Out of LEFF Field: Audience autonomy

You and me: We’re the audience. Every day, we use our past experiences to pick and choose what we want to consume, making automatic judgments and decisions on what is worth our time. These decisions build our personalities and world views. They determine future decisions and shield us from certain sects and subcultures. But they’re also not rigid. Every day, we also choose to expand our perspectives—or not—and build our knowledge base a little bit more. This is the beauty of being an audience member: optionality.

Things we’re thinking about this month:

· The artist David Choe talks about how, perhaps counterintuitively, it’s important to get the audience out of your head when you’re creating. That way, you can divorce yourself from the result, quiet the noise that comes from trying to predict audience’s expectations, and ultimately create from a place of curiosity, rather than fear. When was the last time you created or acted from a place of pure curiosity? What was the process like? What expectations were you quieting, and what gut feelings were you going with instead?

· Satisfaction can come from strange places. Take Labubus. Whose itch are those actually scratching? But they blew up—and the reason is inexplicable. What is something low stakes that you are totally invested in? What keeps you coming back?

· So often we live in a box of our own creation when it comes to our likes and dislikes. Then comes a point when we dip a toe into something we normally wouldn’t, and we’re blown away by how much we enjoyed it. What’s something you experienced outside of your comfort zone that, surprisingly, ticked all the boxes? What chord did it strike for you? How did it change your perception of yourself?

Lessons from the Camino

A few months after I finished grad school, I flew solo to Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago—a roughly 530-mile trek from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France, to Fisterra, Spain. I craved a big adventure before I entered the workforce for real. But a not-so-small part of me also hoped that the course of my life would become clear to me on that journey. That I’d leave Spain with a road map for my future. Quite a lot of pressure for a walk! The Camino had other lessons in mind.

Each day before the sun rose, I woke up and started walking west. Everything else—where to find lunch, how far to walk, where to sleep for the night—I figured out as I went. Every time I tried to plan ahead, something would spoil the plans—sometimes literally. One day, I bought extra food out of fear that there wouldn’t be options along the day’s route. It weighed down my otherwise sparse backpack for miles, only to spoil under the hot sun. Of course, I never went hungry.

Eventually, I caught on. I learned to quiet my type A mentality and just go with the flow. Instead of making contingency plans out of fear, I became curious. What was going to happen next? What new friend might I meet? Curiosity allowed me to be present to the experience of each step, each mile, each new town. I took pleasure in the simple things I encountered—like fields of the biggest sunflowers I’d ever seen and rolling hills covered in grapevines. Then there were the not-so-simple things I cherished, like a public spigot that poured red wine (yes, I swapped out the water in my Camelback for that).

Along the way, I learned to just do the next right thing rather than planning ahead. So, no, I didn’t come home with a grand plan for my future. I still had no idea what I was going to do for work. But I knew I wanted to be in Chicago, and that was enough for now. And I knew if I stayed curious and present, I could handle anything that came my way—be it bed bugs (really), unexpected downpours, or blister-covered feet.

I was the audience that I had to get out of my head to create the life I really wanted. And I can’t wait to see what’s next.

– Annie Mullowney, managing editor

Kindness as counterculture

You know what’s missing in today’s society (*gestures broadly to the fires around us*)? Kindness and compassion.

At the same time, The Great British Bake Off exists. This isn’t your typical reality show, where people are sequestered from the outside world and holed up in hotel rooms for weeks at a time. GBBO films each episode over the weekend, and then the contestants return home so they can do their 9-to-5 jobs. And as if baking in a tent wasn’t quaint enough, the contestants are the nicest people the United Kingdom could find.

I get invested in every single baker, and no one plays the “villain” (except for maybe Paul Hollywood). The only things they’re combating are the stove, the oven, and the temperature outside—which can ruin their bakes—and the only horrors are far-too-crumbly pastry dough or a filling that didn’t set quite right.

The kindness the bakers show toward each other is the reason I keep coming back. You’re watching their humanity and humility up close. The bakers deal with their own anxiety and doubt but support their fellow contestants every step of the way, from a reassuring hug to a cheer from across the room to a tearful goodbye. These people are simply living their lives, doing the hobby they love, and returning home when the weekend is done. It makes me feel hopeful, knowing people still care about each other. The show allows people to be genuine, and the only drama I have to be invested in is whether their tarts will rise to the occasion.

– Kalyn Rivers, creative producer

In sync with the rink

When my wife and I moved from Chicago to North Carolina last year, I was discouraged by the lack of a Major League Baseball team to support. I grew up watching and playing baseball, and I knew immediately that I would have to find some other outlet to fill the diamond-shaped void in my heart. The only professional team within spitting distance was the National Hockey League’s Carolina Hurricanes. I never watched hockey, nor did I have any desire to. Thugs on skates going this way, then that way, then this way for three 20-minute periods did nothing for me. On a whim, though, we decided to get tickets to a game. It was something to do. And if the Hurricanes were going to be our team, we should at least give them a chance.

Let me tell you: Five minutes in, and I was hooked. The energy, the camaraderie, the cold beer served in an ice skate–shaped glass. The game I wrote off as brutish was instead tactical, athletic, and even elegant at times. I and 20,000 of my new friends cheered from deep in our chests as the Canes clinched a decisive win. I, a total hockey novice, was given equal stake among a sea of red and black jerseys, immediately anchored to a new and unfamiliar home by a sense of belonging extended freely by the longtime devotees surrounding me.

And this raised a question in my mind: What other things have I deprived myself of based solely on assumption? What books have I rejected because of their covers? What cups of tea remain unsteeped? I’ve turned this lens on many things: music, literature, food. I continue to fight my way out of my convenient box and have found the air to be much less stale. New worlds unfold when you get out of your own way.

As the Canes remain undefeated in the NHL playoffs (as of the end of the second round), I’ll continue rooting for them and evangelizing for a life lived uncomfortably. Before long, you, too, might be painting your face in the rafters of your nearest indoor arena—along with all the others who share in your newfound obsession.

– Morgan Strunsky, production editor