My stage fright has been my constant companion for any kind of performance throughout my entire life—regardless of whether by ‘stage’ I mean a 600 seat auditorium or my bedroom, in front of my friends to sing. I think my fear stemmed from the pursuit of perfectionism and others’ judgments that entail if I fail. However, when I was performing my piece today, I did all the things I had in my mind to do and my body wasn’t shaking. I wasn’t nervous. It was the first time in my life that I wasn’t nervous when I had to dance in front of people, especially in front of an audience that consists of professionals. I realized that it was because my aim of presenting my piece was to deliver my intentions and thinking behind the creative process in the most lucid way possible, not to make my movements look perfect or beautiful.

But the anxiety stroke right at the moment I drew my hands from my neck and face, my final pose. My look towards Professor Harrell had a spoon of anticipation, two cups of anxiety, and a sprinkle of relief. He commented on the repressed emotion I projected and how that does not really belong to postmodernism (oops). But he also gave an interesting comment on how it had a strong image of an art installation with four mirrors facing each other, creating a symmetrical semi-diamond area in the middle of the stage. I appreciated that he valued the uniqueness of my work, but I felt that a lot of the meaning each movement carried was still invisible to them.

When Professor Harrell accidentally forgot to ask me to explain my work, the only thing that came into my mind was, oh, okay. Then I got frustrated trying to push down all the things I had to say down my throat. Luckily, he remembered that he forgot to ask for my explanation so I got the chance to liberate my words later on. I could see from the audience’s reaction, especially Professor Harrell’s, that some elements of my work were appreciated a lot more after listening to what my intentions were.

But today’s performance was in a classroom, an environment where we share our learning experience with each other and hence allowed the privilege to explain our works. I wondered, how do artists deal with the frustration of not being able to explain every single part of their work, which they have so carefully chosen for it to be in a particular place, to look a particular way, or to make a particular sound for a specific purpose? I do love hearing people’s interpretation of my work, make them “fill in the gaps” as Professor Harrell said, because it always offers a refreshing perspective. But I wonder, does it devalue my work if they don’t get the meaning I have intended, or has it just been endowed with more value because it appeals in dissimilar ways to people, becoming a point of discussion rather than a mathematical theorem that you cannot refute?