Technique Fetishes & the Merits of Giving Up to Get On With It (Patreon)

"We don't know what we don't know".

I hate sayings like that. And yet– I can't think of a better one to describe the naive realizations that have tumbled down upon my head these past few weeks.

With the breathtaking confidence that inexperience can fill up an unknowing vessel with, I actually thought (creative circus gods, forgive my ignorance) ...

That this part would be easier than the parts that came before.

(Please, please try to control your laughter)

☆ ☆ ☆

I've been in Montréal since late April.

I've watched the flowers in the gardens of the ruelles start to bloom. Batted through the clouds of fluffs that drift thickly down from the cottonwood poplars in late May on my walks to and from Beaubien Metro. Let the warm sun beam down on my face in June; sweat and cursed through the oppressive heat waves of July and August.

I spent these months largely working with William: a gruelling regimen of conditioning inside and outside our straps lessons, which started at 60 minutes in length and eventually ballooned to 90.

We built me up to combat the weaknesses in my body, crept forward building block by building block towards technical skills that William deems necessary for a high-level act.

At the start of this summer adventure, I wrestled with questions about this relationship between technique and artistry: where's the invisible line that separates a 'real' circus artist from a dabbler, when you create taxonomies of skill in this way? How is this line different from geographical place to geographical place? How do we decide what 'counts' as circus and what doesn't? What level of technical skill has to be present in an act for someone to recognize it as circus? How does that level differ if it's a member of the general public watching versus another circus artist?

They're questions that I reject when I enjoy others' work or when I'm invited to offer opinion or observation on someone else's creation process.

But when it came to my own personal progress, as the months marched on I found my ability  to maintain a firm, impermeable boundary between my own thoughts on this subject and what the coaches and artists in Montréal think on this subject ... waning.

I was getting encouragement from some quarters to reject this 'technique fetish', this obsession with pure skill, the fascistic division of who gets to count as an artist and who doesn't along the lines of physical ability.

Meanwhile, I was steeping like a long-forgotten tea bag in the murky waters of what it's actually like to be in Montréal for an extended period of time as a professional circus artist: a place where it's a foregone conclusion that a certain height of technical proficiency is what separates the 'real ones' from the amateurs.

The part that's read far too much Circus Studies theory over the course of the pandemic decided that instead of just thrashing against this question every waking moment of the day, I could also try passively observing/go along with how someone as entrenched in the Montréal contemporary circus scene as William* thinks that the body of an aerial acrobat should be trained to perform.  (*someone who teaches upcoming generations of artists at the École Nationale de Cirque, who had his own performing career as an acrobat, who coaches other aerialists from all over the world, etc.)

At a certain point this summer, I got tired of wrestling with the weird flavour of guilt that accompanies this line of questioning for me. I got decision fatigue amidst all the other choices and schedulings and organizing that working on Barbette requires. And, in a simpler, unthinking way, I get a lot of satisfaction from achieving the athletic goals that come along with training straps.

I made the decision to free up that brainpower for other creative tasks and just trust my coach, William, in this regard.

"To me," William remarked sometime in the middle of the summer. "Good circus must have risk –that is the technique– and artistry. You have beautiful artistry. Your movement is very interesting. I like your creative ideas. But we need more technique. We train this. Very, very hard."  And so we did.

Now September has come, a mix of uncomfortable remnants of the feverish summer and the quiet steady sound of rain on the spiralling cast-iron stairs.

☆ ☆ ☆

William told me he was proud of me two days ago.

Given how easily I cry these days, you’d think that that’d be a moment for instant waterworks – but, no. I managed to hold off until I got back to my hot car, cobwebby on the passenger side where I nudge it up next to the hops-entwined chainlink fence so that the neighbour can park their smashed up red hatchback in the driveway, too.

“I told you at the beginning that this would not be fast,” he said.  “Yes. I remember. I still remember. I’m living what that means now, though.”  “‘Living what that means’…?” William asked, brow furrowed.  I simplified: “I just mean, I see that the students you work with at the school take 3 years to make the kinds of acts that ... that we want to create the same quality of. I understand why it takes 3 years. You can only go so fast.”  “Oui,” William breathed. “And the students, they do 10 hours a week of training, of creation.”  I added up what I’ve been doing in my head.

90 minute sessions with William, 3x week. That’s 4.5 hours.

Two lessons with Victor each week, supposed to be an hour but we always go longer. More like 2.5 hours there, at least.

There’s always an hour of conditioning or warm-up before or after each of those sessions, but I feel like I’m not supposed to count that. And then, unrelated or related –however we want to think of it– I’ve been diligent about doing an hour of contortion/flexibility at least 3 days out of the week, and maintenance stretching on the other straps training days.

It’s not 10 hours a week with a coach. But it’s the most I can do.  It’s a lot.  It’s as fast as I can go.  I’m not 20. I’m 31. And a half.  “We’re doing about … 7 hours a week,” I said, finishing my mental addition.

“Oui,” William agreed. “It’s good. I’m very proud of you. From when we start in May to now? It’s very good, you’ve gained a lot of technical.”  “We still have far to go, I know–” I murmured.

"Of course."

“–But it’s enough to start making the act–"

“Of course it’s enough, yes!"

"–And then –like you said– as I keep improving, we can keep pushing the technical level of the act.”  "Yes. We must keep pushing. I push you hard because you said this is what you want and it’s a lot of work.” He paused, considering his word. "Maybe it doesn’t take 3 years, but it takes–”  “–time. It takes time."  “Exactement.”  We stared out at the empty gym.  William continued. “And some of the students already arrive to the school with high level of technique, you know? And then still improving from there.”

