The Multidisciplinary Artist vs. Impostor Syndrome

Dear Multidisciplinary Artist,

Doing one thing was never my thing.  As a kid, I would often do several activities at the same time; drawing while writing or recording myself on a tape recorder while I sang along with my Fisher Price record player (yup…I’m vintage). This could be considered just a little kid thing, you know, you’ll grow out of being interested in so many different things, you’ll find your niche, you’ll settle down eventually…but what happens when you don’t? What happens when you actually find yourself most connected to your art and the world around you when you are engaged in multiple disciplines simultaneously?  Well, if you’re anything like me, you’ll spend quite some time (years) resisting the varied interests and instead try to find one discipline that checks all the boxes.  Quick tip, friends: resistance of one’s truth is the clearest path to disappointment (I just made that shit up, but I stand by it).

My brother once asked me, “Don’t you think you could go a lot farther in life faster if you just focused on one thing?”  Yes. The answer is yes, obviously, but I don’t do obvious, I don’t do easy, and I certainly don’t do subtle.  For some inexplicable Taurean reason, if you tell me no, I tell you watch me.  I come from a long line of teachers and artists of all kinds.  Growing up, dinner conversations often revolved around theater, music, film, and art.  It’s really no wonder that I ended up with the interests that I have.  It’s their fault and I am very grateful.

Now let’s break down a timeless classic: impostor syndrome.  By definition, impostor syndrome involves feelings of self-doubt and personal incompetence that persist despite your education, experience, and accomplishments.  Ah yes, I can feel the low rumble of, “That’s me!” vibes and so I must ask: friends, why the hell do we do this?  I’m not sure I know a single artist who hasn’t suffered from this at some point in their careers, if not consistently.  How dare we think for a second that we can’t be successful at whatever we want do, and however we want do it?!  This helps nothing and I demand we stop this immediately.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a love affair with the arts and the need for creativity.  I’ll never forget the first Broadway play my dad ever took me to - Me And My Girl.  I was five years old and completely in love.  I am proud to say that I have been involved in the arts in some regard ever since.  I am not so proud to say that there were plenty of times where I just gave up.  I was different.  It seemed like everyone else was very content with focusing on one medium.  I reconsidered so many times.  I would constantly make deals with myself, trying to make sense of this inexplicable desire to create and make art on multiple platforms.  Why am I like this?! I’m a fraud who can’t decide on anything!  I thought, maybe I’m not good enough at one thing, maybe I’m too scattered, or maybe I’m just simply and terribly wrong. 

It wasn’t until the birth of my daughter, when I started to meditate on what wisdom I could actually dare to impart to this innocent little creature.  How could I tell her to be proud of who she is if I was constantly disappointed in myself?  How could I tell her to follow her dreams if I put mine on hold because I wasn’t sure I could do it?  Once again, I felt like an impostor; a phony, a phony artist, a phony human, and I was over it.  So I finally got the nerve to do the thing they teach you in Improv 101: SAY YES.  Say yes to the challenges.  Say yes to yourself.  Yes, you can and will.  It is definitely easier said than done, but let this serve as a reminder of the power of positive manifestation (don’t roll your eyes, that shit is real--try it!). As an artist, there really is little room for doubt in order to create art that can do what it is supposed to do: connect with others.

My least favorite question is, “What do you do?” How does one say, “I am a painter, an actress, a writer, a proofreader, a graphic designer, a store owner, a costume designer, and a makeup artist!” without sounding like I’m just completely full of shit?  (I’m also a mom, but I haven’t figured out a way to charge for that). Even now as I write this...it’s a little cringey, I’m not gonna lie!  However, once the self-judgment subsides, if I am fortunate enough to have the ability to accept multiple jobs and they don’t conflict, why wouldn’t I? (Especially if someone is willing to pay me for them, I mean…duh). 

Besides that, it all actually works together!  Multidisciplinary art combines several perspectives in order to create.  If my goal is to connect with as many people as I can through my art, it makes sense to do that in as many different avenues as I can.  I often find that the work flows most naturally when I am working on multiple platforms at once, as though they build off of each other, one inspiring the other.  I’m convinced there’s some secret communication tucked away in the folds of our brains, just waiting for the right impetus to break free to create, but we can only access it if we give it the proper space.  This is where multiple interests reign supreme! If I have a writing block, switching over to painting will often give my brain time to digest and vice versa.

