About a year ago, I was approached by some people who were putting together a sex-themed storytelling show. They either found my blog or my Fetlife profile, and contacted me to see if I wanted to perform at one of their shows. It wouldn’t be too hard for you to figure out the name of the event, but I’m not going to mention it here for two reasons.
First, this isn’t meant to be a personal attack against the producers or a diatribe against the event. I run across similar situations repeatedly, and they specifically are merely one of the inspirations for this post. Second, I decline to use what little influence and social media clout I may have to further their “brand awareness.” This actually speaks to the larger issue at hand, so back to the story.
When it comes to erotic storytelling and erotic improvisation, I literally have thousands of hours of experience. I believe you would be hard-pressed to find a single person in the city of Portland with more professional credentials in this particular niche. So it came as no surprise when they approached me.
I have performed at similar events across North America. I have a couple of rehearsed monologues I can do on a whim, but I prefer to improvise an erotic piece based on audience suggestions. (I think my “Peanut Butter” bit from the Toronto cabaret will live in infamy…) When I suggested this to the producers, they informed me they had a process and framework they wanted me to adhere to.
I was to pitch them a story via email. If they were interested, we’d meet in person so I could tell them the entire story. If they were still interested, they’d give me notes (“details, clarifications of story points, or thoughts on structure”) and schedule me to perform.
Let me take a moment to remind you that they were pursuing me. I had no attachment to being in their show and in fact wasn’t sure at that point that I wanted to be. Which I told them. I am asked to do this sort of thing all the time, and I don’t need the exposure. I enjoy erotic storytelling performance, but mostly because I like the way I do it. When my clients are paying me $3/minute, I do it their way. When I do it for my own joy and artistic fulfillment, I prefer having the autonomy to tell/improvise whatever story I want as I see fit.
They were very persistent, to the tune of multiple emails over the course of six months. During this time I pitched a potential story but was told it wasn’t sexual enough. (I know, I know, the mind boggles…) I tried to clarify that it was actually a sex story and that I thought my mistake in the pitch was a phone sex operator’s mistake- we all talk dirty and vulgar, so it’s the non-sexual details and descriptions that make a fantasy seem more real and fleshed-out.
The impression I got from the response was that I was mistaken, and that the story in my head (that they hadn’t even heard yet) wasn’t sexual enough. At which point, I attempted to politely decline working with them because I didn’t think my style was a good fit with theirs.
They asked me to reconsider and offered to put me on the guest list for the next show so I could see what they are doing and hopefully be inspired to operate within their framework. I wasn’t particularly optimistic, but I agreed. Due to that pesky blizzard earlier this year, I wasn’t able to make it to the show I was supposed to see. I emailed my regrets and promised to attend the next one. I was told they’d love to have me but wouldn’t be able to give me a comp as their guest list was already full. However, I was welcome to buy a ticket and see the show if I wanted to.
Um, what? I didn’t particularly want to see the show. How often do you think, “gee it’s my night off, so just for fun, why don’t I go watch someone do what I do for work?” I was taking time out of my life to do this for them, to assess whether I felt comfortable compromising my personal artistic vision and process to work within theirs. But hey, I was a concert and special event producer for a decade, so I know about budgets and capacity issues and the like. Guest list full? No problem, I thought, I’ll go to the next one.
A month later, they again contact me. Did I see the last show? Nope, but I could attend this month if they can find room for me on the guest list. I was informed that wouldn’t be possible, as they’ve had to limit their guest list to staff and storytellers. *blinks* Isn’t that what I am? A potential storyteller? One who they have been pursuing for months, who is still obviously on the fence about working with them? As politely as I could, I informed them that meant I would not be attending the show in that case. Obviously it also means I won’t be performing in it anytime in the near future.
Lest you think this is about my own sense of entitlement, please allow me to share the reasons for my strong reactions to situations like this…
First, I don’t think I should have to pay for the privilege of possibly compromising my own artistic process in order to lend my cache and experience to someone else’s show. I make a living directly off phone sex and the original writings I perform in my one-person plays. They’re essentially asking me to gift them a story I could sell myself, which I may actually be willing to do, whether for fun, charitable donation, or creative fulfillment. But I shouldn’t have to pay out of pocket to do them that favor.
Simply put, I know my worth. I’ve spent the last decade honing my craft and building a reputation, and I know what kind of crowd I can draw to an event of that nature. Years of touring the fringe festival circuit has taught me there is no pride in playing to an empty house, so if I sign on for something, I will be shameless in promoting it via social media, personal email lists, and face-to-face. I understand why they want me to perform at their event, but what I want to know is, what do I get out of it?
