Performing at the Edinburgh Fringe can be experienced in many different ways. This is my third time. It can be a bit of a laugh (usually if you’re young and unburdened by budgets); a glorious cultural adventure; a masochistic, tortuous endurance test; or simply a tiring alternative to burning a few thousand pounds. But I think that in many cases it involves courage.
I went to hear a singer a couple of nights ago called Camille O’Sullivan and I was gobsmacked.
The show wasn’t perfect from end to end but there were moments of totally transcendental beauty as she told stories through songs, and something in me hasn’t been able to forget it.
She has an interesting story. The Telegraph profiled her recently (apparently I am turning into my parents and sourcing all current information from The Telegraph. This is partly because they just gave our own show 4*s and so I like them). She used to be an architect, but then following a serious car crash in which she nearly died, she decided to do what she really wanted. Which was to sing.
She had been “afraid of criticism, afraid of the audience, afraid of putting myself out there, but life is for living, and if you’re scared of something, maybe you should head towards it, because it might be what you need to shake you into being alive.”
I seem to be attracting reflections on courage right now. A few blogs I follow have been themed in that way. And frankly the whole experience of being at the Fringe makes me think about it even more.
When you get rubbish reviews or have small audiences and yet 3 weeks stretch ahead of you in which you will keep putting your show in front of people, it is a test of courage. Yesterday I saw a show called A Soldier’s Song in which a man recounts the true story of his time fighting in the Falklands. I went because war horrifies me and yet my brother fights in one, and my dad and grandfather before him. It’s a brutal, angry account of war, but what hit hardest are the moments he reflects on the shame he feels coming to terms with what he has been part of. The man is not a professional actor by trade; he is a writer. But his courage in standing on a bare set every night, recounting his tale and confessing his fears and doubts, strikes me as one of the more courageous outings at the Fringe.
Doing something for a one off isn’t too scary. I went to a comedy show the other night and I was late, and the ushers told me that the only way latecomers were admitted was if you walked in, and declared to everybody (including the comedienne), very loudly “Darling, your show was so marvellous last night, I just had to come back.” And I did it. 1o seconds of embarrassment don’t frighten me. But continuing to dare to put something personal and hard-fought-for in front of an audience every night for 26 nights…that takes more. I don’t mean just going through the motions, but continuing to put your heart and soul into something. Because there’s the risk that nothing comes back, or, worse, your offering is rejected, discredited.
Am I a courageous person? It feels like it’s taking courage to be here and do this, to join so actively in the conversation (even though the biggest risk of all is getting totally lost in the scale of this festival, so no-one actually hears you…). But when I think about the future, I think I have a large capacity to be a scaredy-cat. Maybe the trick is not to think so far ahead. Camille said in her recent interview:
“I’m not saying every day is a joy. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind, but then I remember everything is a choice, and this is my choice.”
Here’s to small, brave choices. And for a treat, here’s Camille singing: