Saddle Up by / Guest Author

HER: Maybe the art you used to make is your wooby.
ME: My what?
HER: Your wooby.
ME: Is that some sexual thing?
HER: No, it means “security blanket.”
ME: Oh.

Last year I moved to San Francisco, and for some reason (don’t ask me where I got this crazy idea), I thought I would continue making the same art I was making in New York City. I thought it would be like some Hollywood set. I would continue riding my pony while the crew changed out the scenery. Well...it didn’t go down like that. Instead, my art practice/pony skidded to a halt. I simply couldn’t find a way, or the conviction, to produce the kind of art I was making back East. I spent months looking for a new art practice to climb on top of. When I finally found one, it bore some resemblance to what I was riding before, but it was clearly a different horse: process-driven contemporary dance had been replaced by music composition. 

Shifting media impacted everything from my relationship with my fiscal sponsor to how I write my resume. I saw my art unfolding. The market saw me entering a new space. This stirred up doubts, fears and the unsettling feeling of, “Oh dear, as a composer, I am very behind.” I began bootstrapping like crazy –writing music for choreographers and composing sound scores for dance films. This helped me get my bearings, and I found that there was a lot of material in my repertoire that I could repurpose. Yet I couldn’t help comparing myself to my colleagues from music school. Those folks who had plugged along faithfully while I’d strayed from the path to explore the canyon lands of contemporary dance. My identity felt nauseatingly fluid. 

Instead of endeavoring to find solid ground, which I feel leads to lackluster art, I decided to try something else instead. I began contacting my inner posse—the people whose opinions matter most to me. I contacted each of them directly and let them know what had happened. I had changed. My art had changed. In fact, it was very likely it would continue to change. In the beginning, it felt like I was asking permission. After all, these were people who had invested blood, sweat and tears into my artistic growth. Were they disappointed? Were they getting frustrated with my vacillations? As each expressed support for my continued unfolding, I realized it wasn’t permission I was seeking, but rather their blessing. The blessing to keep asking questions in the darkness. The blessing to continue riding in directions that hold the prospect of gold, even at the risk of getting lost. 

So, I’m curious. How have you, my fellow Theatre Bay Area members, navigated your own transitions? Who was helpful (hooray!)? Who was harmful (boo, hiss!)? 

***

Karl Cronin is a cellist, singer and composer living in San Francisco. 

The views represented in this Chatterbox Art & Opinion post are those of the individual author, and do not necessarily represent the views of Theatre Bay Area or its staff.