Love Is in the Air

This is a continuation of "Against the Wall" — part of an ongoing series about finding my way as an artist.

Well, there's one thing I haven't told you yet: how hard it is to rehearse a comedy show when you're heartbroken, and the one you love — the one you moved to Hamburg for — is slipping through your fingers. I remember specifically fighting my way through rehearsing Lillie dancing enthusiastically to "Love Is in the Air," full of romanticism and optimism. At times I'd burst into tears, unable to find that joy.

That's maybe the irony of life, isn't it.

Doing a show about what it means to be a woman, and love, while things are falling apart at the same time. It didn't last much longer before my boyfriend broke up with me, and I felt more devastated than I ever had in my life. Probably it touched on something much deeper — some old abandonment, from way back.

Around that same time — I'm not sure exactly when anymore — I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's. The doctor slapped the diagnosis in my face without ever really explaining what it entailed, beyond the fact that I'd apparently already been living some of the symptoms without knowing it. I left his office dazed, wondering: Hashi — what? I chose to ignore it for the time being, not knowing what else to do with something incurable.

But of course, the show must go on. And so it did.

There was a theatre run by a lovely gay couple, combining performances with dinners — people would book for a meal plus a comedy show. One of them wrote his own shows too, which were the main attraction, but they were open to hosting other comedy as well. I put a lot of hope into this, because in my mind, an arrangement like that would have been ideal — not just a few scattered evenings, but something regular over a longer stretch. Once or twice a week for a year would have suited me perfectly, given me the chance to build an audience through word of mouth, slowly, the way I actually wanted to.

I was lucky enough to arrange two evenings there, giving them a chance to see the show for themselves. Unfortunately, it was too edgy for them — not the superficially humorous kind of comedy they were after (nothing wrong with that, by the way).

I didn't set out to create shows that then didn't seem to fit in anywhere. Somehow I just couldn't help it — and then I didn't have any inner resources left to keep fighting for them so hard. I might have performed it somewhere else still; I honestly can't remember, and it isn't important anymore. I did feel disillusioned, on some level. It wasn't at all how I'd imagined things would be. My magical parts had concocted a completely different story — about love, and about having shows — with seemingly nothing to do with the reality I actually found myself in.

Still, I kept performing Lillie, my clown, at different events.

I especially loved it when I had a rough idea but let her improvise a little too — the stakes felt lower, and honestly, I had much more fun. For some reason, I hadn't allowed myself to have unstructured moments in my actual show. I think I was still too invested in the Lecoq approach, in how Ron did things, in how I thought I was supposed to do physical theatre. It would take a while longer before I let myself be a bit freer again.

One more thing worth telling: I also took Lillie out onto the streets a few times.

I'd put on the costume, go outside, and interact with people as Lillie — not as Anja. I really had to talk myself into it, but it was so gratifying once I did. Lillie once entertained a whole table of men drinking beer. They loved it. And I never, ever would have done such a thing as Anja. Thank you very much.