I do not mean to suggest that all artistic problems will be resolved by changing mediums or activities (I think that’s called procrastination…another problem for another blog).  My point is: art is not something that has ever been made in a factory.  It comes from another world completely, an invitation from the beyond to share some inner source of humanity, be it love, sorrow, or everything in-between.  So why on earth would there be only one way to do it?

Although there was always space to share my ideas, I was still alone in this multi-career undertaking.  No one in my circle was attempting this.  There were no other paths to learn from or follow.   I always thought I should have someone else to experience art with, but there is no “should.”  Just like there is no right or wrong way to create art.  The truth is, creativity and art are always communal.  Even when it feels like you might be completely alone in your artistic endeavors, you’re not!  That’s the whole point of art anyway, isn’t it?  An expression of self to be shared with others, who can relate or learn or grow, for the betterment of humanity (or something like that, right?)

Ultimately, if you have a passion inside of you, if you want something that nobody else wants, and if you want it in a way that nobody else wants it, don’t doubt it.  This is where the need to create comes from.  You are not wrong or weird because of these inexplicable passions.  They are gifts!  I believe we have a responsibility to cultivate these gifts and share them with as many people as we possibly can.   The best thing you can do for yourself is to recognize your natural talents and put them to work for yourself.  The rest of the world may not understand you, but don’t let that slow you down!  Move at the pace that works for you, not them.  If they can’t keep up, so what?  Nobody knows what the hell they’re doing anyway.  Nobody.  Have courage.  Keep moving forward.  Create what you want to create, the way you want to create it.  If you make space for yourself, the world will follow suit.  You’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be.

XO,

Concetta

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Concetta Rose Rella is a mom, writer, artist, actress, graphic designer, and makeup artist.  Recent credits include her play Moving Day, which was produced by Virtual Arts Productions and can be viewed on their website, virtualartsproductions.org. Concetta has recently been commissioned for three paintings internationally, to Belgium and England. This past month, Concetta co-starred in Five Flights, a short film by Kathleen Kaan; and, most notably, Concetta's daughter went on the big potty for very the first time. 

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Small Moments: My Experience (Thus Far) With Zen Art

            In 2018 I was granted the Hemera Contemplative Fellowship for Artists and went off to the Zen Mountain Monastery for a retreat.

            I had never explored anything of the sort but was always fascinated with meditation and the Buddhist experience.

            The closest I came was probably my acting training. The foundation of the program was Suzuki, a post-modern Japanese movement technique. Basically, the method approaches text from a physical standpoint whereas Western trainings tended to start from the psychological. In Tadashi Suzuki’s seminal work The Way of Acting, he states that the exercises he created for his actors were “a means to discover a self-consciousness of the interior of the body, and the actor’s success in doing them confirms his ability to make that discovery. The actor learns to become conscious of the many layers of sensitivity within his own body.”

            Of course physicality and the traditions of Japanese performance are no strangers to one another; one simply needs to turn to Noh or Kabuki for evidence. It is said that such movements are akin to worship as physical performers call forth energy with their bodies to then ingest that vigor inwards, representing the maturation or fullness of that life energy.

            My own teacher, Maria Porter, trained with Suzuki himself in Japan and made it her artistic mission to fuse and repurpose this Eastern acting methodology with the trainings of the West.

            These vague (but related) connections were my only points of access, outside of various cultural depictions, to some aspects of Zen Buddhism, which commenced in China but later branched out to Vietnam, Korea, and Japan (of course Buddhism itself originated in India).

            Needless to say, I was intrigued to learn and delve into the Zen Buddhist lineage established by the late John Daido Loori Roshi. The monastery maintained that they were dedicated to sharing the dharma as it has been passed down, generation to generation, since the time of Shakyamuni Buddha.

            I didn’t quite know what that meant but I knew they offered something unique as part of the retreat: the opportunity to study Zen Art. I also really didn’t know what Zen Art was but figured it would somehow expand my knowledge and perspective in regard to my craft. 

            And so I went out into the peaceful woods, put away my phone for the duration of my stay, and approached the main building that at one time was a Benedictine monastery.

