An Anthropologie Treasure Hunt, or Why Imagination Matters

It was a Tuesday at 3 PM, and much like every Tuesday at 3 PM, I had dreams. Dreams of sitting at my table with a coffee and the newest Anthropologie catalogue, gazing at a laced funnel-neck bell-sleeved pullover. Too many descriptors, Anthro. Whatever. I still want it. Or this: a tutu, perfect for leaning against the crumbling ruins of Mycenae at dusk, which I do often. Would I sleep better on a bed made of gold? These are the things my wandering mind wants to ponder.

But that year I had a toddler and a baby. Rosalyn was nineteen months, which meant I almost had two toddlers. And while the baby was sleeping, my much older toddler was not. Jack wanted to play. In a flash of inspiration, it came to me.

The treasure hunt

“Jack. Do you want to play treasure hunt?” He does. I hold up the catalogue. “Right here is the map, my man.” Jack grabs a rubber band and a toy fishing pole, as you do when you leave on a treasure hunt. “We’re off in search of riches. In search of rubies, and a button-down tank, and it’s on sale, oh my gosh.”

“All right, Jack. First we cross this dilapidated bridge, just like the one this girl is standing on in her chunky cable-knit sweater.” Together we walk the length of the couch, precariously. I point out that we are in danger of falling into the river rushing below our couch-bridge. I turn to him with wild eyes, grab him by the shoulders and whisper, “If we don’t clear this jump, we’re going over that waterfall.” I clutch him to my chest. His eyes are enormous. He nods. He believes me.

We hold hands and jump for land, which is the ottoman. We clear the terrifying river and he is so relieved he could cry. We rejoice. But the long and perilous road lies ahead, and I’m feeling fancy, so the clues come in couplets. “Past the old farmhouse, quickly let’s go! Now through the meadow all covered in snow!” I didn’t say it was inspired poetry. So we pass the old farmhouse, my piano, and the meadow, his bedroom, and eventually we work our way through the whole catalogue and find the treasure. Spoiler: it was next to the front door the whole time. Don’t you hate it when you misplace your priceless gems?

When did I last believe a script that way?

The amazing thing was that my son believed every part of the story. He asked to play it again and again. To him the catalogue was an ancient map, the wardrobe to Narnia. Though I suppose we all believe that, or we wouldn’t pay two hundred dollars for a turtleneck.

So I asked myself: when was the last time I believed a script that way? I couldn’t remember the last audition I’d walked into with that kind of wonder. Don’t get me wrong, I get a charge every time I see a script; I’m always excited about the work. But my analytical brain wants control back. A tiny, hateful voice assures me I might look silly. The job becomes the bad boyfriend Amy Poehler describes in her book. Have you read it? Read it.

That week I was reminded that failure is nothing to fear. Cultivate your actor’s faith. Feel safe knowing that the idea of failure is dead, disconnected from you and your work. This is an art form that requires failure. It’s built on it.

How do you work on actor’s faith?

That sounds nebulous, so here’s the practical version. Practice living truthfully in imagined circumstances. When you make the bed in the morning, don’t you ever pretend to be a servant at Downton Abbey, and your boss is a rich and handsome earl who looks a lot like Matthew Dearing? Just me?

In all seriousness: practice imagination. Put yourself in a scenario and improvise, out loud or silently. Ask yourself to believe in something that isn’t happening. Approach the work with softness and curiosity. Ask your heart to give whatever it has to this moment, then ask for a little more. Work a scene with another actor. Read plays, a lot of them, some out loud. And maybe hang out with a three-year-old.

Until next time, act with passion.

Leeann