A Zak Barnett Studios long-time student and enthusiast of all things acting and self-discovery, Ava Marilyn seeks to capture the essence of the studio in her writing through her weekly personal experiences and epiphanies and her findings about the deeper self and others. Through these diary entry-type updates from someone actively studying and working through the industry, she hopes to provide an insider’s look into the studio itself, its practices, and its impact.
As I have referenced in previous writings, here at ZBS, we center each class session around a certain theme, generating personal questions in response as we do improv and scene work. This technique is what makes class with Zak so unique.
These questions can reflect our individual life experiences as they might relate to the particular theme. This allows us to carry over that exploration into our work as actors.
These questions evolve throughout the session, as the lived-in human experience does not draw hard and fast lines. Humans are not static beings, as you know. There’s an ebb and flow, a dynamic blurred line of sorts, that sets itself around us where there’s flexibility, nuance, heart, and soul.
But on occasion, we write questions that are sticky, murky, uncertain, painful… and perfect from the start.
The best questions seep into even the most mundane facets of our lives and deeply intersect with our classwork. A good question is inescapable, and then, whether we like it or not, we find ourselves at the heart of its conflict with our feet glued to the concrete of its crossroads.
Currently, I find myself right there. My question has become the apex of my searching, and finding the courage to ask it has revealed a pain I hadn’t found until now… one I am willing to embrace.
To be candid, I lost something recently.
A person. They are not gone from my life; I just need to restructure their place in it.
We’ve been on this long switchback road for ages. Ultimately, I hit a dead end, and then, crushed under the weight of a one-sided goodbye, I crumbled. The hurt is immense, and I want out…eventually. But for the moment, I will sit at the end of this path and take a breath and search for a backroad until I inevitably realize the only exit is at the entrance, and if I want to leave, I need to go back the way I came.
I have to relive everything. I have to trudge through my conflict and let those memories become teachable moments.
On the other hand, I get to relive everything, allowing it all to shape me. I can stop resisting now and create a new narrative.
How do I cultivate the love I need when that means letting go?
It’s basic, but I think this question resonates with my present more than any other question has in all my years of class.
I feel freer in my work.
It feels more connected.
It feels honest.
This question has helped me discover truths in my acting that have drastically impacted the course of my life and my path toward healing.
In class, I’m currently workshopping a scene that aligns beautifully with this question. In the conflict of this scene, I have found myself in the center of my question’s conflict, working through the beautiful tension between what I know I need and what I want to need.
Usually, by the end of a session, I have answered my question, accomplished something, and checked a box on my soul-development to-do list. It’s normally satisfying, but this time, we are reaching the end, and I have only scratched the surface.
I’m still working on the “letting go” part, and I think I will be for quite some time. But this exploration is exactly what I needed for my artistry and for my spirit. The growth is already immeasurable. I feel it.
So, even though I’m tired, and my feet hurt, and my shoes are covered in mud, I will stand up, and I will begin my journey back up that winding road, pausing for breath when I need it.
