for uninterrupted flow, we can also recognize our responsibility to larger societal patterns and dynamics. Our work, especially when presented publically, becomes a force that perpetrates and perpetuates or one that illuminates and liberates. We may not be responsible for the content of our imaginations, but we are accountable for what we do with that content once it shows up.
How do we take on such intention without restraining creativity, then? How can we monitor our impulses without censoring them? In short, we move from judgment to discernment.
Judgment usually comes as an immediate reflexive reaction. It makes a personal assessment—about the self or others—and elevates the one judging while diminishing the judged. It declares a simple “yes” or “no” and calcifies that decision in a way that resists new information or changing conditions. Because it springs so quickly from the well-grooved channels of the unconscious mind, it often relies on prejudice or fear and thus serves dominant social paradigms. It’s no wonder that creativity would shrink in its presence.
Discernment, on the other hand, suggests a more patient, considered response. It makes a situational or behavioral assessment—rather than a personal one—and recognizes an inter-relationship between the discerner and the discerned. Rather than establishing a simple yes or no, it asks “how does this match my intention?” and engages in ongoing, flexible interaction to generate more understanding. It brings the conscious mind into friendly contact with the unconscious and, as such, can acknowledge prejudice and fear without giving in to them. It honors the creative
Example #1: Working with
Improv maven Rebecca Stockley shared one great example of this kind of shift—from judgment of to working with—from one of her classes. In a two-person scene with one male and one female player, the man started onstage, sat down and immediately began to mime masturbating. The other students in the class gasped—clearly, the offer had struck a nerve of some sort—and Rebecca had to decide in a moment what to do. She knew the guy might have just been making a random, unfiltered offer or he might have been intending a kind of aggressive in-your-face maneuver. She also knew that a saucy improviser might slough off any potential offense by coming on stage—oops, pun not originally intended—and turning the tables on the guy or by making an honest, vulnerable scene out of the questionable start.
When Rebecca looked over to the female student, however, she sensed real discomfort. So, in that moment, she paused the group and asked the guy on stage a question: “OK, so you made the choice you did, which was fine. [acknowledging that this came from his imagination and is part of human experience] How do you think your partner feels about the offer?” Immediately, the young man realized that the offer might make his partner uncomfortable and that she might not know how to respond appropriately. Once he had that insight, Rebecca said, “OK, how about we start the scene over with a new choice.” It wasn’t that the first offer was wrong, per se, it was that it had an unwanted impact. So they quickly and easily shifted the scene to take better care of each other—all without shaming the creative mind.
Pretty straightforward. If your unleashed dog poops on the lawn, you clean up the mess.
(Image courtesy of Wikimedia)
Revisiting the analogy of letting a dog off leash, Rebecca’s situation might be the equivalent of having to clean an accidental poop off a neighbor’s lawn. You wish the dog hadn’t done it, but you need not freak out or get overly apologetic. Shit happens.[2] You just clean up the mess.
Example #2: Setting an intention
Another way skillful improvisors practice discernment with creative throughput is to set an intention. In other words, inviting or magnetizing a certain kind of idea to come forward. BATS Improv and the Improv Playhouse of San Francisco (IPSF) have a tradition and style that I like: start scenes with a positive outlook. Or at least in a place of everyday neutral. Everyone gets along fine. Nothing’s wrong. Nobody’s angry. Or if they’re angry, that’s just how they always are—like a curmudgeonly great uncle. Everyone else knows he’s that way and loves him anyway.
After a recent IPSF show, Tim Orr recounted his thought process as he first came on stage at the start of the show. As an audience, we had established that the story would take place in a psych ward. We also knew what components made up the stage: a pill dispensation desk, a time out platform, a few doors and entryways, a one-way mirror, and a somewhat ominous noose hanging on the wall. Lastly, another improvisor, Ben Johnson, had started on stage before the lights came up. He was sitting there, smoking and reading a book. Of course, Tim had a limitless range of options to choose from: his character could have been pissy, irritated, jealous, insecure or any other negative state. Instead, as Tim described, “I only knew that something good had just happened to me and that my character liked Ben’s character.” It was a sweet, simple choice that left plenty of room for spontaneity.
Why not start with happy and healthy?
(Image courtesy of Wikimedia)
And that’s how almost every IPSF show starts: characters tend to like each other. They’re generally happy and healthy. They’re also flawed and inevitably stumble into some sort of conflict or tension but, in general, they’re likable and care about each other. That start sets a tone and draws the audience in. We get to spend time with characters that we come to love. Even if the story ends without a happy ending, we leave the theater feeling uplifted or nourished.
I know some improvisors, including those who espouse a mindful improv practice, who posit that it’s better to be honest with whatever comes through in the moment. If your character feels cranky, they say, start cranky. If things start broken, they start broken. On one level, I agree: once a scene has started in that direction, one needs to stay present with that reality. Best not to get too attached—or even attached at all—to a positive start. At the same time, one can still set an intention to establish a tendency or likelihood. In this more positive or at least neutral case, the improvisor—and even the character—chooses to begin in a place of discernment rather than judgment.
Example #3: Pause
A third way improvisors can take responsibility for creative flow without the interruption of self-censorship is simply to pause. Dave Dennison, also of BATS Improv, models this well as a performer and as a coach. In his approach, the relaxed pause is not a stammer, a waffle or a wimping out but, rather, an attentive moment to “look around” and engage the imagination. Once the imagination has kicked up a few possible responses to whatever offer has come up, the improvisor can make a choice among them.
