There鈥檚 a game that鈥檚 used to teach young actors something fundamental about acting. It鈥檚 so well-known it鈥檚 become a trope 鈥� it鈥檚 even taught in leadership training. It鈥檚 called 鈥榊es And鈥︹��
The idea behind the game is that you get into twos, you propose an idea, it can be something simple: 鈥楲et鈥檚 ski down the Alps鈥︹�� and your partner yes 鈥榊es and then we can鈥︹�� and then says the first thing that comes into their head. No planning, no filter. It can be anything as long as it is the first thing that has come into their head. Each time an action is described: 鈥楲et鈥檚 ski down the Alps鈥� the two partners also act out the action physically with full commitment. The longer you play the game, the weirder and more wonderfully outrageous the ideas become. If you do this with the group, the room gets loud and very busy very quickly.
When you run this exercise with a new group, what usually happens is they try to think their way through the exercise. To intellectualise themselves out of the problem to save face. They make every effort to come up with the cleverest idea. They plan in the minutest detail鈥�
If ever there was a sentence that signals the death knell of an improvisation in Drama it鈥檚, 鈥淚 know, you say [this] and I鈥檒l say [that] 鈥� it鈥檒l be great!鈥� It鈥檚 never great. It鈥檚 stilted, usually a bit banal and ultimately the absolute antithesis of creativity and originality. Crucially it demonstrates that the participant hasn鈥檛 understood the point of the game.
The point of 鈥淵es And鈥︹�� isn鈥檛 to consciously create a brilliant idea. It鈥檚 not to be funny or clever. It鈥檚 not to be the coolest person in the room. It鈥檚 not to avoid embarrassment or humiliation. The point of 鈥� Yes And鈥︹�� is to learn how to accept the offer given to you and to use that offer to launch yourself into鈥� well鈥� the unknown鈥� To learn to trust that the idea will come, despite the interference of the intellect. And in doing so, to create a brilliant idea.
One of the most misunderstood elements of the creative process is its beginning. It鈥檚 assumed that artists sit around their studio 鈥� or walk, or pace moodily 鈥� planning and generating ideas, thinking their way through. And that there鈥檚 a trick to it that you can learn and improve so that, once you鈥檝e been an artist for a long time, you can go in and CREATE. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Sure, if you want to paint an orange, well, have at it. The orange is there, away you go, but really that鈥檚 a technical exercise. Your orange may be wonderfully different from everyone else鈥檚 but still life isn鈥檛 a new idea. Nor is painting the still life of an orange. It鈥檚 a reinterpretation of an old one. No problem with that 鈥� it鈥檚 just not what I鈥檓 talking about here.
鈥淵es And鈥︹�� for an actor, then, is the equivalent of a blank page for a writer. Terrifying! As soon as you introduce this exercise to a group not familiar with it, the levels of anxiety go through the roof. How will I know what to say? What will everyone think of me? What if my idea is rubbish? What if I die? For clarification, dying onstage is to do something embarrassingly badly 鈥� we don鈥檛 actually sacrifice them. It鈥檚 that tumbleweed moment that sees the performer left vulnerable and exposed in front of an audience. It鈥檚 the theatrical equivalent of the nightmare where you dream you鈥檝e woken up on a platform, not knowing why you鈥檙e there, then realising you鈥檙e in charge of leading worship and you鈥檝e forgotten your trousers鈥ho says actors are dramatic!
So, how do you avoid this death by humiliation?
The solution is easy, actually. You commit to the physical action utterly and completely in the moment, trusting that the answer will come. And it does. Every time. Bigger, better, weirder, more original than it could ever have been if you鈥檇 planned it. It forces you to think outside your usual patterns. It forces you to come up with something completely new and never previously imagined. It forces you to create鈥�
Because that鈥檚 the thing often misunderstood about creativity. It鈥檚 finger-nail chewing, anxiety-inducing, scream at a noise in the dark in a haunted house at Halloween terrifying! So you do plan. But when you plan, you don鈥檛 plan for the inspiration, the artefact, the concept for the painting, the idea for the play script, the sculpture, rather you try to create the perfect environment then you open yourself up, and wait. And in doing so, you are trusting that something, as yet unknowable, will appear.
If it doesn鈥檛鈥ell, now you know why we鈥檙e all so darn temperamental!
So an experienced artist is not so much practised at consciously coming up with ideas. Instead they are well-practised at living with ambiguity, uncertainty, with not knowing. With experience, they learn to control their response to anxiety. They don鈥檛 lose the fear, but they learn to manage it so that it doesn鈥檛 interfere with their process. They learn to walk off the cliff trusting that something, anything, will catch them on the way down. And, if it doesn鈥檛, then everything gets smashed and destroyed when it hits the ground. And they rise and start again. From scratch. From somewhere new.
So, my question for you to ponder this fine morning is: do you believe in resurrection? Do you trust the process?
I could talk about our scripture reading this morning in terms of this being Christ鈥檚 first miracle. We could debate whether we believe it happened as described here. I could talk about it as being the moment Jesus reveals himself to his disciples or it representing the fulfilment of the passage from Amos we heard on Monday鈥�
But I think it鈥檚 simpler than that. Mundane even. This story is about a son having a good time with his mates at a wedding until his Mum comes in and tells him its time for him to get to work. Jesus replies: 鈥淢y hour has not yet come!鈥� Jesus knows that taking this step 鈥� performing this miracle 鈥� will force him to step off the cliff, to begin a process he can鈥檛 come back from鈥�
You can almost picture Mary rolling her eyes as, ignoring him, she turns to the servants and instructs them to do what Jesus tells them to do. She knows Jesus is comfortable, enjoying the company of his friends, doing the busy-work, maybe, but not quite fully committing to the process. Yet. So she gives him a nudge.
And when God gives us a nudge, the 鈥淵es and鈥︹�� well that鈥檚 our job. Because, when we鈥檙e nudged, our task is to jump into the playing area with both feet, fully committed, with an open heart and a sense of joy, secure in the knowledge that we are loved and cared for, that God has a plan and that the time is right because he says it is.
Anything after 鈥淵es and鈥︹�� well that鈥檚 God鈥檚 bit and it鈥檚 bound to be better than anything we could come up with!
(image courtesy of )