by Cameryn Moore
From where I sit, I can see everyone’s eyes in the room. Someone left their half-drunk drink on my coffee table, very close to my prop file box. I hope I don’t knock it over. The Gay guy over in the corner is tapping away at his smart phone; I doubt very much he is live-tweeting this event. I think he got dragged along on this by his very keen friend, who is watching me intently and nodding at certain points. I’m going to avoid looking at the iPhone user again until after Call 2—the homoerotic locker-room gang bang—and then I want to check back in and see how he likes them butt-seks apples. Until then I don’t want to know. The furthest away someone is from me is about 12 feet, and that is too damn close to show any signs of discomfiture.
Before three weeks ago, I’d only ever done home shows twice, once in Austin with whomever my homestay host could round up in three days and once in Boston for friends who hadn’t been able to catch Phone Whore when it premiered the previous year. This time around, I had deliberately settled on home shows as the only financially viable option for doing anything in London on my own dime. The idea of being in London for three and a half weeks without performing made my skin twitch. And if there was money to be had, I had to do it.
I learned that I can pretty much work in any home environment, as long as there’s a path through the bodies on the floor to my toaster and the 'bathroom' (yay for those spaces where the bathroom is close enough that I can flush a real toilet and skip one track on the f/x CD!). I learned that it’s okay to let the resident cat or cats wander through the space; audiences can refocus and it adds just another layer of verité. I learned that making dinner for early guests, serving up pasta sauce and clearing away plates and letting the first call start while I am elbow-deep at the kitchen sink, that is a BOMB-ASS way to kick off the show, and I will do that again as often as I can.
I would argue, none. Whatever space I’m occupying, or whether that is toggling back and forth like a theatrical two-faces-one-vase moment, the effect is the same: we are there next to each other, looking at each other, while I say some pretty hard things, while they react to those hard things in ways that are almost painful for me to sit with. All the things that make Phone Whore 'intimate' and 'thought-provoking' and 'brutal', all that stuff… when it is happening right there in front of you, and there is no getting away, when they are with me and I am with them, then all of those things compress into something even sharper and more beautiful.