Or am I not supposed to ask that question if I want to be a Twue Artiste? Should I just roll over and be glad that someone, anyone, is going to “let me do my art”? As if just getting to perform should be reward enough?
Let me clue everybody in to a little secret…The opportunity for artistic expression? I have that already. I regularly perform for crowds of 40 to 400, doing shows of my own creation, with complete autonomy and artistic control. And I make money off it. This doesn’t lessen the quality of my art. I need to be able to support myself, just like you. I have trained and spent years at my chosen career. I am good at it because I have practiced and practiced and practiced. I’ve poured more money, time, and energy than I could possibly quantify into becoming a better actor, performer, playwright, artist.
Ask any artist you know how often they get asked to donate works or perform for free in exchange for “the exposure.” I guarantee you it is more often than not. Think about that. More than half of the “opportunities” I am given to share my creative work come with no compensation. How would you feel if you were asked to do your job for free half of the time? And suggesting that exposure is an artist’s compensation in these situations is insulting and ignorant. How do I benefit from exposure if it is to people who don’t want to pay for art in the first place?
Which brings me back around to my original story. After thinking about it for a while, I decided to seek out some folks who have performed at the event, just to get a different take on it. Maybe my knee-jerk reaction was too harsh. After all, the producers obviously have a strong vision, and I really do believe in supporting sex-positive events with crossover appeal to the mainstream. They have the potential to open hearts and minds.
But what I gleaned was that I am definitely not a good fit with the show. I’d have to create a custom story, be willing to edit it per their suggestions, and take direction on the telling of it. Which would mean at least one live telling to the producers, edits and reworking, and (I’m assuming) another rehearsal/telling with the producers, and then performance. It starts to depart from what I consider unscripted storytelling (which is more how they sell the event) and veer toward rehearsed performance. That requires time and multiple rehearsals to do successfully. For which I would be paid…wait for it…Nothing.
Essentially, I’d provide them with content and talent as a hired hand. Except I wouldn’t be compensated. Here, playwright, write what we tell you. Here, actor, perform this script the way we want you to. Since I create, perform, and make a living off doing these things for myself, I need a good reason to do it for someone else, especially for free.
As I mentioned before, I have produced similar events before, and I know the producers aren’t getting rich off this. But they are charging a ticket price. The advertisements get paid for. The venue gets a rental fee. The security guards at the club get paid. The bartenders get paid. The box office person gets paid. The venue sound and light technicians get paid. The producers make whatever money is leftover, if any (that’s the risk of being a producer). Why are the storytellers themselves, the entertainers, the artists not worthy of the same consideration? I’m the one getting on stage, sharing my story, being vulnerable in front of an audience, and that doesn’t deserve any monetary compensation?
I don’t harbor ill will toward the event or the producers; I am simply declining to participate in their show with these given circumstances. This really speaks to a larger problem in our society: the generally accepted idea that art isn’t worth paying for, or that being an artist isn’t a valid profession. That I’m lucky anyone is paying attention to me, much less money, and I should just be satisfied having my ego stroked by applause once in a while. Yes, I take it personally. No, I’m not sorry.
Do me a favor. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine your life without art. No paintings, films, poetry, literature, theatre, or music…No art of any kind. It’s actually almost impossible to do. But please try. Because if you refuse to actively value art and artists, there will be fewer and fewer of us able to continue creating. There will be less art. And that would make the world an ugly, uninhabitable place.
My friend, Nadia, posted this on Facebook today. They are not my words, but I feel as though I could have written them. She gave me permission to share…
“I was a music major for five years, three spent planning to go on and get my masters and PhD in performance, to eventually teach my instrument at university.
I was miserable.
I couldn’t understand how something you were supposed to do simply for the love of it could make me want to cry and hide. That I would have done anything to avoid going onstage, and sadly accepted it as the price for playing my instrument. I tried to understand what music was, thinking about the ideals of emotions, communications and art… And what that could or should mean to an audience, or a performer. I felt like I was missing very fundamental pieces of a simple puzzle.
I tried harder to find the pieces; tried harder to do it “right”. Eventually I got so I could dope myself into a state of self hypnosis and play the prescripted notes with precision and accuracy; but I felt nothing as I did, and none of the joy that I had expected to feel when I had finally performed “well”. I decided that the notes I was playing was not music, and was not art… And in a way was an abomination.
I went to an Amanda Palmer concert a week ago; I was reminded again that music should be a way of bringing people together, of sharing moments and thoughts better left half veiled. And I was reminded, to stop acting like art is hard… To stop thinking that art isn’t pouring from your soul, breaking from your chest to be released and propelled into the world. That we are created from the expression of love and passion, and there is little in our lives that does not revolve around both.
Get out of your skin. Dance. Sing. Forget that you have a body; remember that you are alive.”