Thomas Cole: Distant View of Niagara Falls (1830)

" … the performer doesn't quite get it yet."

Paint Me A Picture

"I'm workin' my way through,
only two more sets to go and I'll be gone.
And the spotlight sees right through me,
but I don't think it shows, I mean I'm holding on.
'Cause I've been deceiving myself through the worst of it,
just hopin' to make the best of this someday.
Hey, hey!"

I began anticipating the end of my chosen career as a singer/songwriter several years before its actual demise. It was as if I knew my chosen field would prove unsustainable, that there might be an afterlife, perhaps more than one, after I was done performing, that I was not done changing. This was an absolutely unthinkable notion then, for I had invested heavily, perhaps even unwisely, and was quite literally all-in in my role. This was no profession for me, but my identity. This was who I knew myself to be and who I'd passed myself off as being. If I was not this, I could be nobody. In a dark way, this song represented an early contemplation of suicide, for if I couldn't hack my dream coming true, what else was I to do?

"I've been feeling' way past due,
and smellin' your smile in every other song.
I thought these spotlights ought to free me,
but how was I to know that they would hold so strong?
So here I am living' my dream of the best of it,
while dreaming of the rest I left behind to play.
Hey, Hey!"

It might be the human condition in action for anyone to question their good fortune, simply a case of The Normals, again. If so, it's no exception to notice just how painful this feels. It almost seems a betrayal, one of those forbidden fruits, to tell one's self the truth as it's experienced. That part of life becomes an unmentionable. There's nothing like the presence of an unmentionable to create an object of obsession. It's almost as impossible to not fret over an unmentionable as it is to not think of a rhinoceros when asked. The merest mention of either produces an instant opposite. Relationships thrive or they dry up in the presence of unmentionables. An unmentionable might be an inescapable stage of bringing something up, something not yet ready for public airing. Long lived and accumulated, though, they can lean toward destruction as they smother out actual discussion. Perhaps dead relationships suffocate on embarrassment.

"Paint Me A Picture of the world as it could be,
the world as it should be with all of her charms,
and write me a letter on old motel paper,
just anything handy would brighten my day.
You're so far away and I know you'll trundle off to bed
thinkin', "He's out there somewhere singin' his heart out
to a room full of recent strangers,
While the one he really cares about sleeps soundly."

I faced a Fundamentally Unresolvable Dilemma, one which I suspect has bedeviled every traveling performer in the history of this world so far. However much a star they might appear, they are not here at home surrounded by the normal bustle of daily activity when they are plying their trade. They are absent, with or without leave doesn't matter. There are no do-overs when it comes to tucking anyone into bed. You're either present or non-existent with no middle ground. Cards, letters, even phone calls serve as lousy surrogates. One cannot out-source their existence, their presence. We cling to remembrances anyway, a letter written on old motel paper, the one resource of which the traveler maintains an infinite surplus. How could this world be? How should it have been?

"Is life ever what it seems?
Does my voice betray what I dare not say in song?
Before this spotlight ever caught me,
we managed to survive by simply holding on.
Well, we held on tight through the thick of it,
but I've been losin' my grip when I slip onto this stage!
Hey, hey!"

There are no authentic performers, for the very act of performing involves layers of artifice. One assumes a persona because the self simply seems too contradictory to sell, too many facets, too confusing a story, altogether too complicated to represent simply enough. However much gets disclosed up there, much, much more remains off limits. One learns the edges by initially overstepping them. Each performance, each set, becomes a game of I've Got A Secret, the purpose of which seems to be the maintenance of what passes for normalcy, for sanity. The crazier the engagement, the more this notion holds. No audience in this universe ever once turned out to witness anyone's contradictions. Projected images only appear to have depth but are actually always only two dimensional. No performer should ever even once not respect this principle, at the risk of breaking the space/time continuum and perishing.

"Paint Me A Picture of the world as it could be
the world as it should be with all of her charms
and write me a letter on old motel paper,
just anything handy would brighten my day
You're so far away and I know you hate to go to bed
thinkin' I'm out there somewhere singin' my heart out
to a room full of empty strangers,
While the one he really cares about sleeps lonely."

And then we're back to the purpose of this song, which is only respite. I can apparently continue with an infusion, a mere reminder of what I left behind. A picture of it will do. A letter, anything handy. In this reprise of the chorus, though, the "recent strangers" of the first iteration becomes the more ominous "empty strangers," and the one I really care about now "sleeps lonely." This presents the most dangerous notion any performer ever entertains. One must not merely like their audience, but love them, deeply and without reserve. The audience cannot stand between the performer and anything. Once one starts seeing their audience in anything like a critical light, the end has already appeared. Nothing useful could possibly happen from there. The transformation from "recent" to "empty" strangers seals the story, it's the end of this performer's career. He cannot credibly continue practicing a profession that leaves the one he really cares about feeling lonely. The song ends where it began, a tad more shopworn for the journey. The hoped for will very likely never come to fruition. I suspect that everyone listening already knows, even if the performer doesn't quite get it yet. His performance as a performer's just as good as over.

"I'm workin' my way through,
only two more sets to go and I'll be gone.
And the spotlight sees right through me
but I don't think it shows, I mean I'm holding on.
'Cause I've been deceiving myself through the worst of it
just hopin' to make the best of this some day,
hopin' to make the best of this some day,
hopin' to make the best of this some day …"
® 2002 by David A. Schmaltz, all rights reserved

©2022 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #SetTheory, #PureSchmaltz