When we walk out in front of an audience, for whom are we really performing? It has taken me many years of performing to answer this question. The seemingly obvious answer is... for the audience. But the real answer goes deeper than that.

I've been an actor as far back as I can remember, starting with plays in high school, community theater, and local children's theater as I was growing up in Cleveland, Ohio. I went to Carnegie Mellon University to study acting, came to New York after graduation, then did lots of summer stock, national tours, Off-Broadway, radio, and TV commercials. But the question "whom do we really perform for?" brings to mind an experience I had while doing a season of summer stock back in 1964.

Mike Makman, a.k.a. Professor Putter (Photo by David Makman)

It was one of those eight-week summer stock seasons in which the company does four different musicals. Each show runs for two weeks; while show number one is in performance at night, show number two is in rehearsal during the day. And so it goes for eight weeks: a real grind, but fabulous training for young actors and singers who have the energy. You can be performing a starring role in the evening while rehearsing a chorus part during the day for the next show. (Leave your egos at home!)

At the time, I was playing one of the lead roles in The Music Man, and the show was in its second or third performance. The audience was invited backstage to meet the cast after each show. On this particular evening I was feeling a bit low, because I felt I hadn't done a good show that night: I had missed some cues, screwed up some lyrics, was tired—just hadn't done my best. As I was standing backstage, a woman came up to me and said: "I saw you tonight and I thought you were wonderful. I've see all the shows this season. You're my favorite actor this summer, and tonight you were absolutely the best thing in the show!" I thanked her, and later got to thinking about what she said. How was that possible when I knew I had been lousy that night?

A few nights later, I was finally getting my role in The Music Man right. I had worked out most of the problems, and was really "on" that night. I mean, I was really flying, and the audience seemed to know it! After the show, I was standing backstage and the director came up to me and said: "Was there a problem tonight?" I said: "What do you mean?" He said: "You just weren't at your best. Is there something bothering you?" We talked about it for a while, and he said he actually felt that night's show was a season low for me.

Later that evening, I got to thinking. How do we really know how well we are doing when we perform—and whom are we really performing for? Are we doing it for the man in the audience who just had a fight with his wife… or the lady who ate too much for dinner and has an upset stomach or can't stay awake… or the young couple on their first date who have never seen a live stage show… or the guy who just got fired from his job… or our mom or dad, or the director, or the lady who thinks you're the best actor this year? How is it possible to do a good job in the eyes of all these different people? How can we give a great performance for everyone in the audience, since everyone is seeing the performance from a different point of view? Exactly whom are we trying to perform for, anyway?

I have come to the realization that we really have no idea who is watching us, or what each member of our audience is feeling, or what personal baggage they have brought to our performance. So, who is it we are really performing for? The answer I have come up with is: ourselves. We must do the very best we can… not for the booking agent in the audience, not for the client, not for our friends, wives, husbands, or kids—but for ourselves. It is our obligation every time we step in front of an audience, even if we are sick, or tired of doing the same thing over and over again. We are the only ones who really know how well we are doing.

I'm not saying I don't listen to what other people say—especially those whose opinions I respect. They may have different ideas, or suggestions for improvements. I listen respectfully, then weigh what I've heard. I let it filter through my own thoughts and objectives, then maybe change, add, or delete something, or keep doing just what I've been doing—because, in the end, I am the only one who really knows how well I did, as long as I know I did the very best I could.

This article is reprinted with kind permission from the August 2001 issue of The Linking Ring, the official publication of the International Brotherhood of Magicians.