Why Improv is Art, and Why We Should Care
Abstract art is one of most tempting things to fake. Jackson Pollock paintings are a particularly easy target. They’re just a bunch of splatter paint blotches, the forgers figure. But many art critics and collectors, looking at Pollock fakes, can often sense that they aren’t Pollocks. They can’t always put their fingers on it, but something feels “off”, “odd”, “unsatisfying” about them. That “something”, it turns out, might be real and measurable. Because when some scientists decided to examine the paintings at the microscopic level, what they found was astonishing: the real Pollocks contained something called “fractals”—repeating and ever shrinking patterns of shapes that are undetectable when looking at the whole painting, but that, all together, create a sense of organic harmony in the finished work. The fakes couldn’t simulate this result. Probably because Pollock himself didn’t know that those fractals were in there—all he knew what that over years of experimentation, he had created works of art that were supremely satisfying to the human eye.
The controversy over whether the existence of fractals in Pollock’s work can be used to differentiate the real from the fake rages on in the art world (as much as anything “rages” there, which, from what I understand, is quite a bit), but the idea that a real work of art can be distinguished from a simulation that some soulless forger slapped down to make a buck is compelling, and, as improvisers, might make us want to stop and think about the difference between messing around on stage (which is fun and a great tension-release, etc.) and creating real and lasting (as lasting as improv can be) art. And, really, I’d argue, the better the art, the more fun you’ll have making it.
The Harold is most certainly a work of art, stumbled upon by a mad genius and his devoted followers. But it wasn’t found suddenly, and it wasn’t found through simply “messing around on stage.”. It was found through years of experimentation, testing, retesting. When it was discovered, Del Close and The Family felt they’d hit on something beautiful, natural, yes, artistic. Years later the Harold, when done well, still has the power to be transcendent. When done without inspiration or conviction, it feels like a fake. A copy of something real and beautiful. As audience members, we can’t always put our finger on what the difference was, but we can sense it. We can’t always put our finger on the difference as performers, either, but most of us know whether the show we were just in was the real deal or a sort of “going through the motions”. Transcendent shows feel “locked in”; they give us the high that brings us back to the stage every show; they remind us why we love to play. Conversely, shows that don’t lock in end up feeling like work, not play.
What’s amazing is, if we look at the Harold closely, we find the same underlying form as we find in a Pollock painting. For all its seeming chaos and haphazardness and multi-directionality, there is a supreme sense of order to the whole thing—of pattern. And it’s a pattern that repeats itself as it closes in on itself until we reach that final third beat climax. It’s sets of threes within threes within threes. It’s the undulating ebb and flow of scenes and games. And nothing is more pleasurable to the human being than patterns—patterns that create meaning out of the data of our lives, no matter how disparate it seems at first. Patterns that give us a sense of order and predictability in our lives. Patterns that simulate the repetition and order of nature itself.
So, it seems like it would be worth it to take a microscope to our performing and, like a critic, figure out what makes it work, under what conditions, and through what means, and practice making that happen as much as possible.
Put on your safety goggles. The eye wash station is in the back of the room. Let’s do this.
Next up: The Rule of Threes
