Send In The Clowns

We all want to be part of the pack, albeit, in varying degrees.  Or more aptly, we all want to be accepted, loved, admired, taken as true, or true as taken.  Love me for who I am, hire me for who I am.  People might modify who they're to become more "lovable," or more "hirable," but at the end of the day, we all have to take a lasting look in the mirror, and see, no matter how buried the real self is, it can never be completely elusive.  

Great stage performers have the ability and discipline to present facets of their "true" personality and self, while assuming the idea of make-believe; I believe it's similar to putting on a slightly transparent cloak; you're baring it all under the guise of make-shift protection.

Last night, I was lucky enough to see Elaine Stritch in her last performance this winter of "Elaine Stritch Singin' Sondheim...One Song at a Time" at the Cafe Carlyle.  There is no mincing words, Stritch is the grande-dame of turning-the-wand onto herself and her audience when she performs.  She is simultaneously bigger-than-life, and completely vulnerable.  She is made of the sturdiest armor and the corresponding wound.  Stritch is fabulous and fascinating to watch not only as an entertainer, but as someone who has poised herself in the watchful glare of the spotlight, and we react so much to her, because we see parts of ourselves in her.  Our folly, our foibles, our fascinations, our faith - check it all off, she is our trusty mirror.

Stritch turned 85 yesterday, and perhaps her performance last night reflected this big birthday, and all the thoughts that come with it.  Sondheim is always a wonderful choice, and a whole evening of Sondheim is even better, but how perfect to use this composer's genius in deciphering the human experience, good, bad, or indifferent, to celebrate Stritch's 85-year tenure.  I know that the audience felt the presence of Stritch's highs and lows more acutely than ever, perhaps.  I know I did.  "I Feel Pretty" never sounded so tragic tinged with mocking humor, "Rose's Turn" never presented itself so emphatically and insistently, and of course the deeply introspective address to one's own real self in "Send In The Clowns" might have been the truest portrait of life being rehashed.  I am grateful to have seen Stritch so raw.  I don't know how she felt.  I believe that there is a cosmic order to things, and strangely, I was meant to see this performance when things in my own life are rocking between triumph and trepidation several times a day.  Friends over the years have told me that their first impression of me is one of confidence, the outer, but I'm all jello inside - meaning I am vulnerable and quivering like we all are in varying degrees.  I think they're right, and perhaps I would have had something to give to the stage had I wanted to pursue that game, but no one can do the system of incongruity like Elaine.  New York loves her for it.  I love her for it.  Now, can New York love me for it?  We're all mortals.  I don't believe in God or reincarnation, I believe we have one crack at life, one crack at being ourselves, maybe not completely, but in turns.  Transparency, vulnerability are significant traits of human behavior, so send in the clowns.