“It’s not that one has to say everything out loud, but to allow it to move through. My feeling isn’t that the group should be ‘obscene,’ but that they should be aware of the ideas that are occurring to them. I don’t want them to go rigid or blank out, but to laugh, and say ‘I’m not saying that’ or whatever.” –Keith Johnstone
(Image courtesy of Wikipedia)
I recently had this happen on stage myself. My troupemates and I had started the evening with three and we had noticed aloud that in two of the stories, female characters had been abducted. We managed to avoid judging or shaming ourselves for it—stuff happens—and, at the same time, we noted what could be the start of an unwanted pattern. In the next scene of our emerging “Postapocalyptic: The Musical!,” my bad guy character had the woman he’d captured in his underground bunker and was trying to seduce her to help repopulate his zone. Looking for inspiration, I, as the character, reached into a nook on an imaginary wall and pulled out a cup-sized space object in my hand. My first thought was that I had pulled out a drugged drink that I would give the woman. That’s what my imagination offered up. In that moment, as I’ve been trying to do while taking Dave’s classes, I quietly paused and noted internally that, nope, I didn’t want to go there. Enough of the patriarchal mistreatment of women theme for tonight. I thanked the idea for coming forward and waited for the next: what else could this shape-of-hand indicate? Almost immediately, I ‘saw’ that it was a jar of gumsticks. My character pulled one out and gave it to the woman so her breath would be fresh. What would have been resolutely creepy or unsavory became much lighter and more whimsical. That tiny pause made space for a more responsible choice on stage.
A moment’s pause can open up new vistas of possibility.
(Image courtesy of Tyler Yeo on flickr.com)
This pause on stage or in an improv game almost precisely mirrors the quiet breath of mindfulness practice. An experience happens or a thought arises, one that I might register as pleasant or unpleasant, but rather than reacting in my typical way—grasping at attraction or flinching at aversion—I simply pause. In that space, more possibilities and options for my next move emerge. Now I have a range to choose from. Rather than reacting, I’m responding.
Example #4: Trust your team
Lastly, we can move from a restrictive judgment of our ideas to a healthy discernment by trusting our stagemates—or, off-stage, our teammates and friends—to call us on our missteps and take care of us when we’re hurting. We can each serve as the other’s loving filter, naming without blaming that “Ouch, that hurt” or “Check that out—that’s uncomfortable.” Skillful improvisors can also make sense of a ‘mistake’ in the moment by using it and building on it. Maybe a heinous character in a scene says or does something unsavory but the other characters rally in resourceful response to provide effective foil. Or maybe together we justify the hiccup by providing a glimpse of a grittier reality. Life includes unpleasantness and obscenity. Theater can too. With a reliable group dynamic, we can trust our support and freer ideas can keep coming.
Good teammates know how to raise an objection without blocking creative flow.
(Image courtesy of Wikipedia)
Another BATS scene brought some of these dynamics to life. This long-form show was a courtroom drama where a female prostitute was being questioned on the stand. The male defense attorney asked her to replay the sounds from her sexual encounter with the defendant—an understandable suggestion pushed forward from the imagination. In that moment, though, the improvisor playing the prostitute felt uncomfortable with the request—as her character did—and balked. Recognizing the awkwardness, the prostitute’s female lawyer, stepped in and blurted “Objection!” I love this maneuver: the improvisor sensed and sheltered her female colleague’s discomfort without shaming or rejecting what the male improvisor’s imagination had offered. In fact, while in character, she actually validated the offer, accepting the reality of courtroom tension and opposing character objectives. In doing so, she took care of both company members.
Different settings, different challenges
Of course, it’s easiest to welcome in any and all ideas when we’re simply playing improv games in a workshop or learning setting. The teacher or facilitator can protect the safety and deal with any upsets. You’re not likely to cut too deep. The stakes raise a bit when you start to move into scenework, where the lines between character and improvisor can get a bit blurry. Move into public performance and the impact of our choices grows even more significant: now we’ve got an audience who will go out into the world. We’ve got organizational and financial reputations to tend. And then there’s the crucible of our everyday lives: with spouses, bosses and workers, family members, and friends. What’s true in the safe setting of the improv class holds true for all the others, however: freer access to our creative ideas will bring greater joy, flexibility and adventure. And an approach of discernment rather than judgment will keep those ideas coming.
The hotter the crucible, the more care goes into bringing forth creative gold.
(Image courtesy of Pixabay)
Ultimately, we’re convincing our muses to trust our fundamental shift in attitude. We change our internal dialogue in relation to our suggestions. We choose to hang with others who celebrate and build upon our offers and we offer the same in return. Once the muses buy in to our overall stance—oh, you’ve finally established a pattern of welcoming in whatever we send! Great, we’ll send more!—they need not shrink or flinch, even in times of discerned evaluation. Not every idea needs acting on. The muses get that. Once a friendly rapport has been established, the unleashed mind need not run off in crazy abandon. It can settle into contented connection, both willfully wild and open to refinement. What a sweet spot that is.
[1] Keith Johnstone, Impro, p. 105.
[2] In this analogy, literally.
