Read Online (My Travels with) Agnes Moorehead – The Lavender Lady by Quint Benedetti - Free Book Online

brilliant, think. You see something in the theatre that you just adored. You’re excited, you’re interested. What makes it so good? What makes it so interesting? Something that he’s done! Maybe it’s something in his eyes. But what? Why is he exciting? What does he do? An actor must make himself so interesting that people will want to see him over and over and over. Now, how does he do this? So you study others, not that you should copy anyone else, or you go to the theatre to learn, but you must do it your own way. You watch theatre, you will see something. Keep a notebook with you. This is very good, “she said to herself, for us ingenuously. “I will write this down and someday I can use it. Take it and use it in your own individual way. You take it down and do it the way you do it, but you take it and know how good it looks. You learn from others but you have to do it your way. Every actor’s an individual who must expand his individuality. You cannot put yourself in a mold or you’ll die.”
    She paused and her essence filled the silence. She checked her watch. She was supposed to do pantomime after her lecture but she couldn’t now because she talked too long. Straight through the pantomime now and well into the scenes. Since then I’ve known of many acting schools. Mostly they do scenes. Occasionally, a discussion with questions and answers. Sometimes pantomime and other nuances of the art. But with Agnes Moorehead, she talked and could she talk. And if one could let it sink in and learn, one could become a good actor or actress just by that.
    “Now, who has a scene for me? I want everyone to be prepared and have a scene. Don’t let that stage be bare. Who has a scene?” The better ones jumped up right away, two people. They did some scene from one of the classic plays and they were good. They were, I would learn, the two best actors in the class and I was spellbound. The scene played and I got goose bumps watching it. I loved the theatre as much as Agnes did. I adore good acting. Agnes said, “It’s all right, but . . .” Then she started picking it apart. I was stunned. If it had been me up there, I wouldn’t have minded. I’d have thought that I deserved it. That’s where I was then. But I was just devastated for these actors. They were clean cut, giving, brilliant. All the things that she said actors should do and be. But she didn’t break down their scene, she just went into more free—flowing talk and got off their scene and rehashed about the drudge and researching parts and brilliance as though these actors hadn’t done all these things.
    Finally, she finished that and conducted a short session on breathing and the diaphragm. Then that was the end of the class, the end of my first day. I realized then, correctly, that Agnes Moorehead didn’t give out praise lightly, and rightly so. She was a perfectionist. She wanted everything to be done perfectly. Whatever qualms I felt were utterly minor the first day and for months afterward. I was with Agnes Moorehead and I was enamored. I couldn’t wait for the next Saturday and the next and the next. I lived for Saturdays. The other classes on Monday and Wednesday nights were all right. I’ll get to them. But it was Saturdays with Agnes that kept me going, watching her, hoping and waiting for her to notice me. I was only alive on Saturdays except, of course, when the part of me that was Agnes crept into my life. I began to absorb some of her flamboyance and oh, I loved that. It’s what I wanted to do as a kid, but people had said, “Oh, shut up.” But now I could emote and move like the priests in their ciipes, emulating all the grand gestures. I picked up so many things. I watched every nuance of her movements. I hung on her every gesture, every breath. Her presence was electrifying. Such energy emanated from her and, oh God, I wanted to be like that. I could feel myself, day by day, adapting some of her personality, her character, her