Yes, this is the place that intimidates me the most. But once I'm here, I feel oddly protected. I now know that I can stand exposed in such a place--I can sing my own songs and draw strength from myself instead of from a formal audience--and as a result, I feel calm and centred even before I sing a note or hear the first quarter drop into my case.
To my left, I saw that this station's Gateway Newstand is now being renovated. From time to time, high-pitched blasts from a circular saw interrupted the quiet Sunday morning mood. Briefly, I considered changing locations, but then I thought, what's the harm in staying?
See what I mean? Pretty much everything's okay, as long as I'm in between the yellow dots.
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As usual, I played to everybody and nobody. Everybody was listening...and nobody was.When individual people stopped (a woman with her baby, an American tourist emptying out his pockets) I discovered each time, as if for the first time, that it's the individual connections that count. (The man with Down Syndrome who sang along with "The Rose".)
Simply being heard by hundreds of people means less than being truly listened to by one person.
The other day, I met a woman on our street. She said, "I've heard you sing somewhere" but she couldn't place where. I mentioned a few recent formal performances (knowing they wouldn't be right) and finally said "...Or, um, you might have seen me on the subway."
Ahah! That was it!
I thought about "exposure": that thing we performers are always supposedly looking for. The chance to be seen and heard by hundreds or thousands of people.
I realized that the subway provides that exposure, while exposing its emptiness.
The personal exposure though--the risk that leads to genuine connection--is the real gift of the experience, and it's worth a million loonies.
(Yonge Station - 10:15 to 11:50 - $23.57)
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