It is day 40-something of quarantine and I have decided to become a mime. First thing I did this morning was purchase some Ben Nye clown makeup from the interwebs and confess my new ambition to my boyfriend. He is very supportive.
When probed with the question of “Why Mime?” I replied..."Because it is the oldest and purest form of human expression! Because it’s beautiful! Because Kate Bush studied it! Because I want to say the most without saying anything. Because why not!?"
Something about those silent dancers captivates me. A clip of Lindsay Kemp slowly crossing his legs and staring straight into the camera haunts me. Adam Darius trying to keep a flower alive moves me. Watching Bip catch a butterfly makes me happy. I have since tried to reenact that skit and my neck has never been the same. Which makes me question my own ability when it comes to miming. How does one even become a mime? What distinguishes a good mime from a bad one? Do I have what it takes? Will I look good in a leotard? Where will I perform my mime theatre in our new socially distant reality? Who would even watch more than 5 seconds of my amateur act before scrolling to the next post of quarantine craft projects and home baking. Is Mime a dead art form? Even better if it is. I’m a total sucker for nostalgia and the romanticized movements of the past that no one cares about anymore.
I MISS THE OLD WORLD. I mean the one before Covid-19. I miss having friends over for dinner. I miss having the option to go tango dancing on a weeknight and staying home instead. I miss performing on stage with my band. I miss idly browsing my favorite antique stores and wallowing in my false sense of security. I miss it all. BUT, I am grateful to this god awful virus for giving me the opportunity to pursue an interest I’ve been too busy making excuses to pursue for over a decade.
As I lay in bed rewatching Marcel Marceau's Mask Maker, and adding a striped bodysuit to my Etsy cart, I am reminded of my first foray into the world of mime. The year was 2005 and I was a confused and idealistic 19 year old student at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City. Let’s be clear: I am still confused and idealistic. My scene partner and I were tasked with creating an original skit based on caricatures from Commedia Dell'arte. We chose the Innamorati, the lovers. When the day came to perform our skit in front of the class, I donned the white pancake makeup and dress of a 17th century gentleman and stuck a massive erection in my pants, crafted out of one-too-many bog rolls. I called it Pepe. We pressed play on a Piazzola tango and took our places: me on a bed made of black boxes and my partner outside the door waiting to make her dramatic entrance. After a few measures of bandoneon, I slowly awoke from my slumber, rolled over and revealed my 10 inch cardboard Pepe pointing straight up to the heavens. Suddenly a knock at the door, my lover. I frantically jump out of bed and attempt to get rid of Pepe by way of all sorts of physical comedy from slamming my body against a wall to beating Pepe with a baguette. All the while, my lover's sweet voice grows more impatient as her knocks build to bangs. I persist in my pursuit to get rid of Pepe, dancing around the room in all manner of silent melodrama and as the tango approaches climax, so do I, with the flash of a sword in my shaking hands, intent on chopping off Pepe's traitorous head. The violins crescendo while my lover furiously drums away until I finally surrender ,unable to follow through with the sentencing. Defeated, I lay back down on my black box bed and try once more to rid myself of Pepe. With every downward push of my hands, Pepe pops back up with unrelenting buoyancy. I persist, riddled with anxiety while the music gradually modulates to a seductive major. My frown rolls to the back of my head and I fall off the bed entirely. All that's visible are my feet, gyrating in pleasure. As I reach the zenith my lover bursts through the door making her triumphant entrance and screams in horror as I howl away in ecstasy. And Scene!
Our teacher and classmates laughed and applauded and whatever feedback was offered in the moment is long forgotten now. Instead, I embark on this silent journey alone as a gentlewoman academic. I’m hoping that all the years of life since my days at the Academy will make for a far more nuanced performance, sans bog roll penises, that speaks to truths beyond the comedy of lovers. Amidst our viral and virtual reality, I find myself longing even more deeply for the slow and silent art forms. Mime is a medium of pure emotional expression. It is an art that requires nothing less than total self awareness, magic, sincerity and courage. Armed with an endless web of resources and my obsessive nature, I’m confident I will find my own way. To what end I have no idea. The simple pleasure of attempting to grasp the invisible is enough for now. Wish me luck.