AN EMPTY MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE

by Melodie Johnson Howe

James’ very funny column reminded me of an incident that happened years ago. I was eighteen and in acting class. A girl my age, also blonde, sat alone on the stage, a platform painted black, under a single spotlight. Jeff Corey, the coach, asked her to close her eyes.

“What do you see?” he asked in his deep booming voice.

“Nothing,” she replied, softly.

“Speak up. Describe the nothingness.”

“Black.”

“Describe the blackness.”

Excruciating silence. Then she said, “You know, just black.”

He became very frustrated with her and eventually told her to get off the stage and sit down.

I had some empathy for this creature who dared to say she saw nothing. There is a certain boldness or just plain mulishness in defying the acting teacher. In essence saying to him, “Don’t try to dive into my imagination, because you’re going to hit your head on the bottom of a very shallow pool.” She didn’t know that the unexplored life wasn’t worth living.

Wedged between other young promising (or not so promising) actors, I sat on a cold folding chair grasping a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Knowing I was going to be called on, I decided to test the waters of my own imagination. I closed my eyes. Nothing. My eyes shot open. And it was black. She was right! Well, my nothingness was a little grayer, which seemed even more pathetic to me. Panic. The fear of failing in front of twenty or so other people filled me. Any moment I could be asked, “to close my eyes and describe what I see.” I vowed (à la Scarlett O’Hara) there was no way I was going to be told to get off the stage and sit down. Other than ‘you’re not right for the part’ those are the worst words an actor could hear.

As with all fates mine came eventually. Jeff Corey called out my name.

“Mel…ooooo…deeeee.”

The stage was the length of a gangplank away from me, and I walked it numbly. I sat on the lone chair under the lone spotlight and the command was given.

“Close your eyes, Melodie. What do you see?“

Black, black, black. Gray, gray, gray. Nothing , nothing, nothing. Uneasy silence in the room. My heart pounded against the top of my skull. Isn’t that where my brain is supposed to be?

“Flag . . . stone,” The word floated from my mouth.

Corey’s bored voice grew alert. “Go on.”

“ Flagstone . . . patio. A bird . . . with a . . . a . . . broken wing.”

The nervous actors contained their restlessness. The room was still silent. But it was a good silence that made me feel warm and in control. I was captivating them.

I continued, “A man’s starched shirt cuff. Very white . . . against his tan flat wrist.”

When I was told to open my eyes, there was applause. I had aced the exercise. I was an example of being able to delve into my unconscious and describe the images it was showing me. The girl who had admitted to seeing nothing gave me a wan smile. I smiled back, feeling a sharp jab of guilt, and took my place among the other students.

In that act of survival two things came together: My acting ability and my extensive reading at a young age. On stage I had pretended to grope for those images as if I had never read them in Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry. And I was smart enough not to quote Shakespeare or Chekhov because Jeff Corey had those plays full in his head.

But if those simple words, images, had meant nothing to me they wouldn’t have stayed in my unconscious; and I would be with the young woman who saw nothing. Which one of us was more honest? Well, we had both gotten up on stage where artifice is the path to truth.

Now I am a writer with a picture of Edna St. Vincent Millay in my office. My poet/savior still looks over me.