            I strolled through the meditation and dining halls until I found myself in the dormitory for visiting practitioners. I put my bag down not knowing what to expect. I took a deep breath. And I began my journey.

            Throughout the retreat I, along with numerous others, participated in all the customary happenings one might predict; we were woken up every morning by a gong, had vows of silence, ate healthily (and deliciously), learned meditative disciplines such as zazen, helped clean the residence, acknowledged our thoughts as we attempted to clear our minds, learned about the history and legacy of Zen Buddhism, engaged in liturgy, and inevitably did not reach enlightenment.  

            But it was the Zen Art, as I predicted, that struck me most. Zen priest Jody Hojin Kimmel, Sensei, taught the class.

            The session, at first glance, seemed quite elementary. We were painting pictures and they weren’t necessarily meant to be “good” by the standards of any certified art historian. We painted on instinct. We painted without looking. We painted without caring about the colors. We moved our brush not with a sense of purpose but with the pull of creative inertia.

            The cornerstone of the practice depended upon an artist’s willingness to feel a piece instead of planning it. I recalled instantly the acting note I would always receive in the early years of my studies: You’re in your head; get out of your head!

            And so I did my best. Little by little, I left my preconceived notions behind. I did not think what I wanted the piece to look like. I did not think about what I wanted it to say. I just painted.

            A sense memory emerged as my mind made a further connection to my old training. Theatrical performances that are in the Suzuki style often challenge audiences to recognize that the feeling a piece evokes supersedes the intellectual understanding of it. In this way, I felt a bit at home as this helped ease me into the concept of Zen Art.

            Hojin Sensei spoke of the relationships between artist and subject, artist and object, and object and audience. I found it fascinating.

            I painted one picture in particular that I deemed worthy of my attention. If you saw it, you would probably wonder which kindergartener drew it, but to me I looked at the piece and saw the universe, wonderment and possibility. I thought, in a way, it was a study of myself. Perhaps all Zen Art is. Perhaps all art is.

            I wish I still had it. Ironically I think someone mistook it for modern muck and tossed it accordingly.

            During the last night of our retreat, as we meditated in the zendō, we were told there would be a treat that not every group experienced due to scheduling. The Rōshi of the Mountains and Rivers Order, the abbot of the monastery, Geoffrey Shugen Arnold, would be seeing interested practitioners one at a time for a very brief encounter. We were given the opportunity to ask him one question, any question, and he would answer it. We quickly learned the ritual, the proper way to bow and kneel in front of him, and the conventional way to address and speak to him. We formed a seated line outside of his office and waited our turn, nervous that we were going to screw up the customs and formalities.

            His office was more like a miniature monastery. He sat in the center of the room; his body typified the characteristics one thinks of when imagining such a figure. I performed the procedure (aware that it indeed very much felt like a performance) and sat across from him. I knew what my question was going to be from the moment the opportunity presented itself. I was going to ask about Zen Art and its realistic implementation in film. After all, Zen Art seemed antithetical from a logistics point of view as a director and a crew tend to need to know what’s coming next. And so I asked.

            Shugen Roshi nodded his head and thought. He talked about balance, acknowledging the need for planning and practicality. But he stressed that I should find moments. Those small moments. Moments when I could let go and allow a course of action to unfold in the way it seemingly wanted to.

            At the time, I think I was disappointed in the answer. I nodded gracefully and thanked him.

            At the end of the retreat I felt refreshed and calmed. I walked out and headed towards my vehicle to find a dent. That’s right: my car had been hit in the Zen Mountain Monastery parking lot. Apparently, the universe balances out very quickly. I actually snickered in disbelief. The small moments. Luckily it was minor and the individual responsible gave me her name and information.

            On the drive home I wondered where the happy medium existed in film, the goldilocks zone of embracing the unplanned and accepting the spontaneous (that stretched far beyond improvisation) without jeopardizing a project.

            Two years later, during the height of a pandemic, I received an opportunity to experiment with this concept when I was hired by Teri Hansen to direct her short film Into the Water. Of all the projects I had been a part of, this one seemed to lend itself most towards the liberating practice of Zen Art.

