Effort vs ease

Still-life of the space around my feet at rehearsal. Credit: Surinder Martignetti

As an embodiment coach there are certain phrases I repeat all the time: “find the most easeful and satisfying way to do this movement” is one. When the goal is to develop a communication between one’s thoughts and physical sensations this makes sense. Too much force or effort reinforces the ‘mind over matter’ paradigm that often brought clients to me in the first place.

So, when trying to make friends with one’s body: ease is good, effort is distracting.
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But in many other contexts effort makes things matter. For example, I know that I could type in some things I’ve been thinking about into AI to write this essay. But it’s the effort of wrapping my own words around these ideas that allows me to connect disparate thoughts and discover something new. My creating and drafting are necessary for the discovery.

This is true with cooking too. Josh and I used to order out regularly before we had Harriet. Now we cook pretty much all our meals. We were especially attached to Detroit-style pizza but, by necessity, we’ve taught ourselves how to make our own pizza dough and sauce, creating a product that rivals Jets, our go-to weekly pizza delivery. I lightly dread the work and advance planning but pretty much always end up enjoying the process (and the product of course).

In each of these examples ease or effort are the more difficult choice. When listening to my body, it’s easier to override with instructions and fixes, rather than tuning in gently to what might really be going on. And in everyday life, it’s easier to outsource the labor to others (which is sometimes necessary but has been taken to abhorrent extremes in present-day America) than to commit my time and energy fully to the work.

And maybe that’s the rub: it isn’t about ease or effort. It’s about attention. Intentional attention. Which requires a strange alchemy of both focusing (effort) and getting out of the way (ease).

We’ve been having some wonderful guests come by the studio and engage with what we’re developing. Last Friday, one of them said that she felt ‘implicated’ as an audience member in this work. There was nowhere for her to hide or fully abdicate responsibility.

At first, I felt apologetic. “Implicated” can feel icky, like you’ve done something wrong. I want our audience members to feel like they have the option to weigh in, not like they’re being forced to engage.

But then, I started to wonder about effort and ease. Our default state in society right now is a consumer. We extract, absorb, exploit…all to minimize our own daily friction. When one of our dramaturgs, Verena, asked me a few weeks ago why it was so important that our audience members be included in the performance my first response was: “why is it the default that they aren’t?”

When I asked why you go to performance, the overwhelming majority mentioned community as a part of your answer. And, as any of us who is a genuine member of a community knows, you must give of yourself, in action and vulnerability, if you are to experience true belonging.

Perhaps we must feel implicated, seen, or uncomfortable to have experiences that matter or to make us present enough to make an impact on others. Sometimes that requires loosening our grip and listening carefully, other times we step up and act. Either way we need to choose to do the more difficult thing. 

The other day in rehearsal Chrissy said “why do we [she meant all three of us, C, Amanda, and I] always have to choose the hardest, most impossible artistic endeavors?” At the moment I think I just laughed, she was being funny – honest but funny – and said something like “I guess that’s just who we are.” But, a few days later, I’ll say this:

Most artists I know are asking themselves continuously, but especially at this political and environmental moment, why make art? Why does it matter? It certainly isn't economically remunerative nor can one claim (except on a lofty grant application) to be significantly moving the needle on the state of the planet. But we can offer generative friction; pairings of deliciously satisfying beauty with enough discomfort to earn your way somewhere new. 

But making art like that is impossible. It’s a tightrope you walk between leaning on skill and pushing into new territory without leaving anyone behind. We fail as often as we succeed. Thank goodness the benefit is in the doing, together. 

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