in an obscure play at a backstreet theatre。 My part was a real challenge； furiously rehearsed for weeks。
On the second night after opening； I was aware of a strange lack of response from the house。 Believing there was something lacking in my performance I tried a little harder – and harder still。 No improvement。
Only in the interval was the terrible truth revealed： There was no one in the audience。 I was mortified。 To this day I feel the blush on my cheek when I think of myself pouring my heart out – to no one。
I quit acting soon after that。 It obviously wasn’t the right choice for me； if a response was so essential。
By contrast think of an artist like Renoir； who went on producing pictures； day in day out； year after year； decade following decade。 Nothing ever stopped him； no amount of discouragement； poverty or failure。 He painted away； regardless of people’s opinions； in pure delight at his own creativity。
To be an artist merely for the return it may bring is as doomed as entering a relationship only for what you hope to get out of it： warmth； togetherness； intimacy； sex； security； money； status or whatever： The minute the reward is not forthing； it all es to an end。
Love is like art： to survive it has to be genuine； sustained by its own imperative； and never requiring an applause。
A lot of people have a fear of mitment。 I suppose what they really abhor is being dependent； handing over control。 I can relate to that。
What I can’t understand is why anyone should want to control another； especially in the name of love。 For if you attempt it； it leaves the other person with no option but to resist； evade or deceive you； or； worst of all； succumb to your will； in which case their personality expires； and you are stu