            Into the Water was a spiritual journey about a woman who ethereally encounters her anxieties, fears, ambitions, and dreams - for when there is seemingly insurmountable hardship, there is always hope. The film’s themes include rebirth, self-examination, and the ever-blurred relationship between endings and beginnings. It was very much inspired by the Buddhist concept of Bardo.

And so, when filmmaking seemed to be at a momentary standstill, 19 ambitious artists, including a handful of Broadway actors, went to a lake house, followed all the newly created health guidelines, and made a union-approved movie.

            This was the first film I directed where I did not pen script. It was not my story. It was Teri’s and it was personal to her. She was the producer and lead. I would have normally been far more specific and stringent with what I envisioned but I found for the first time that was not truly my job; my job was to try and understand her vision and attempt, to the best of my ability, to bring it to life.

            I found my naturally less personal relationship to the material, in some sense, freeing. I just let things roll, pun very much intended.

            I started to judge the performances and sequences not through my usual lenses of discernment and continuity but instead through a connectivity of sensation. I sought out the small moments - moments of impressions and evocations. They became my cinematic chaperone, guiding me towards the truth of a scene, the truth of a character, and the truth of a moment.

            Interesting to note, Zen Art wasn’t the only inspiration I drew from for this project. I also channeled my inner Werner Herzog (I didn’t even know I had an inner Wener Herzog). I knew our schedule required us to often shoot in a single shot to save time and thusly we were going to avoid shooting for coverage.  Who better than Herzog for such an approach? The unchained freeness of flow of the camera and its relationship to the image has been a trademark of Herzog throughout his career and that technique seemed to mesh well with both what we were attempting to create and Zen Art itself. As the director himself has said, the goal is to capture “only the truly intense and the remarkable.” Perhaps the New German Cinema pioneer had been a Zen Artist all this time.

            I often think to myself – what’s next in my Zen Art journey? How can I build off that singular experience? Surely every project could benefit from a touch of that artistic independence. I constantly attempt to balance such unrestraint with self-imposed constraint. The mere thought tends to spiral me into vexation.

            At such times, I think of Shugen Roshi and the way he nodded his head and thought. I think how he spoke of balance; the need for planning and practicality. I think about what he stressed: those small moments. I think about letting go and allowing my art to unfold in whatever way it wants to.

            At such times, I am not so disappointed in his answer. Though often solitary in such recollections, I nod gracefully and thank him.

Onwards and Upwards, Always,

G

Sweatsedo: A Journey Into Burlesque

It all started with my “sweatsedo”.  My burlesque career really started before that with some community theater and a couple of dance acts in some pole dancing shows but the “sweatsedo” feels like a great place to start.

Let me start with a little bit of background on me.  I am a retired Army CID agent.  I did 20 years in the Army, mostly as a special agent in the Criminal Investigation Division, which means I wore a shirt and tie and worked a lot of rapes.  I ended up becoming a forensic science officer and specialized in death and sexual assault investigations and got really burned o,t after a few tours in Iraq and endless suicide investigations.

I once made a joke on social media that I thought it would be funny to wear a tracksuit to a wedding and when asked about it, to be all matter of fact, I said,  “Well of course I’m wearing a tracksuit.  This is a wedding, right?” 

My old Army friend, Scott, contacted me when he was getting married and asked me to be his best man.  He insisted I get a tracksuit and shared the “sweatsedo” website with me.   There were some more low key tracksuits on there that I suggested to him because they were the cheapest and he was paying for it but he suggested I go with something fancier.  I ended up getting this beautiful purple velour tracksuit with gold fleur de lis down the sides of the sleeves and pant legs.  It also says “SWEATSEDO” in big letters across the front.  During our discussion about getting a wedding tracksuit, I also joked around about how I would turn the pants into tearaways so I could strip out of it if necessary, mostly as a joke at the time.

Olympia, Washington has this incredible artist, Elizabeth Lord, who has an annual variety show called “Lord Franzannian’s Royal Olympian Spectacular Vaudeville Show.”  Our paths crossed doing community theater and I saw that she was holding open auditions. I showed up with my tracksuit in hand and an idea.