“I can see it,” I agreed. “The technical level of some of those students is mind blowing.” I’d never catch those kids. But I didn’t need to. Not sure I even want to. I was starting to feel sure that we were making something good, all the same.  “But you, you improve so much this summer. When we start, no technique.”  I laughed. “Yeah. I found a video from Summer 2020. I couldn’t even do a flare.”  "Boahhhhh," William makes the eyebrows-up, round-eyed expression that he reserves for his most emphatic responses. “All the time injured too, yes? Here, here, here,” he said, touching his shoulders, his ribs, his hips.  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “We’ve done well. No major injuries so far.”

I looked around rapidly and leapt for the little box we pull in and out from under one another’s feet for conditioning drills and rapped loudly on it with my knuckles. “Knock on wood.”

☆ ☆ ☆

But back to my naivety.

Or hubris.

Whichever one it is.

It's the middle of September. The September I thought I was diving into is not the September I've actually been arriving in.

The past month has been one of intense focus on Barbette:   Re-conditioning after the disastrous (in terms of training) indie movie contract in July and August;

Allowing my brain to soak in the details and question marks of the act concept;

And occasionally feeding and bathing myself (minor details, you know).

Now, after a summer of building up my body and pouring in creative work (the research, the reading, the writing) into every nook and cranny left in the gaps between training, my task was clear:

I had hours of research I'd accomplished through the TOHU residency.

I'd landed on a clear narrative arc for the act.

I knew what skills I could realistically push myself to include in the technical sequences.

It was time to set the choreography. All the pieces were ready. Now I just had to assemble them. I thought:

Well, there's always going to be more to do with technical ability, but I've got a good amount more than I did 5 months ago. Now comes the fun part! Finally I can stop pushing so hard and just enjoy this easier bit! The creative bit. I know how to do this part.

This is, of course, ignoring the fact that I've never actually done this on aerial straps before.

This is, of course, ignoring the fact that the last major act creations I've done have all been in the world of contortion –a discipline with its own follies and pitfalls, to be sure, but also a world apart from aerial creation.

And this is, of course, ignoring the fact that the technique I've started to be able to keep in my body –the one arm tempos, the flares, the tic-tacs/switches– is just that: STARTING. It's not there yet. Not in a way where I can effortlessly create with it. (It will be; just ... not at this moment). The fear, anxiety, and trepidation that borders on dread when I go to chuck some of these skills in class tells me so.

It's not enough to simply execute the movements I've started to learn in class, of course: artistry, character, story, transition, floorwork, and other details must all be held in the mind simultaneously. While I have to give myself  points for self-confidence in my hard-earned technical abilities over the past few months, the physical stamina and power required to link all these movements together is yet another mountain waiting to be climbed.

And –outside the hours spent in studio– symphonic-levels of orchestration are required to wrangle the schedules and availabilities and bookings for creation sessions with all my coaches and collaborators.

To use a tired Everest metaphor: I thought I was at the top, but I've barely reached base camp.

And to repeat what I cried about on the phone to my dad about last week:

I think this is the hardest thing I have ever tried to do.

No wonder the National School artists are all so burnt out and jaded by the time they finish their degrees and graduate with their finished acts.

☆ ☆ ☆

Now –

None of this is the End of the World.

In fact, ALL of this is part of the process.

But god DAMN it's hard.

I'd be laughing hysterically at myself if it didn't want to make me cry so much*. (*hadn't been making me cry so much these past 2 weeks in particular) (*it's okay, I'm over it now)

Rather than whatever idyllic montage I had in my head of effortlessly connecting difficult movement after difficult movement into a seamless 6-minute aerial masterpiece, I've been sharply and swiftly kicked in the ass by the cold, harsh reality that this part feels harder than the previous months did.

Because it's no longer "just" physical training. The focus is longer in the now-familiar comfort zone of "just" appropriate warm-up time, doing my best in my lessons, cooling down and conditioning, feeding myself and resting adequately.

It wouldn't even be accurate to say that my focus is divided; no, rather – my focus has had to multiply.

I was struggling with this realization over these past couple week because I'd already started feeling like my reserves of energy and sanity were badly depleted. Whether I chalked that depletion up to the demands of "just" technical training, or the pressures I've put on myself to achieve a certain amount of progress this summer, or all the messiness of life that never leaves you alone when you're in the midst of chasing the dreams and goals you're chasing – I was tired. I didn't feel like I had more gas in the tank.

It's one thing to feel daunted by a problem that you roughly understand the dimensions of. It's another thing to realize that you've vastly underestimated what is required of you to succeed at the next stage of whatever it is you're doing.

The dissonance between those things –the necessity of mentally recalibrating to a reality you understand with fresh nuance– well, it's enough to make you want to stop, really.

But I haven't worked this hard, for this long, to do that.

I'm making something good. Even if it's bloody hard. Even if it takes a lot longer than even my most generous estimates projected.

There is only pushing forward.

Albeit ... with at least the understanding that I don't know what this part of the process will look like in its entirety. With the understanding that I'm going to be intensely uncomfortable in pretty much every way I can think of as I keep moving towards my goal of creating this act. And with the understanding that this truly is a marathon, even if I've been treating it like a sprint.

Each creation/choreographic session with William over the past 2 weeks has deepened my understanding that this part of the creative process requires a different kind of stamina; a different kind of focus, attention, and intentionality.

Putting difficult skills into a choreographic sequence is a great way to force yourself to practice those technical skills until they're mindless.

Until your body can do them unthinkingly.

Until you pass a physical and mental threshold where there's space to think about things like gestures and facial expression and artistry (as you fly perilously through the air on one arm).

There's plenty of sweat, blood, and tears to go.

Until next time --

Stay strange & wonderful   XO XO  Ess