There is always something new to learn and we should all try to be the best that we can become. So with a little time to spare in San Diego I decided to try my hand at Improvisation classes. Sounds simple enough but, as always, it’s what you learn about yourself that counts.
As it happens I may be the only person in the world who calls them Improvisation classes. Everyone else says Improv but that sounds to me like a new-age health drink full of strange bacteria. I can imagine an advert where some lean and glowing couple extol the virtues of the product before signing off with the tag-line – ‘Improv – for those in search of enlightenment and regularity’.
My motivations for taking the class were not entirely pure in terms of personal development. I’ve always fancied the notion that this type of performance is just messing about and making stuff up. And like many men I have built a reasonable amount of my life around those behaviours while characterising myself as lovably spontaneous rather than hopelessly disorganised.
It’s not that men can’t be professional, cultured and focused – just look at George Clooney. Neither do we find it impossible to listen, empathise and respond sensitively – consider Roger Federer. But for most of us their urbanity is as hard to emulate consistently just as their talent and looks are impossible to replicate even once.
I put it down to the wiring of the cerebral cortex over hundreds of years of pre-history when men were left to their own devices on hunting trips. After a night of enjoying fermented fruit picked up from the forest floor they would daub themselves in mud then sit around telling tall tales. Some of the more creative might try their hand at graffiti on the cave wall until everyone all dozed off and woke with a cracking hangover.
When their partners discovered the trip had not resulted in any food for the table and asked why the bearskin cape was shedding mud on the freshly swept hearth men had to think on their feet. So they would just make stuff up and talk about how close they had come to bagging a mastodon. If necessary there would be play acting, animal noises and, at a push, tears.
It’s not too different to going on a quick trip to the supermarket for some bread, meeting some mates and ending up in the pub. Arriving home several hours later without bread but carrying some wilted daffodils picked randomly from the neighbours’ front garden brings some questions. It’s difficult to link a brush with mortal danger to a missing loaf of bread, the smell of alcohol, and stolen flowers, but most men will give it a go.
So, all in all, it was a bit of a shock when my wife chose to take Improvisation classes. There seemed to be games, fun and mental agility but more worryingly there was structure, skill and technique. Having spent my life as a minimally talented amateur in the martial art of extemporisation I felt like the Incas must have done when the Conquistadores pitted cavalry, steel swords, crossbows and harquebus against wooden clubs, bows, arrows and slingshot.
At the heart of my rising disquiet were questions that no man ever wants to ask himself. What if this became yet another thing my wife does better than me and would she use her growing powers for evil rather than good? I began to have dreams that mirrored the story about the Emperor’s new clothes – and I was the one parading around in my birthday suit – so I signed up for class.
The first thing I found was that everybody is overwhelmingly positive. Don’t get me wrong – I am a firm believer in enthusiasm and energy. But I grew up with an Englishman’s ingrained belief that upper lips were made to be stiff, backbones were made to be straight and the only response to ‘how are you?’ was to say ‘how are you’.
So it took me a bit of time to get used to greeting any errors in the games with a virtual group hug and a shared chant that sounded suspiciously like ‘arugula’. I also realised that when people are looking at you it becomes very difficult to do a physical movement that does not look and feel totally weird. This means I may never dance again which has already given my children cause to worship the Gods of improvisation forever.
One of the first ice-breakers was to take your name, preface it with a noun or adjective of the same initial and make a physical movement to go with the description. I am now immortalised as Antlers Alan whose persona is partly defined by putting my thumbs on my temple and waggling my fingers. What was interesting is that after we had run through the group’s various monikers and movements a few times I could remember every one of the thirteen names.
After years leading carefully structured meetings I found that there is no bullet point agenda to follow when the audience wants you to act as an interviewee who is the world leading expert on waffles. Neither is it possible to try to direct the conversation when you are one of three people playing ‘Dr Know It All’. The game involves the audience asking a question then each of the three sequentially saying one word until an answer has emerged.
As the evening progressed my brain kept taking me back to things I could have said if I had been smarter and faster. That’s common enough for most of us but the good lesson here was that regrets were just clutter that prevented me being responsive to the next scenario. One of my favourite mantras has been ‘what matters is what you do next’ and this was a place that confronted my ability to live that belief.
I am sure that many enlightened leaders and companies use techniques from improvisation classes as a way to build and develop their teams but if they don’t it’s worth considering. I’d strongly recommend it as an investment for any individual who wants a sense check of their ability to listen actively, support sympathetically and respond relevantly. It’s exhausting but great fun.
I suspect that I am going to keep on grasping for briefings, talking points, purposes and outcomes for most of the lessons and exercises. Those are the tools that I have used throughout my working life and they are deeply ingrained. But hopefully I am going to better understand the way that empathetic selflessness – my summary of what the highly talented and personable class leader said it was about – can lead to magical moments.
NOTE: The course is one of many run by the National Comedy Theatre in San Diego http://NationalComedy.com