I’m a huge hip hop head going back to the late 80’s when, as far as I’m concerned, it was some of the best music going.  I’m also a karaoke guy and have sung “Going Back to Cali” a bunch of times and at some point while singing it, I got an idea.  It has that chorus, “I’m going back to Cali, Cali, Cali.  I’m going back to Cali……hm, I don’t think so.”  It was a perfect tease line for a burlesque act.  I could play with lowering my zipper during the first part of the chorus and then raise it back up during the “I don’t think so.”  I also envisioned a handful of props (which is common; early burlesque performers use lots of props!!!).  The biggest and most important prop was the suntan lotion, which is mentioned in the final verse of the song.  I cleaned out a bottle of suntan lotion and replaced it with plain yogurt.  I would finish the act by doing some mock fellatio with the bottle and then squeeze and blast it into my face for the money shot.  I would lick it off my face and fingers while dancing and everyone would go nuts.

At the audition, I played the song and just explained my ideas.  Luckily, there was a burlesque performer, Wednesday Du Monde, at the audition who heard my idea and offered to help by sewing snap tape into the pants.  She also made me two pairs of pasties, one purple and one gold, and took a plain black g-string and sewed some fantastic purple and gold fabric to the outside of them for me.  I used the karaoke track of the song and sang/rapped the verses when I did the act.  I did the show and brought the house down with the act.  I’m a huge Missy Misdemeanor Elliott fan so at the time, I performed as Mister Meanor.

There was another burlesque performer in that show, Zsa Zsa Bordeaux, who did an incredible burlesque duo with Wednesday Du Monde dressed as a sexy Ernie and Bert stripping to a Sesame Street song.  She was part of Rock Candy Burlesque, one of the two burlesque troupes in town, and other performers from the troupe that I did not know attended the show and saw the act.  After doing the show, another burlesque troupe (Twin City Tease, now the Hub City Shimmy) from a city south of us booked me to do that act on this amazing theater stage in Centralia, WA.  When I was booked, I made the decision to change my name to Bananas Foster as it’s an insanely delicious dessert and as nothing I’ll ever do on a burlesque stage would be “mean” and so my original name did not work. I also submitted video of the act and was booked in the Oregon Burlesque Festival which, looking back, was a really big deal as they are highly competitive and hard to get into, generally speaking.

Members of the aforementioned Rock Candy Burlesque were speaking with me during this timeframe and I had another idea that I pitched to them and they booked me as a featured guest performer. 

It worked out perfectly as they were doing a show with the word “Time” in the title and my act was to do a strip tease as Doc Brown from the Back to the Future movies. I got a lab coat and some yellow scrub like pants that could pass for a nuclear suit.  I already had a ridiculous Afro so I used spray to further whiten it and put on a pair of long yellow rubber gloves that were filled with glitter and nuclear symbol pasties.  The act started with Huey Lewis and the News “Back in Time” for about a minute of high energy dancing and then changed to “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauder where it became a sensual and self-choreographed contemporary dance piece.  My final reveal was a shiny pleather g-string that a friend helped turn into a flux capacitor with those cheap plastic glow-stick bracelets and when they brought the lights down at the end, shined bright on the stage.

Rock Candy Burlesque was awesome and booked me just based on me explaining my idea and gave me notes on my act during a dress rehearsal.  The show went great and I met guest performers and not long after, they asked me to become a member. 

I was so excited, being fully invited into the burlesque world.  We did regular meetings and did big shows about every three or four months where we would come up with new acts. 

We also began producing a monthly show called Tassel Tuesday where many of us did new or old acts and we opened up applications for in-town and out-of-town performers to submit acts.  We encouraged other types of acts to submit and perform as well so it was a full on variety show but it would usually be mostly burlesque from month to month.  Performers from Seattle and Portland would roll into town every month and do acts.  It was a lot of work and also a lot of fun.  We would put together group acts for our big shows and group choreography.  One of the members, May B. Naughty, an amazing costumer and maybe the sweetest human being I’ve ever met, would help with my costumes.  I would explain an idea and what I wanted to do and she would find the fabrics either in Good Will bins or on an annual trip to Mexico at discount prices. She would only charge me for the supplies and never the labor.

