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Authors: Lesley Lokko
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others seemed able to give – depth. Only she knew the reasons why. She couldn’t.
‘Come on,’ Sandy said, draining the last of her beer. ‘It’s Loughlin next. You sure you can handle this?’
Maddy nodded, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. If she was scared of Ryan, Wally Loughlin absolutely terrified
her. He was an intense man who’d worked with all the greats from Brando to Pacino, and his classes were a mixture of torture
and stunned amazement at what he managed to get out of his students, even Maddy. She spent most of her time in classes torn
between the longing to take part and the longing to just disappear. She drained her bottle and stood up. Sandy was right –
she had to learn how to handle the criticisms that were levelled at them almost hourly; she had to develop a thicker, tougher
skin. She had to learn how to fight back and not wind up in tears almost every afternoon just because Ryan didn’t think she
had it in her. How did he know? Feeling somewhat braver, she followed Sandy out of the bar and together they rode the lift
to the third floor, where Loughlin’s weekly improvisation studios took place.
The class was already full when they walked in. Sandy found a couple of seats towards the rear and Maddy followed her gratefully.
A few minutes later, Loughlin strode in. He wasted no time in organising the class. He picked out a handful of students, tossed
out a few words and gave them each five minutes to come up with a two-minute sketch of whatever it was he’d throwntheir way. There was a lot of nervous giggling as the ten students struggled, each in their own way, to think of something
that would not only satisfy Loughlin but hopefully impress him too. A tall order. In the semester she’d been at Tisch, Maddy
had never seen Loughlin impressed by anyone, let alone her. She sat with her chin cupped in her hand, watching, entranced,
as he put the students he’d selected through their paces. ‘Fear!’ ‘Envy!’ ‘Desire!’ Someone who’d been given ‘envy’ to perform
was suddenly required to improvise. ‘Give me hatred!’ Loughlin yelled. ‘Burning hatred!’ Suddenly the word she’d been fearing
all semester slipped out. ‘Stiller!’ Maddy froze. ‘Get up here. You’re next. Gimme grief!’ He glared at her as she made her
way unsteadily to the front of the class. ‘You’ve got two minutes, Stiller. Show us how it’s done.’
Maddy felt her throat go dry. As always when she was nervous, she felt her body temperature begin to drop. She shivered. She
closed her eyes briefly and tried to summon up the emotion he’d asked for. She couldn’t. She needed a starting point. Loughlin
coughed. She tried to focus. Grief. Sadness. Tears. She swallowed. Loughlin coughed again. The palms of her hands began to
itch. Grief.
Come on, Maddy
, she willed herself.
Get a grip
. ‘I …’ She opened her mouth but could go no further.
‘In your own time, Stiller,’ Loughlin drawled sarcastically. ‘But I’m not seeing anything that speaks of grief to me.’
Maddy willed herself to concentrate. Grief. When had she last experienced it? She stood there trying to summon it up, but
nothing came. She was sweating, despite the chill that had settled over her. She thought of the farm, of her mother’s face
the day she boarded the bus for New York … surely there was something there? But there was nothing; just the usual carefully
constructed wall she built around those emotions she felt she couldn’t handle. She could feel herself clamming up. Her mouth
suddenly flooded with water as the old, familiar feeling of panic began to settle in.
Loughlin slid off his stool and walked towards her. He was a tall, powerfully built man. He towered over her, sayingnothing, but staring at her intently. For a brief, absurd second, she thought he might actually hit her. ‘Stiller!’ he roared.
Maddy jumped. Someone in the class laughed nervously.
‘Come on,’ Sandy said, draining the last of her beer. ‘It’s Loughlin next. You sure you can handle this?’
Maddy nodded, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. If she was scared of Ryan, Wally Loughlin absolutely terrified
her. He was an intense man who’d worked with all the greats from Brando to Pacino, and his classes were a mixture of torture
and stunned amazement at what he managed to get out of his students, even Maddy. She spent most of her time in classes torn
between the longing to take part and the longing to just disappear. She drained her bottle and stood up. Sandy was right –
she had to learn how to handle the criticisms that were levelled at them almost hourly; she had to develop a thicker, tougher
skin. She had to learn how to fight back and not wind up in tears almost every afternoon just because Ryan didn’t think she
had it in her. How did he know? Feeling somewhat braver, she followed Sandy out of the bar and together they rode the lift
to the third floor, where Loughlin’s weekly improvisation studios took place.
The class was already full when they walked in. Sandy found a couple of seats towards the rear and Maddy followed her gratefully.
A few minutes later, Loughlin strode in. He wasted no time in organising the class. He picked out a handful of students, tossed
out a few words and gave them each five minutes to come up with a two-minute sketch of whatever it was he’d throwntheir way. There was a lot of nervous giggling as the ten students struggled, each in their own way, to think of something
that would not only satisfy Loughlin but hopefully impress him too. A tall order. In the semester she’d been at Tisch, Maddy
had never seen Loughlin impressed by anyone, let alone her. She sat with her chin cupped in her hand, watching, entranced,
as he put the students he’d selected through their paces. ‘Fear!’ ‘Envy!’ ‘Desire!’ Someone who’d been given ‘envy’ to perform
was suddenly required to improvise. ‘Give me hatred!’ Loughlin yelled. ‘Burning hatred!’ Suddenly the word she’d been fearing
all semester slipped out. ‘Stiller!’ Maddy froze. ‘Get up here. You’re next. Gimme grief!’ He glared at her as she made her
way unsteadily to the front of the class. ‘You’ve got two minutes, Stiller. Show us how it’s done.’
Maddy felt her throat go dry. As always when she was nervous, she felt her body temperature begin to drop. She shivered. She
closed her eyes briefly and tried to summon up the emotion he’d asked for. She couldn’t. She needed a starting point. Loughlin
coughed. She tried to focus. Grief. Sadness. Tears. She swallowed. Loughlin coughed again. The palms of her hands began to
itch. Grief.
Come on, Maddy
, she willed herself.
Get a grip
. ‘I …’ She opened her mouth but could go no further.
‘In your own time, Stiller,’ Loughlin drawled sarcastically. ‘But I’m not seeing anything that speaks of grief to me.’
Maddy willed herself to concentrate. Grief. When had she last experienced it? She stood there trying to summon it up, but
nothing came. She was sweating, despite the chill that had settled over her. She thought of the farm, of her mother’s face
the day she boarded the bus for New York … surely there was something there? But there was nothing; just the usual carefully
constructed wall she built around those emotions she felt she couldn’t handle. She could feel herself clamming up. Her mouth
suddenly flooded with water as the old, familiar feeling of panic began to settle in.
Loughlin slid off his stool and walked towards her. He was a tall, powerfully built man. He towered over her, sayingnothing, but staring at her intently. For a brief, absurd second, she thought he might actually hit her. ‘Stiller!’ he roared.
Maddy jumped. Someone in the class laughed nervously.
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