A Performance Diary: Spring
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
A Performance Diary: Spring
By Annie Hamilton
Annie Hamilton is a writer and performer from NYC who writes a seasonal diary for Metrograph, recounting her adventures and encounters across the city.
MAY 18 - TORNADO HUNTING VIDEOS ON YOUTUBE
All of May, I didn’t sleep. No matter how much NyQuil or sleepytime tea I downed, no matter the milligrams of Gabapentin, I’d wake up at 7am feeling fresh as a daisy. I was averaging three and a half hours of sleep a night.
I had my reasons. I’m not going to get into these reasons, because I’m tired of being the romance-writer sex-girl lady. What I will say: this time, I was determined not to ruin my own life. I’m good at that.
Turns out, I was manic. I like to think that *I* am the keeper of my mental “issues,” that *I* know when I’m behaving erratically, but I didn’t this time.
I woke up every morning at 7am and fired up YouTube on my TV to a series of Tornado-hunting videos. I’d put the Tornado sounds on mute, then get out my laptop and pound a Justice-esque playlist. I felt like Joan of Arc. (A friend in Los Angeles introduced me to this genre of video, a coping mechanism she had found useful in her own period of sadness.) I didn’t want to deal with whatever was happening in my brain.
I was speaking too fast and moving too slow, and I was the only one who didn’t know it. My oldest male friend offered me his guest bedroom (I have my own apartment). My shrink scheduled a blood test for me, to check the levels of Lamictal in my system. My father suggested I “calm the FUCK down.”
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
MAY 24 - JONAH FREEMAN AND AL FREEMAN AT 56 HENRY
I didn’t want to get a day job because I thought it would fuck with my writing schedule (I wasn’t writing more than one single sentence a day). I guess I just didn’t want my Instagram followers to see me in a storefront and feel like they had one-upped me. Again, I had my reasons.
Mid-tornado-morning-routine, I got the kind of text message I like best: one offering money. The text was from an old friend, Era, who works at an art gallery–56 Henry–asking if I’d like to model for a project one of their painters was part of. I agreed. I thanked her. I told her that she was a godsend, that I was down bad in the money department. Era suggested that I come work at the gallery, make a little petty cash. I became a Gallery Girl mere moments later.
My time as a Gallery Girl helped my happiness, not my sleep. Suddenly I was meeting people I wouldn’t normally meet: the art-crowd (Jerry Saltz’s Sunday visit included). It felt good reporting to work. It felt good attempting to be useful. Life at 56 Henry is fast-paced. 56 Henry is slick, 56 Henry is fun, but most importantly: 56 Henry is efficient. I began dreaming of selling a painting myself. I loved the feeling of constantly being surrounded by art. After hours spent next to Jonah Freeman and Al Freeman’s works (they were on exhibition at the time), I felt like my brain was opening up. I wasn’t expected to be an expert at 56 Henry. I was more of a funny prop. I liked telling potential-clients that I had no right to be there. I hope they liked it, too. Being a welcome outsider made me feel so free.
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
MAY 30 - PETRIT HALILAJ’S ART OPENING AT THE MET
One night after work, Ellie and Era took me to a big fancy art-opening for an artist named Petrit Halilaj on the roof of the Met. (56 Henry, man. They know how to do it.) I put on a crepe dress and smoked my vape and looked at the view of the park and talked to the guy who owns Benihana, and when the party was over, I jumped straight into the Met Fountain. The art girlies were impressed by that. Frankly, I was impressed by it. I’ve always wanted to jump on in there, ever since I was 11 and could first leave the apartment by myself, but at 11, I had never been manic for over a month straight. Security suggested I wash myself immediately afterward, but instead I went soaking wet to a Cultured magazine party. The peacocking made it easier to hide my sadness, to hide all of the uncomfortable feelings that were on my back. When I got home, I felt full. The adrenaline felt like taking care of myself.
How does anybody take care of themselves?
