Faking it to find yourself.

The first time I went to an acting class, I was 19 years old and terrified.

The last activity we had to do was a walk across the stage.

One by one, each student got up, and the rest of us were prompted to analyse them and let them know what kind of vibe they were carrying around. My peers were honest, not afraid to let the boy going before me know that he seemed too cocky, like he was overcompensating. When my turn came, I braced for all my insecurities to be reflected back at me: lack of confidence, bad posture, sad. I was surprised when I got my result: Vivacious, they said. They all agreed I was vivacious. It is still the greatest compliment I have ever received.

A few years later, I was ready to get serious about my craft. I was ready for ‘The Method’.

‘The Method’ takes many forms, but the class I took was adapted from the teachings of Sanford Meisner, a mentor to almost every great performer of the 20th century. Contrary to popular belief, ‘method acting’ is not about staying in character at all costs, but it is about commitment.

Commitment to knowing yourself and commitment to finding the truth. So, every week at 7 pm, I drove my busted Subaru across the city and explored what it meant to live truthfully and tried to care enough to commit.

‘The Method’ was intensive and rarely easy; it required you to be completely present, open and dedicated. It promoted a radical way of engaging with the world, one where knowing how you felt about your favourite ice cream flavour was just as important as knowing how you would feel if your grandma died. In class, two people talking was more than just a conversation, it was the collision of two independent worlds.

Most of all, repetition was king. We would repeat the same lines back and forth until we were forced to expose whatever we were hiding underneath our words. Our teacher was brilliant. He would sit, watch and gently annihilate any facade we had carefully crafted to avoid revealing ourselves. Sometimes it would take him half an hour to get through a 3 minute scene. The first sign of any ‘um’ or ‘uh’ and he would shout out from his desk across the room, ‘Stop, stop, stop. Let’s try that again.’

He clocked my snarky ass almost immediately. ‘Rachel’, he said. ‘You can’t be an artist if you’re going to be cynical.’

And he was right.

Because when all the filler words, smirks, and hair twirls are washed away, what you’re left with is often the hardest thing to face – yourself.

As someone who was often too scared to be sincere, I would struggle in class. One time during a scene, I broke down in tears; not like my scene partner, who could cry perfectly on cue, but real tears. Tears of exhaustion, defeat and the startling question, ‘What if I don’t really care about anything?’

‘Don’t you see?’ the teacher said ‘You already care so much.’

As with most transformative experiences, you don’t fully realise the impact it’s had until it’s over.

‘The Method’ taught me the value of real connection, both with myself and others. For the first time in my life, I knew how to be truly honest. I was strong enough to say what I meant, to not be the ‘polite girl’, or the most acceptable version of a young woman.

‘The Method’ put me in contact with myself, and for that I will cherish it forever.

This piece was written for Fluff in collaboration with The Ritual by KIC, currently discussing the theme: “Method in the Madness.”

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