Tour Whore, August 12, 2012

It's Touching
by Cameryn Moore

Two days ago I was flyering a line here at the Calgary Fringe, and I came upon a young-ish, hipster-ish straight couple hugging each other, arms wrapped tightly around each other while looking into each other’s eyes. “I’ll come back when you two aren’t so busy,” I said, making a sex joke out of it. “No, no!” they exclaimed, opening the hug. “There’s room in here for you!”

Now, I approach flyering the lines like improv theatre: don’t leave blank time and say “yes” whenever you can. So of course, I stepped right into their arms and had a hug threesome with these strangers, for easily 10-15 seconds, which is a LONG TIME for a full-body hug with a stranger, let alone with two. We smiled and made “mmm-mmm-mmm” snuggly noises at each other; the people around us in the line were completely charmed and a little bit envious, I’m sure. Of course I handed the couple my flyer and gave them my pitch, and they followed up by being in the front row of the next show. Clearly that moment worked as a promo encounter.

It’s hard to find time to do anything other than Fringe.

It also reminded me that I am running on chronic touch deficit these days.

To the outside eye, Fringe looks like a constant stream of touch, all those hugs and sitting on laps at the Fringe club and audience participation moments and just generally touchy-feely artists, that’s what we do, right? We touch.

But it’s in passing. It’s not intimate. It’s not enough to counteract the weight of touring. By this point, I have already started going back and crunching numbers, that’s weighing on me a little. I’ve been flyering hard, trying to catch up, so I’m always breezing by people with a smile and a nod. Here in Calgary, I’m in a BYOV (Bring Your Own Venue), an art gallery that is prone to overheating in which a three-piece stage, 80 chairs, and three drape systems need to be stowed at the end of the night and put back up at the beginning of the next day. Doing that every day, in addition to doing the regular work of promo-ing and performing, adds a whole layer of fatigue to Fringing.

So who do I talk to, in the middle of all that? Ensemble groups, even solo shows with stage managers, are difficult to properly meet and be with; you tour with someone, you’re usually with them. Local artists have their own local lives and networks. This leaves the other solo-travelling solo acts, who are busy with their own business and number-crunching and flyering and performance schedules. It’s hard to find time to do anything other than Fringe.

But I need it, I need the personal contact. I need the look in the eye that tells me that the person looking at me is seeing me. I need the conversations that have nothing to do with box office or reviews or password or where am I travelling to next or what do I think about the Fringe I’m currently in. I need the long hugs, the cozy moments sitting side by side, the conversations that sprawl everywhere.

Okay, yes, part of it is that I need sex, and I’m not getting it. It’s weird to say, as someone who has a rep for total sexual hedonism, but some legs of a Fringe tour can be long and dry and dusty. Honestly, though, I think that the doin’-it drought is only part of a larger lack, a lack of deep, prolonged personal contact.

I noticed it back in Winnipeg. I had gone for almost an entire week without visiting the King’s Head and hanging out with my Fringe friends; my laryngitis made it inadvisable for me to spend a lot of time in a place where I would have to speak up to be heard. When I did go back, my voice still wasn’t strong enough to carry on proper conversation. I wanted to leave, since I couldn’t talk, but I wanted to stay, just to be with my people. 

they were a good nudge about what I need, what I’m hungry for, what is hard to find

I don’t remember how this idea came to me, but I offered a fellow artist a head-rub. And it was glorious. I closed my eyes and just focused on my fingertips. Here was someone I wanted to help feel good, that maybe hadn’t had deep personal and/or physical contact with someone else in a while, either, and while I couldn’t have awesome conversations with them, I could at least touch them and let them know that I cared about how they felt and I wanted them to feel better. I let my fingers do the talking.

And then another person lined up. And those two people told other people, go over there, Cameryn’s giving out head and neck rubs. I kept going for at least an hour and a half, must’ve done about 15-20 people, and somewhere in there, I quieted down. My raging need to express myself, my frustration about Fringing sans voice, my pent-up sexual angst, all of it got soothed—temporarily, at least—by 90 minutes of therapeutic touch.

I know I can’t do that all the time. That would be weird, and I’m not licensed. And I know that remarkably huggy couple in line was an anomaly as far as audience members go. But they were a good nudge about what I need, what I’m hungry for, what is hard to find, but oh so necessary for me out here. 

You. I need you, really you. The flyers are in your bag, the beer is on the table, we share a plate of fries, lean up against each other from time to time. So tired, at the end of the day. But you’re here with me. And that makes such a difference.

camerynmoore.com