Being a cisgender heterosexual male over 40 in a burlesque troupe with seven, and at times eight, other women was an incredibly enriching experience for me.  I had spent the majority of my life, up until then, working with other males in law enforcement in the military.  The first several years, I always felt like a guest performer and not a full member of the troupe but over time, I felt completely submerged.  They were my creative artist sisters and I loved all their witchy woman magic.  I was applauded by other troupe members for never taking up too much space in the backstage area and always being respectful.  I always changed off to the side in the green room and looked away when other performers changed.  We had incredibly beautiful and creative performers both in our troupe and as guest performers every month and I got to share the stage with them.

Near the end, things got more and more challenging.  We always tried to get a consensus on decisions but with eight people, all artists, it could get absolutely maddening.  There was also some drama between troupe members that led to members leaving.  It all started off feeling like a very loving and inclusive community but once inside, there was some ugliness. 

The pandemic hit right around the time I was thinking about leaving the troupe.  It led to the closure of the Rhythm & Rye, an amazing live music venue where we had many shows, and eventually the dissolution of our burlesque troupe altogether. 

Identity politics were at an all time high during all of this and I watched one of our members get cancelled on social media and within burlesque and I was done.  Members of my own community turned on other members for incredibly petty reasons and I was happy to put that aspect in my rear- view mirror.

I don’t perform as Bananas Foster anymore.  I did 15 or more different burlesque acts over a six-year period.  I also sang a few songs in shows including an original one I did with an old punk rock friend from my teenage years.  I performed in shows from Seattle to Portland and spots in-between.  It was amazing having a stage where you could create acts and then perform them and get paid.  I did community theater in Olympia, WA and almost never made a dime but in burlesque (and vaudeville), you could actually get paid to perform as an artist.   I became way better as a listener and team member after spending a lot of time being a talker and a leader.  I turned 50 during the pandemic and still have some regret that I never got to take the stage at 50.  I feel like there might be a time at some point in the future where I change my mind and submit to a festival or return to the vaudeville stage but for now, I’m retired from burlesque or at least as a member of a burlesque troupe. 

As far as performing goes, there is no greater rush than standing near naked in front of a packed house of an audience, all screaming and clapping for you.  I definitely miss that feeling.  I still have the Sweatsedo.

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Bobby Brown is a retired US Army CID agent and current Washington State employee, originally from North Tonawanda, NY.  He lives in Olympia, WA with his wife, daughter and pugs.  In his free time, he is a karaoke host, actor, MC and bon vivant.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so

Music Connects

I am a voice teacher in training, an actor, a language and travel enthusiast, and a person who plays the violin. I have always engaged in varied disciplines and often rejected the notion that we’re supposed to pick just one thing. For me, this multidisciplinary lifestyle works, but spreading my time and energy in several directions sometimes makes me feel like I’m not good enough at any one thing. However, at this point in my life, I have come to terms with the fact that I won’t be the world's best violinist. I just want to keep experiencing the joy of playing music despite the nagging frustration of knowing what kind of violin player I could be, if only I committed fully to it. There have been years where I “put in the work,” thinking I might pursue it full-time professionally, while other years I put the violin down for months at a time and thought about quitting for good. 

In order to maintain a sense of balance in my life, I had to change my mindset: I learned to regard myself not as a violinist, but as a person who plays the violin. Taking away the inclination to define myself by my violin-playing has helped me release a lot of guilt and anxiety around not putting in enough time. I used to think I had to give it all or nothing; if I wasn’t the best, I didn’t deserve to keep playing. I’ve learned how to let go – how to let playing music be a source of joy that ebbs and flows in my life. In releasing the pressure, I have discovered the greatest reason to keep playing: music connects. My violin has been a constant source for connection over the years – to people around the world, to audiences, and to myself. It’s a vehicle to express my own unique voice, and serves as another way to communicate with the world around me. 

Our voices are important – important enough to me that I am working towards an MFA in the Linklater Teaching Practice and Theatre Arts, in London. The Linklater teaching practice, in short, is a methodology developed by Kristin Linklater and helps actors find freedom in expression through the voice. I want to help others find and express their true and authentic voice. I find playing the violin is an extension of my voice. The voice expresses thoughts, feelings, and emotions, all of which represent a person uniquely and intimately. In my studies I have learned that vocal communication happens when the impulse or need to communicate triggers breath intake, and the vocal folds oscillate to create sound on the way out, resonating in the bony hollows of the chest and head. We can look at playing an instrument as the same process, but instead of the sound beginning in our throat, our arms and hands and and fingers play upon strings, keys, frets, or buttons. Everything I play on my instrument traces back to me, which I have learned to value, even if it doesn’t sound perfect. 

