A RELENTLESS COMPANION

The damp heat of the city had stuck to Johan’s skin—a sweaty, sticky, choking hug. His heart had been beating against his ribs like a mad drummer, pounding away a cadence he thought would drown out the low whir of the air conditioning in the dark foyer. His hands had quivered. It was always like this on audition day. 

Johan is 25. He’s been a professional theatre performer for almost a decade, inspiring audiences for years with every role, every monologue, and every line. But before every audition, he still experiences terror. The fear of not getting cast led to anxiety, which led to him freezing on stage, which confirmed his suspicion.

He’d tried everything to suppress it. He’d meditated, practised breathing exercises, and even used the reliable old standby of downing a cup of coffee before the audition. Nada. He’d step on stage, his voice a cracked falsetto, his body lurching stiffly and awkwardly, and his soul begging for the ground to crack open. 

Now, waiting to take his turn, he could feel his symptoms returning: the slippery palms, the quickening breath, and the knot of fear growing taut in his belly. "Take a breath; you can do this," he told himself. "For you, for your passion," he whispered aloud.

All this changed, however, after his participation in a recent acting workshop. The instructor, a veteran stage actor, had said, "Fear is the key, Johan. You don’t overcome it; you dance with it. People alienate their fears. How vulnerable do you want to be?’ He had spoken of passion and of using fear. This time, he was going to look that fear in the eye.

He stepped up onto the stage, the lights blinding him, the silence deafening, his heart beating hard in his ears, and a fine tremor telling him that he was scared. He felt the tremor in his hands, the tightness in his chest, and the familiar panic creeping in. But this time, he did not try to stop it or push it away. He simply let it be. He smiled his rueful smile.

He began his monologue. It took him a minute or so to get started; his voice is shaky at first but builds momentum as it goes. He allows himself to be naked, to be open, and to be emotional. He moves more freely, his body responding to the language, to the characters, and to the terror itself. He is not fighting against the tremor in his hands; he is using it—using the tremor to create a shakiness in his delivery. 

He felt a flighty, energised freedom. Fear was still there, but it no longer ran the show. Fear had become a tool enabling him to impel himself, imagining himself in the audience’s places. Pain had found his secret. The end of the monologue came. He had fallen into a smile. His heart was thumping like never before. 

The group of faces wearing masks at the front of the room all looked genuinely surprised, but surprised in a way that wasn't—that never had been—the look he was used to. There was something else, something he tentatively identified as admiration or recognition.

He left the stage, still slightly shaky but lighter than he’d known for years. In the back of his mind, his fear was still there, naysaying all of this, but for once he had stared it down, danced with it, and trained himself to use his fear to create art. And that has to be good enough.

He didn’t know if the part was his, but he knew he had taken his first giant leap. If the fear was the secret, he thought, then he was ready to open the door and march into his career. Into the theatre and all of its demands, all of its exultation, all of its terrors. He was ready to own the stage.