Imagine them naked
It’s often been said that for a performer to feel better and get rid of the nerves upon climbing the stage, he should imagine the audience before him naked. The oldies, the kids, the woman with that smug condescending smile, the guy with “that James Dean daydream look in his eyes”—imagine them all stark naked. That’s so you, who took 20 minutes before finally deciding to go out in those denim jeans and button-down shirt you got for half its original price, won’t have a reason left to feel embarrassed. You’re the one clothed, after all. You’re the only one decent.
I’ve heard that piece of advice countless times and, sure, I’ve heeded it on a few occasions. But I never really subscribed to the practice. Maybe I’ve seen too much porn that skin has become a sight as common as concrete in the city. Maybe because I associate it immediately with that Kylie Minogue video or that one scene in “Perfume,” and I find nothing calming about those. Maybe because the real problem is that the audience is naked and I’m not.
I have my clothes on in a room of bare skin. I can walk out on the street and blend in, yes, but in a room where the naked flesh is couture, I would still be the outcast. I would still be the freak, the one on stage, on whom the light is focused, standing stupidly in his denim jeans and clearance-sale shirt, every naked man and woman in the audience are looking at.
I’m an actor. I’d very much like to believe that.
After getting parts in a number of short films (mostly because I have a lot of friends in film school and they can’t afford to pay trained actors but they can bribe me with free food), one day I decided to scrap all my insecurities and just embrace the fact that I love playing characters and the exhilarating pursuit of truth through performance and storytelling. Make no mistake about it: On a scale of human to Meryl Streep, I am probably a plankton. But I nevertheless enjoy it. God, do I love it.
And so began the nerve-wracking auditions followed by the dark cloud that is not getting a callback. Every once in a while, sunshine would peek through the holes of my punctured heart—and give me actual parts! But while those occasions do come, they come not often enough. At least not enough to appease the hunger of this five-foot-four, skinny, moreno, tenor 1, not-JM-de-Guzman-pogi-pero-laman-tiyan-na-rin-according-to-parloristas-in-Malabon actor who’s almost always unemployed.
Then, one night, I received a piece of advice from an actress-friend that changed my attitude toward that hunger for expression. Commenting on a post I had put up on Facebook, she said: “Create the opportunity.” Suddenly, I felt awful for being the self-entitled prick that I’d been. It was about time I actually tried for something.
It was around the same time that I got exposed to spoken word poetry. Sarah Kay describes it as “theater and poetry’s baby,” and it’s one I find so precious that I want to carry and nurture it like it’s my own. It was the perfect idea. Why don’t I write material for myself in that form? I thought. All I wanted was to tell a character’s story, and through spoken word I’d be able to do just that—and freely.
It took months of being stagnant, but it eventually happened.
It was May 2014 in Malate at a quaint place called Sev’s Café. The house was filled with people looking like they’re about to drown their feelings in bottles of beer. It was the monthly Poetry Open Mic Night and the list of performers was so long that, when I asked to be in it, I immediately estimated it would take about three hours before my turn came.
I was not wearing the jeans or the button-down shirt I got for half its price. I was fresh from a family outing and had nothing on but my father’s pink shirt, some old shorts and an even older pair of high-cut sneakers. I looked around and saw people wearing better stuff, and I knew it was going to be hard imagining them naked.
One by one, people climbed the stage to read and perform their poems. They talked about losing their virginity. They talked about not being loved back. They talked about being abused early in their lives. They talked about slashing their wrists in the hope of transforming the crippling emotional pain into a more manageable physical kind. They talked about scars hidden underneath those carefully chosen garments. And I just knew: The old advice that some say calms the nerves was no longer necessary. There was no need to imagine it. This was a room of scars worn as badges. This was a room of bare skin, and there was no way I’d do the audience the disservice of getting off the stage clothed.
It was almost midnight. I started performing my spoken word piece, “Mga Basang Unan (Drenched Pillows),” for real and for the first time, and the rush came over me like it had never before. I was vulnerable but I felt empowered. I was defenseless but I felt free. I was shaking and stuttering but, finally, I felt like I was getting the message across. This was my piece. The story wasn’t mine but I found my own truth in it and I was sharing it with strangers. I was naked.
I took a bow. I wasn’t an emperor with new clothes, but a performer aware of every piece of clothing he’s gotten rid of. And I was overwhelmed. Some people in the audience were actually standing up, clapping. The bar owner approached me to shake my hand. Strangers hugged me as soon as I climbed down the stage. Finally, I was sure about the advice that for a performer to get rid of his nerves upon climbing the stage, he should imagine the audience naked. If it’s ever effective, it’s not so that we feel superior, definitely.
Maybe, if I were to imagine the audience naked at all, it’s because I need to be brave enough to strip.
Juan Miguel Severo, 26, is a member of the spoken word group “Words Anonymous.” He recently appeared in the movie “English Only, Please,” and just finished a second one-man spoken word poetry and music night at Sev’s Café.