Despite being in London to study voice, I still felt the desire to keep playing the violin. Coincidentally, there happened to be a traditional Irish music session at an Irish pub near my flat. A huge part of my violin background is in playing traditional Celtic music. Irish music sessions are typically considered open jams, welcoming any Celtic players, although they don’t always feel very welcoming. This group of warm individuals, however, welcomed me with bright smiles, hearty laughs, and many pints of Guinness. Every Sunday I took up my spot between two stellar traditional players and Irishmen: Foxy on the banjo and John on the accordion. I listened and laughed as they swapped hilarious stories of playing music in London and Ireland from before I was even born. They told stories about the very people who composed the tunes I played my whole life, providing an entirely new insight into the music I thought I knew. I began to understand how important storytelling is to the Irish – how much they value a good hook-line and sinker. I started to see the music as a means of storytelling for the Irish community, as if the music is their legacy to pass on to future generations. 

In my life, music has been a consistent thread through nearly all of my most memorable experiences. When I leave it to pursue something else, it finds a way back into my life. I have learned to release the pressure around it I used to hold, and I’m so grateful for all the people and connections it has brought into my life. I’m allowed to keep playing even if I’m not the best. Our voices are beautifully unique, and people want to hear what we have to say, in our own special way of saying it. We can let go of the need to sound perfect. I am not defined by my instrument – I am a whole human that has so much more to offer. As long as we boldly share ourselves through each of our respective art forms, letting our own unique voices come through, we invite connection wherever we go. 

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Casey McGinty is an actor, musician, and voice teacher in training. Casey is a graduate student at Rose Bruford College (London) working towards an MFA in the Linklater Teaching Practice (Voice & Theatre Arts), as well as becoming a Designated Linklater Teacher. In 2020, she directed The Vagina Monologues at ArtsQuest in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania and has performed as Donna in Tony & Tina’s Wedding (Bethlehem and New Jersey productions). Casey is a Celtic fiddle player and has played regionally with PA bands including Fig for a Kiss, The Groove Merchants, and Bovine Social Club. She recently performed in London at the British Country Music Association Fan Fest. 

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Poetry’s Hold on Me

Artwork by Victoria Cebotar

Poems pop up unexpectedly. I find it’s better to allow than command their appearance. But I am required to put pen to paper or hover fingers above a keyboard and be still. The seeds for poems are in the wind, the trees, the dirt, the news, works of art, interactions with humans and other beings who catch my attention. Some poems wake me up in the middle of the night suggesting edits, additions, new directions.

I grew up in a house filled with books. My father was a singer, an actor and a sales executive and my mother was a drama major in college who became a high school English teacher and advisor to the Drama club. Both taught me to appreciate fine writing and the power of clear communication, which I suppose is what led me to study anthropological linguistics and then fall into a career in publishing. 

I’ve always read much more prose than poetry, but my writing has taken the form of poetry — the free verse kind.

For that I have to thank my high school English teacher Arthur Smith, who gave me A Stone, A Leaf, A Door, a book of Thomas Wolfe’s gorgeous prose refashioned as poetry. And the more I write, the more I take to heart my college English professor William Gifford’s insistence on succinct and precise writing, no matter what form it takes.

Over the years, I’ve written poetry in cycles, with lengthy gaps between forays. A couple of decades ago, I shared some poems with friends. That gave me the courage to attend a Performance Poets Association open mic in Glen Cove, which led to opportunities to read as a featured poet at coffeehouse and bookstore events and then to a few acceptances for publication. I tried a poetry workshop but was too unsure of myself at the time to continue.

© Emily-Sue Sloane

First published in We Are Beach Glass, by Emily-Sue Sloane (2022) 

I felt I needed to sort out what I wanted and needed from this creative process. I talked about it often with my wife, Linda Sussman, who is a singer and songwriter, and my brother-in-law, Scudder Parker, who is a poet. Was it enough just to write? Did I need to be published? To read in front of an audience?

