Confessions of an onstage audience whore

At five minutes to eight, I begin to yawn. I am not sleepy; I yawn when I'm nervous.

I also pace. But people have told me in the past that my pacing makes them antsy. So, instead of the traditional straight line back and forth, I walk in a tight circle around myself.

When the lights dim and the crowd quiets, my heart dives into my stomach. The loop shrinks and I walk faster. My eyes water when I yawn, so I might dab away tears.

One minute after eight, the orchestra explodes into music. I wait in the dark, listening . . . and yawning and spinning and gulping (just to make sure I have not overlooked a fatal case of laryngitis.)

Then, I bound/sprint/crawl/slide onstage. Surprisingly, I don't feel dizzy from the circles.

This past weekend, I hobbled onstage. "Into the Woods," written by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine, opened at 185 Nassau Street in the Matthews Acting Studio. For two and half hours every night, I got to play with a brilliant ensemble of fairytale characters — Rapunzel, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, bakers, wolves and princes.

I played the part of Witch. Leaning on a gnarled branch, I limped into the stage lights and started a scene.

I have been told by actors and directors, "You are not supposed to look directly at the audience." Reasons vary: "It will make you nervous," "You'll break character," "They'll see you looking." I cannot help looking at the audience, though. And as soon as I walk onstage, I have the irrepressible urge to turn my face towards the shadowy blob of seats.

Within the first two minutes of a play, I know exactly who is in the audience. During the first minute, I find everyone I know (if my parents are at a performance, they are the first people I see.) Then, I scope out the others: child in the first row, group of middle schoolers stage left, relatives of this or that cast member in the back row center.

As one friend put it very bluntly on Friday: "Danielle, you are an audience whore." But I love watching audiences. It's a hobby I picked up onstage. Unlike whatever play I'm in, they are thoroughly unpredictable.

This weekend, the audiences were excellent — energetic, subject to fits of laughter, tears and applause. Clearly, they were having fun, pros in the art of audiencing.

My relationship with the audience was unique. As I hobbled on as the cranky witch last Thursday, I heard a shriek from the second row. Since the shriek was not a part of my scene, and because I have no peripheral vision due to a mask, I bided my time until I could face the audience.

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*First minute* I saw my friend Laura, eyes peering from her hooded sweater. I saw some friendly people who looked as if they might be related to some of the characters in the play. *Second minute* I found the shrieker.

I could not tell if she was a college student or a high school student, but her hands grasped at her face and her eyes grew larger and larger. Whenever I said a line, she jumped and shrieked.

I was just wearing a mask . . . Was I really that scary?

Apparently so . . . in only three performances, I managed to strike terror into the hearts of at least four children and maybe one freshman.

I don't have brothers or sisters. The last time I legitimately made a child cry was in first grade when I kicked Jason Virtue in the shin on the school playground (I swear upon my life, he kicked me first.)

Anyhow, the cringing kid seems to be the new addition to my personal play, the one I'll be watching when "Into the Woods" begins its second weekend. I encourage you to join the cast of the audience somewhere on campus — there are about a billion different plays. Of course, I recommend "Into the Woods."

I'll be watching for you.