There is a whole style of art dedicated to staying far enough away from something to see its full beauty. Distance is required to make sense of what would otherwise look like a bunch of dots.
If you thought this was going to be a think piece on Pointillism, you are partially correct.
Oh no, my thoughts on Instagram.
In the Brooklyn comedy scene, whatever that means, there’s a heavy reliance on Instagram. It’s where you find out about open mics, parties, shows, who got covid from the party, who got covid from the show, and who started a podcast, again. A lot of us struggle with the idea of needing to be online to do what we love. If you delete the app, you are out of the loop.
Recently, with the new covid spike in New York, all comedy events have been cancelled through the end of the month. One man shows and open mics and parties and whatevers have been postponed because as we all know, when the clock strikes midnight on Dec 31st, covid apparates. We will wake up, Judy Garland style, from our collective fever dream and safely go back to kissing strangers and only eating outdoors in the summer.
It’s easy on Instagram to feel like you’re not doing enough. There’s always an aforementioned open mic or show or party and if you know that it’s happening, it’s hard to make excuses not to go. Are you staying in tonight because you don’t have material and don’t want to bomb? Are you staying in because you need a night off? If you miss the open mic in tonight’s Bushwick basement will it derail your entire career?
Most of these intrusive thoughts are bullshit, when you step back. For the next few weeks, all these aspiring comics can’t do comedy. And guess what. We’re all surviving. If we die, it won’t be from a lack of laughter, it will be from viral plague.
Taking five or six steps back from this “scene” has provided a lot of depth perception. The sense of urgency is fading. The rush to the top, the rush to relevancy, the rush to post a gorgeously well-lit photo of yourself holding a microphone on the internet so people from high school come up to you at the reunion and think you’re doing what you always wanted. It’s very easy to post a picture of yourself and make everyone think something. You might look at the picture of me holding the aforementioned microphone and be impressed. But really, you don’t know anything about the success of that set based on the photo. You can bomb so bad and still post a picture. My set was really strong that night but that’s not the point.
The people in the comedy scene love attention. Myself included. Most of us are unpacking it in therapy. With no performances happening over the next few weeks, what are we to do? It’s not that safe to go out to eat or go to a museum so a lot of us are sitting with our thoughts. It’s a dangerous pastime but it’s important to do so you don’t turn out emotionally constipated. No amount of miralax can fix an avoidant personality. Get that shit out.
Downtime is so important. Distance from your thing, whatever that is, is crucial so you can get a clearer picture. Time where nobody is doing anything so you can feel comfortable joining in the collective nothingness. There’s no 30 under 30 for open mic comedians. We’re supposed to be trying. Trying and failing and shutting up and LISTENING every once in a while so we don’t get ahead of ourselves. All of the show promotions and open mic announcements and boomerangs of our comedic hand gestures can distract us from the reason we’re doing this. Comedy is supposed to make you think. We’re not all supposed to be this hot. Not sure when that started but now every comedian is hot and scientists, again, have no answers. Comedy is supposed to surprise you. How can you surprise anyone if you can’t surprise yourself? Take a few steps back. Write down five jokes that are awful and then try again. You can get your Instagram picture eventually, like me. You can wear a red sweater and convince yourself you checked a box in some way. And people will see you as a comedian because that’s what you look like. And when you take some more steps back you can see that none of that matters. What people think of you and what they view you as and how they understand you from a photo on the internet.
Take a step back and sit on the long bench and look at the painting from twenty feet away. All the dots, all the noise, it all comes together to form smooth lines. Shapes and shading and color and dimension. You can’t see it if you’re standing so close. You have to walk away. Take a break, walk away from the tiny dots. Cheers to 2022, the year of perspective. Critics are calling it the most illuminating year yet.
The best thing I ate this week:
Was the yasai don from Jin Ramen on the Upper West Side. My sisters and I got takeout and sat on Jackie’s couch watching Love Actually. The bowl is white rice with perfectly cooked eggplant, bamboo shoots, scallions, mushrooms, peppers, other mushrooms, and really good sauce. Food tastes so good when someone else makes it.