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If I'm remembering correctly, the assignment was to give an initial introduction and tie together how my body interacts with my identity. Or something.
Well, my name is James Lillin, I've lived in Minneola, Farmingdale, Smithtown and Kings Park on Long Island, and most recently (High School), I've lived in a town called Hamburg, a suburb of Buffalo. I'm a Freshman Theatre and English major, and I'm planning on adding a minor in Women's and Gender Studies.
Our human bodies are probably the best example we have available to us of many different parts acting in tandem, where the resulting system is something that far transcends the parts. Part of me wants to write a huge dissertation on the miraculous ways that our physical experiences impact our mental state so much, or how our perception and environment are intertwined, but I have a feeling that not only will I have plenty of opportunities to expound on that in class, but I also have tea brewing that'll get cold and bitter if I make this five pages long.
Instead of that, I'll just focus on one particular part of my being that affects me greatly, and that is my voice. Of course how we say things not only affects our thinking process as well as what we say, but I don't want to get philosophical and analytical here and just stick to how it interacts with my identity. Being a theatre major, and having a passion for the stage, has definitely helped to inform my appreciation for my voice, but it goes beyond that. I do stick more on the acting side of theatre, and though I enjoy singing, it's neither my forte nor my chosen method of expression. Rather, it's the delivery of words that I find most intoxicating, the rhythm and beat of the performance that I find most rewarding.
Whenever I was asked for advice, or just my viewpoint, from my younger classmates in High School about vocal performance in a play setting, I'd always hammer home what I am for most in dramatic settings, which is silence.
They would say "Silence? Why? Isn't that the opposite of what you want? No sound, no feedback, no laughs, or anything?", and I tried to explain why silence was the most impactful sound in a theatre setting, more so than a gunshot, explosion, fireworks, or laughter. I view silence as a sign that not only is the audience not bored, or talking amongst themselves, but that they're so captivated in the moment that a silence that, at another point may be disquieting, is at that point enthralling.
It's those environments that I love to make, being able not just to guide the audience in a performance setting, but to also share truly intimate moments with people who are often complete strangers. It's a huge part of my identity, and one of my favorite feelings in the world.
It carries over to Slam Poetry, one of my biggest passions. Being able to perform with a strong voice, being able to make consonants crack, or vowels whisper, to shout over a chorus of applause and snaps, and then bring the atmosphere crashing down to have people, and myself, in tears, is almost unworldly. Those are the types of moments when, whether in the audience or performing, everything empties from my head except the moment, and the voice of whoever is performing consumes me completely. It's then when I feel most alive, and it's for moments like that that I live for.
ANYWAY, this is running long, and I don't even know if voice is an acceptable part of body physicality to be analyzing, and it's a blog, and my tea is lukewarm, AND I GOTTA GO TO CLASS, so, yeah, that's me, love y'all, stay sexy and don't forget to YOLO.
- James Lillin
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