At some point, life took over and I simply stopped writing. For a very long time.

A few years ago, after I retired from my day job in publishing, I revisited some of my old poems — so old that I first had to reformat the files on my computer or retype them altogether! I saw that some needed revising, and that was the beginning of my pathway back. I attended a poetry workshop at the local library and received a warm welcome there, as well as encouragement and suggestions of other workshops to check out. New poems started to flow. The weekly workshops drove me to keep writing.

I began to submit my work for publication. When the first acceptance during this phase popped into my email, Linda and I did our happy dance right in the middle of a Manhattan Starbucks, where we were killing time before a Sweet Honey in the Rock concert. Every acceptance since has elicited the same level of excitement!

My daily routine these days is to spend a few hours working on my poetry: writing, revising, submitting for publication, organizing, trashing. I attend two weekly writing workshops, a poetry appreciation meeting and occasional readings and open mics. One positive aspect of sheltering at home in a pandemic has been the accessibility of poetry events on Zoom.

I continue to explore what I enjoy about writing and what I want and need from the creative process — often wishing that I could make music or draw instead. 

© Emily-Sue Sloane

First published in We Are Beach Glass, by Emily-Sue Sloane (2022)

For me, writing is meditation. Sometimes it takes me to a deep place where time stops and words flow; other times my chattering mind churns up only garbage. I try to follow Naomi Goldberg’s advice in her book Writing Down the Bones to write, simply write, without judgment; write down the compost in order to get to what lives underneath.

Some poems appear on the page nearly finished; others are a struggle, forcing me to think more deeply about what I’m trying to say. Some require research and lengthy consultations with a dictionary or thesaurus. Some prompt me to write about the process itself.

I’m almost always surprised by the results.

Many people dislike editing their work; others never stop revising. I enjoy editing and continue to learn ways to improve, especially from other poets at my workshops. Like most poets, I’ve learned to “kill my darlings,” those metaphors, similes and phrases that the poet may love but that really don’t serve the poem. And I’m always working to tilt my writing more toward poetry than prose.

My wife is my first reader and best editor. She brings her musical and literary sensibilities to the page. If I initially resist her suggestions, I usually come to realize that she’s right.

I enjoy sharing my poetry, but I don’t like to boast about it. Social media provides an opportunity for the former but necessitates the latter. Submitting poems to journals, anthologies and contests is a lot like playing the lottery: It takes me from hope to disappointment and occasionally to joy — just enough success to keep me in the game. Reading poems to an audience is a more immediate and intimate way to share, even on Zoom, and the experience usually clarifies what does and doesn’t work as spoken word. But as an introvert, I admit those are the times I wish I had inherited my dad’s talent and delight in performing!

© Emily-Sue Sloane

First published in Shot Glass Journal (Muse-Pie Press), June 2020

Every day I worry that I will stop writing again. Until that happens, I am putting one word in front of the other, calling them to order and sending poems out into the world, where I hope they will resonate as true, providing solace for whatever’s ailing a reader or listener, and touching a funny bone or heart along the way.

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Emily-Sue Sloane is a lifelong Long Islander who writes poetry to capture moments of wonder, worry and human connection. She is the author of We Are Beach Glass, a new full-length poetry collection (BookBaby, 2022). Emily-Sue has won first-place awards in poetry contests held by Calling All Writers, the Long Island Fair, Nassau County Poet Laureate Society, Performance Poets Association and Princess Ronkonkoma Productions, and she was a finalist in the Babylon Village Poetry Contest.

Additional publishing credits include print and online journals and anthologies: Amethyst Review; The Avocet; Bards Annual; Boston Literary Magazine; CHAOS: The Poetry Vortex; Corona, an anthology of poems; Escape, a CAW Anthology; Hope, a CAW Anthology; Front Porch Review; The Long Island Quarterly; Mobius; Muddy River Poetry Review; Never Forgotten: 100 Poets Remember 9/11; Panoply; Paumonok; Poeming Pigeon: From Pandemic to Protest; The Poet’s Art; PPA Literary Review; The RavensPerch; Shot Glass Journal; Suffolk County Poetry Review; Trees in a Garden of Ashes; and Walt’s Corner.

For more information, please visit emilysuesloane.com

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.