Sometimes I think improv is a hard art to love. When you first encounter it, and fall in love, it’s because it seems so much like magic. Like all the time these secret wizards have been operating in the world, without you ever knowing they could exist.
But it doesn’t stay.
It stops being as good the second you start learning about it. Because the wires start to show. You begin seeing people struggle, start having your own opinions on the moves that should be made. And even if you agree with them, you are agreeing as a peer, not as the feeble doe-eyed introvert just happy to know such joy can exist in the world.
Suddenly, you are not fully present in the moment. You are an academic, watching professors try to figure it out for themselves.
And the thing is, so much of it is bad, or at least not as good as it could be. It’s the nature of the beast. It is rare to not walk away in some way unfulfilled. To not see the threads that were left unstitched. Even with the great teams, you are always comparing them to the best versions of themselves. And it is impossible to live up to the standard they can set.
So if you follow this, and you love it, I think you can’t help but feel like you’ve made some awful bargain. You get to make the magic. But you will never get to watch it with your same old eyes. It will never feel as wholly fresh, or exciting again.
But then you see Outlook of The Poet. And all that shit goes out the window.
Tonight, their set made me feel like I was sixteen again. Watching Respecto for the first time. I am grateful for nothing so much as the times I get to feel that in this world.
Because I know that that is the best thing you can possibly feel.
