Eight in the morning was far too early for Gwendolyn.
We sat in a ragged circle, legs folded like storybook Indians, yawning and clutching mugs of coffee from the refectory. Studio Five—Gwendolyn’s lair, festooned with colorful tapestries and cluttered with scented candles—was on the second floor of the Hall. There was no furniture to speak of, but instead a generous collection of floor pillows, which only increased the temptation to stretch out and sleep.
Gwendolyn arrived her usual quarter after the hour (“fashionably late,” she always told us), swathed in a spangled shawl, gold rings thick as knuckle dusters gleaming on her fingers. She was brighter than the pale morning sun outside and almost painful to look at.
“Good morning, darlings,” she trilled. Alexander grunted half a greeting, but nobody else replied. She stopped, standing over us, hands on her bony hips. “Well, this is just shameful. It’s your first day of class—you ought to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” We stared at her until she flung her hands up and said, “On your feet! Let’s go!”
The next half hour was devoted to a series of painful yoga positions. Gwendolyn, for a woman in her sixties, was disturbingly limber. As the minute hand inched toward the nine, she straightened up from her King Pigeon Pose with an ecstatic sigh that must have made someone besides me uncomfortable.
“Isn’t that better?” she said. Alexander grunted at her again. “I’m sure you’ve all missed me over the summer,” she continued, “but we’ll have plenty of time to catch up after convocation, so I’d like to dive right in and let you know that things are going to work a little differently this year.”
For the first time, the class (besides Alexander) showed signs of life. We shifted, sat up straighter, and began to really listen.
“So far, you’ve been in the safe zone,” Gwendolyn said. “And I feel it’s only fair to warn you that those days are no more.”
I looked sideways at James, who frowned. I couldn’t tell if she was being her usual dramatic self or if she really meant to make a change.
“You know me by now,” she said. “You know how I work. Frederick will coax and cajole you all day long, but I’m a pusher. I’ve pushed you and pushed you, but”—she held up one finger—“never too far.” I didn’t entirely agree. Gwendolyn’s teaching methods were merciless, and it wasn’t unusual for students to leave her class in tears. (Actors were like oysters, she explained when anyone wanted justification for this emotional brutality. You had to crack their shells and break them open to find the precious pearls inside.) She plowed ahead. “This is your last year and I’m going to push you as far as I have to. I know what you’re capable of, and I’ll be damned if I don’t drag it out of you by the time you leave this place.”
I shared another nervous look, this time with Filippa.
Gwendolyn adjusted her shawl, smoothed her hair, and said, “Now, who can tell me—what is our biggest impediment to good performance?”
“Fear,” Wren said. It was one of Gwendolyn’s many mantras: On the stage, you must be fearless.
“Yes. Fear of what?”
“Vulnerability,” Richard said.
“Precisely,” Gwendolyn said. “We’re only ever playing fifty percent of a character. The rest is us, and we’re afraid to show people who we really are. We’re afraid of looking foolish if we reveal the full force of our emotions. But in Shakespeare’s world, passion is irresistible, not embarrassing. So!” She clapped her hands and the sound made half of us jump. “We banish the fear, beginning today. You can’t do good work if you’re hiding, so we’re going to get all of the ugliness out in the open. Who’s first?”
We sat in surprised silence for a few seconds before Meredith said, “I’ll go.”
“Perfect,” Gwendolyn said. “Stand up.”
I eyed Meredith uneasily as she climbed to her feet. She stood in the middle of our little circle, shifting her weight from foot to foot until she found her balance, tucking her hair out of the way behind her ears—her usual method of centering herself. We all had one, but few of us could make it look so effortless.
“Meredith,” Gwendolyn said, smiling up at her. “Our guinea pig. Breathe.”
Meredith swayed on the spot, as if at the push and pull of a breeze, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. It was strangely relaxing to watch (and, at the same time, strangely sensual).
“There,” Gwendolyn said. “Are you ready?”
Meredith nodded and opened her eyes.
“Lovely. Let’s start with something easy. What is your greatest strength as a performer?”
Meredith, normally so confident, hesitated.
Gwendolyn: “Your greatest strength.”
Meredith: “I guess—”
Gwendolyn: “No guessing. What is your greatest strength?”
Meredith: “I think—”
Gwendolyn: “I don’t want to hear what you think, I want to hear what you know. I don’t care if you sound stuck up, I care what you’re good at, and as a performer you need to be able to tell me. What is your greatest strength?”
“I’m physical!” Meredith said. “I feel everything with my whole body and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“You’re not afraid to use it, but you’re afraid to say what you really mean!” Gwendolyn was nearly shouting. I glanced back and forth between them, alarmed at how quickly things had escalated. “You’re tiptoeing around it because we’re all sitting here staring at you,” Gwendolyn said. “Now, out with it. Out.”
Meredith’s easy elegance was gone, and instead she stood with her legs locked, arms held rigidly at her sides. “I have a great body,” she said. “Because I work fucking hard at it. I love looking this way and I love people looking at me. And that makes me magnetic.”
“You’re damn right, it does.” Gwendolyn leered at her like the Cheshire Cat. “You’re a beautiful girl. It sounds bitchy, but you know what? It’s true. More important than that, it’s honest.” She jabbed one finger at her. “That was honest. Good.”
Filippa and Alexander both fidgeted, avoiding Meredith’s eyes. Richard was looking at her like he wanted to rip her clothes off on the spot, and I had no idea where to look. She nodded and made to sit back down, but Gwendolyn said, “You’re not done.” Meredith froze. “We’ve established your strengths. Now I want to hear about your weaknesses. What are you most afraid of?”
Meredith stood glowering at Gwendolyn, who, to my surprise, didn’t interrupt the silence. The rest of us squirmed on the floor, eyes flicking up at Meredith with a mixture of sympathy, admiration, and embarrassment.
“Everyone has a weakness, Meredith,” Gwendolyn said. “Even you. The strongest thing you can do is admit it. We’re waiting.”
In the excruciating pause that followed, Meredith stood impossibly still, eyes burning acid green. She was so exposed that staring at her seemed invasive, voyeuristic, and I grappled with the impulse to yell at her to just fucking say something.
“I’m afraid,” she said, after what felt like a year, speaking very slowly, “that I’m prettier than I am talented or intelligent, and that because of that no one will ever take me seriously. As a performer or a person.”
Dead silence again. I forced my eyes down, glanced around at the others. Wren sat with one hand over her mouth. Richard’s expression was softer than I had ever seen it. Filippa looked slightly nauseous; Alexander was fighting back a nervous grin. On my right, James peered up at Meredith with keen, evaluative interest, as if she were a statue, a sculpture, something shaped a thousand years ago in the likeness of a pagan deity. Her unmasking was harsh, mesmeric, somehow dignified.
In a weird, bewildered way, I understood that this was exactly what Gwendolyn wanted.
She held Meredith’s gaze so long it seemed like time had stopped. Then she exhaled enormously and said, “Good. Sit. There.”
Meredith’s knees bent mechanically, and she sat in the center of the circle, spine straight and stiff as a fence post.
“All right,” Gwendolyn said. “Let’s talk.”
