And this is how it ends: “Love and sadness, twined together so tightly they are indistinguishable,” writes Emily Gould to end her book And the Heart Says Whatever (quite the title, isn’t it?). But it sounds to me like an awfully morbid declaration and one that almost suggests an unhappiness that is both static and steady. To consider the inseparability of sadness and love seems pitiful — hopeless at best — but the worst part about Gould’s conclusion is that I actually believe her.
“She doesn’t really provide any answers for the title’s premise,” says Rob upon lending me the book, (Rob is my boss, but the kind you ask for genuine advice about what not to say when out to lunch with a prospective employer or boyfriend), and he’s right. We share a similar dissatisfaction with the story’s unidentified solution, but it seems to be more pressing of an issue to someone like myself. What I had hoped for — as someone in the midst of career transitioning — was something comparable to that of a stiff drink, pat on the back, and a firm talking to that eventually ended with a sympathetic embrace and the phrase, “Everything will be okay…” But I suppose if a therapist (minus the drink and a hug) is really what I’m looking for, then I suppose I should have realized that a sixteen dollar paperback is not exactly a physical or financial equivalent.
In And the Heart Says Whatever, we learn about Gould’s internship at Gawker, a bit of restaurant work, her relationships with various men (Joseph in particular), but it’s difficult to pinpoint a moment in the book where Gould actually expresses a sincere sense of pride or accomplishment. Most of the time, she’s indifferent or just terribly sad: someone who is extraordinary but has convinced herself that she is somewhat less than mediocre. However, what Gould does accomplish successfully is her ability to accurately illustrate the tendencies of what Eye Weekly identifies as the “Quarterlife Crisis.” Unfortunately, this has become a very real thing, and is defined as:
“Unrelenting indecision, isolation, confusion and anxiety about working, relationships and direction is reported by people in their mid-twenties to early thirties who are usually urban, middle class and well-educated; those who should be able to capitalize on their youth, unparalleled freedom and free-for-all individuation. They can’t make any decisions, because they don’t know what they want, and they don’t know what they want because they don’t know who they are, and they don’t know who they are because they’re allowed to be anyone they want” (eyeweekly.com, Dec. 23, 2010)
In a certain sense, Gould becomes admirable because she has managed to both emulate and conquer this so-called Quarterlife Crisis phenomenon simply by writing her book…so I guess that lets her off the hook. But what about the rest of us? What the hell are we supposed to do?
I recently returned from a visit to Chicago where I was dancing and visiting friends, while simultaneously deciding if Chicago proved to be a place I could not only live but also survive upon graduating. While I was there, I attended a master class taught by choreographer Randy Duncan and a company class taught by Same Planet Different World artistic director Joanna Rosenthal. In addition, I attended SPDW rehearsal (as an observer) of “Hit” choreographed by Black Label Movement’s Carl Flink. In combination with my inspiring encounter with a portion of Chicago’s “dance life,” I also displayed my helpless behavior toward public transportation, exhibited painful anxiety in a crowded Trader Joe’s, and sat alone in Union Station for over five consecutive hours (although that’s not much different from my current living situation). However, what proved to be most inspiring about the visit as a whole were the attitudes and survival rates of two of my closest friends: talented twentysomethings, currently obtaining or having already obtained Masters degrees from reputable universities that value the pursuit of an artistic career. Sounds pretty exceptional, huh?
Inherent in my being is a type of anxiety that both frightens and overwhelms those who don’t know me, and while I’d like to blame most of it on my mother, unfortunately this disease was acquired all on my own. That being said, these friends who I was staying with had the pleasure of experiencing this type of behavior for the four days we were together. Santo dances for SPDW, co-owns his family’s restaurant, and works part-time at another restaurant as an additional source of income. Matt is a writer, currently attending graduate school, finishing an internship at Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, while simultaneously juggling two to three other jobs. But what I envy most about each of them is their calm approach to living — that they have found ways in which to do what it is that makes them happy. And naturally, it’s what they’re terribly good at.
I explained to Santo and Matt the rampant tendency of the Quarterlife Crisis, to which they half-laughed and confirmed what I had already expected: that they too were currently experiencing the effects of its wrath, and probably even more so than myself. The only difference was that they had chosen to handle it like adults. (Of course, they didn’t actually say this, but it’s the truth and highly respectable).
So maybe this proves my delusion — the portrait I paint in my head each morning of my scrambling to find work that I like, my desire to be wanted, to be valued, crawling helplessly on all fours to find food or a few quarters to pay for a cup of coffee or a pair of used tights, and if I’m lucky, a man who might still find me desirable even after I’ve been crying for hours in desperation about nothing in particular. This, however, could mean one of two things (or both): 1. That I’m extremely passionate about what I do, or 2. dangerously unstable. (I’m joking… it’s the first one…. I think).
To state the obvious, I’m not the only one struggling to find work (and with it a sincere form of happiness) which is why I should probably take note of how it’s being accomplished without the sacrificing of sanity. However, I’m beginning to wonder if dancers and artists have increased their rate of survival simply by having been prepared for this sort of thing all along? The economic circumstances are undeniably poor, but have artists really ever expected something more profitable? “Starving” is actually integral to the maintenance of our irresistible image, or at least that is my understanding.
As dancers (or artists), we make decisions based on what we want, but what we want isn’t always what we are allowed. So we work harder at what we do, make art to figure out who that is, and once we’ve managed to accomplish these goals, we set new ones in order to seek work seemingly more gratifying than what we’ve been given. And if we happen to get paid once in awhile, well… it means the heavens have pardoned us temporarily. You see, dancers know more about hard work and dedication than most other employees, and their rewards are equivalent to that of a performance opportunity or a new leotard (talk about work ethic!). We ache for nothing more than the pursuit of a creative life and the gratification felt from sharing something so truly special to us with our audience members, knowing whole-heartedly that our gift can never be recreated, only experienced. We don’t know what it’s like to receive a consistent paycheck or formally interview for a job, or follow standard procedure; it seems our world has always managed to be a little less forgiving. But maybe we’re better off because of it. After rehearsing “Hit” with the company, Santo told me, “there [is] something great about the exhaustion and desperation that it [gives] the dance…” and dancers understand what he means- that even if what we have isn’t much, we’d give it all up just so we can hurt a little more for what it is that we love.
So maybe Gould is right. Maybe love and sadness are undeniably inseparable, and perhaps it’s not as bad as we imagined it might be. This may definitely be the beginning of my so-called Quarterlife Crisis, but at least I hear it knocking, already with genuine intention and in enough time to make plans. Every morning, I try to remember who I am and what my art form has taught me, and sometimes I even recite to myself in the quiet of my own room, “Everything will be okay,” until I believe for a brief moment that it actually will be. And then after my two cups of coffee, I step outside the doors of a multi-level Chicago apartment and into a brisk wintery wind, only to realize that I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.
*Special thanks to Rob Cline and Sam Shapiro for their insight and inspirational reading material. The following links include the article referenced in this entry from EYEWEEKLY as well as other interesting reading suggested by NPR.
-- Sarah
