Over the past few years, I’ve become what you might call a serial failure in a number of art forms.
First, there was dance. When my daughter’s dance company choreographed a parent routine for its end-of-the-year recital, my daughter encouraged me to participate. I considered myself a pretty decent dancer in high school, so I thought, “Why not?” By the end of the first rehearsal, I knew the answer to that question: because I had a bad back.
The choreographer had incorporated an ambitious roll on the floor that triggered my degenerative disc, so I had to spend the remaining rehearsals “marking” my moves (otherwise known as performing in a way that won’t land me in the hospital).
Then came acting. I had some free time on my hands and loved theater as a kid, so I thought I’d see if I still had it. It turns out that by the age of 50, I didn’t. It wasn’t for lack of interest or motivation; it was simply for lack of memory recall, which comes in handy when reciting lines without a script.
Next up was piano. Years ago, a piano teacher told me I had the kind of knuckles that, if trained, might bring the old ivories to life. Her comment always stuck with me, so I figured piano, too, was worth a try. But after hours of practice and several lessons with the most patient teacher in town, it became clear my remarkably fat knuckles weren’t going to get me past the introductory level.
And finally, there was song writing. This one started when I realized one of my daughters had a pretty impressive singing voice. As any mother might, I began imagining her performing for audiences around the world – and then at my funeral. I further imagined how meaningful it would be if she sang a song I actually wrote at said funeral.
The problem was I didn’t have any real experience writing lyrics or melodies. I therefore downloaded the MasterClass app and hoped John Legend could teach me how to do both. After weeks of creating a few trite and un-funerally songs that should probably be buried along with me, though, I realized my imagination had taken me as far as it could.
At this point, you might be thinking the lesson I have learned is that my time might be better spent on the keypad (and that I might have a smidge of artistic ADD). But that’s not the case. In fact, I find myself only growing more enamored by all the arts. I believe it is, in part, because I’ve finally learned to just enjoy what I enjoy – regardless of my expertise and regardless of the outcome.
More importantly, I also believe it’s because sometimes the best way to really appreciate something is to fail at it. After all, these experiences have given me a deeper understanding of not just the talent but also the years of hard work and fortitude artists must put into their crafts to be successful. In fact, when I watch dancers lift to the heavens in ways that defy gravity (and the human skeletal system), actors deliver emotional and moving monologues with authenticity and ease, singers and musicians create clever and soul-stirring music listeners dream of being played at their funerals, I find myself taking it in with great humility and even greater awe. And, as I ponder their ability to master their craft in ways I find impossible, I see magic.
So, for now, I suppose, I’ll continue on with my many artistic pursuits and any failures they might bring – because maybe they aren’t failures at all.