JUNE 1 - A DIFFERENT MAN
I was spending a lot of money and I still wasn’t getting any sleep. I wasn’t yet aware I was in a frenzy, but I was aware of the strange looks I was getting. I went to La Cabra every morning and managed to knock over at least one customer and at least one carafe of water. My hands shook trying to light my cigarettes. I didn’t finish a single movie; aside from Aaron Schimberg’s A Different Man (2024). Sebastian Stan makes a full Christian Bale-turn in that flick. I loved it. There’s a scene where his character tries to fit in with a group of manly-men… the laugh Stan produces is still ringing in my head. It’s a New York movie in the most relatable upside-down sense.
But. I felt alone; I felt irrelevant. My shrink told me he was concerned. I was sleeping more, but I hadn’t gotten any better. I wanted to write and I couldn’t write. I was in a dim period. I am in a dim period. I feel dim, dimmer than I thought I was. Movies and art used to pull me out of a dim light, but now it seemed that the only thing that might pull me out would be making a work of art myself.
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
JUNE 4 - SUBMISSION
I got invited to see the staging of a new opera, Submission, directed by my friend Jos Demme and written by my friend Max Kopelowicz. The music was composed by a friend’s partner, Zachary Seman, as well as Roger Kleinman. I didn’t want to go because I knew that the performance would be attended by many people I also knew. It was on a Sunday, and I felt dim, and I didn’t feel like putting on make-up to cover the dimness.
I dragged my limbs to the Baryshnikov Art Center. It was 80 degrees outside and the air conditioning felt like it was cutting my skin apart when I got into the elevator.
I knew a lot of people there, but instead of saying hello or sitting with a friend, I sat in the front row. I wanted to be up close to the string players who were already on stage. As soon as the opera was introduced by a passionate Andy Einhorn, I began to cry. I was crying because I was about to watch my friends’ dreams come true. They had written and composed and staged and directed an OPERA. An “opera buffa,” no less. Coming up with an opera feels similar to making a computer, in that I can’t imagine how one would even begin.
I’ve seen operas before–in fact, I LOVE THE OPERA!–but I’ve never seen one so obviously hilarious. Submission was funny. The score made me feel like I was in La Vie en Rose (2007) and the words made me feel like I was hearing from Woody Allen’s predecessor. Submission follows a woman in her thirties, Chloe, who wants to have a baby with her partner, Jake. Jake does not want to have a baby. All Chloe knows how to do is go on Instagram, visit her wellness doctor, do yoga, and think about having a baby. All Jake knows how to do is deny Chloe of having her baby.
An hour and a half went by. The opera was over. The standing ovation felt natural; standing ovations are rarely natural. I happily said hello to my friends who I had ignored when I came in. I said hello by singing hello in an operatic voice. I left the Baryshnikov Art Center unable to stop singing in an operatic voice. If my friends—the same people who nag me and who make me laugh at parties—pulled off creating an entire opera, all whilst nagging and partying, why couldn’t I do the same? I’m not saying that I’m going to make a turn as a composer. I’m just saying: why not try something new? The writing will come. It always does. Perhaps I should go to Blick and begin to paint in the meantime. Perhaps I should take a dance class. Wouldn’t it be nice to fill my time with beautiful creative activities that have no bearing on my professional life?
I didn’t do any of those things. The opera occurred only one week ago, but I doubt I will do any of those things. Alas, I am stubbornly continuing my dim period. I do have new things to say, but I’m not ready to say them yet.
My performance diary this installment is not so much of a performance diary. It’s just a diary, my diary, and I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore. I’ve been asking myself the same questions for the last decade. Over and over again, unable to solve the same series of contradictions. No new questions have come up. “At what point does the performance of being myself become honest?” I might be down bad again. I might not. I don’t want to say that I’m fine and I don’t know if this is a cry for help. It’s not a cry for help, I’m just joking. There is a fine line between making chaotic art and living a chaotic life.
