A Feeling Artist
LINCOLN MICHEL
Onstage, I’m thinking about the postman who was so overwhelmed by the amount of mail he had to deliver that he threw it all, and then himself, into the sea. I’m thinking about the agoraphobic grandmother who refused to go outside, even when the fire started on the floor below. I’m thinking about crying mothers, refugees fleeing crumbling cities, and infinite human hatred. It isn’t working, but I’m weeping anyway. It’s just muscle memory at this point.
I go through my entire act. I rub my hands together on the lip of the foot-high stage. I moan beneath the fluorescent lights. Every now and then I squeeze a clump of hair and mime a howl. I finish by dropping to my knees on the sticky floor, a small puddle of tears between my legs.
Someone takes a photo with their cell phone. A few people clap.
As I maneuver around the billiard table, two of my students come up and ask whether they get extra credit for attending. I say, “Email me on Monday,” and take my free-drink ticket to the bar.
I’M A PROFESSIONAL FEELING ARTIST, but lately I haven’t been feeling so great about it.
Donald walks up behind me and slides his hands over my shoulders and down my chest. “Sorry, had to piss. How’d the ending go?”
“Same shit, different night. I can’t make anyone here feel.”
“Hey, that was some grade A Misery up there. Prime Sadness. I teared up for real, no joke.” He points to drops on his cheek. They look like water splashed up from the bathroom sink.
Donald kisses me on the cheek, signals the bartender for two more beers.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time to switch it up. You’ve been doing the Sadness beat for years. Why not get into Righteousness or Anger? It’s an election year, those feelings are easy money.”
Donald knows I look down on multifeelers. I’ve always believed that a feeling artist should dedicate himself to a singular vision, hone one emotion until he’s mastered it. And, of course, no one can completely master an emotion. There are always tweaks and improvements that can be made. Always a deeper way to sense. Art is a lifetime process, and, despite everything, I’m still an artist.
Donald sees my scowl and winks. “Looks like you’re practicing Righteousness already.”
“MY THESIS STATEMENT IS that, uh, since the dawn of time feeling art has been the prime art form, like how a painting or a song has
