I’m getting to a stage as an improv teacher where my former-students are now teachers themselves.

That means I have grandstudents, and possibly even great-grandstudents.

But I am new to the perils of getting old. I haven’t got used to it yet, nor the responsibilities that comes with seniority.

I remember a former improv coach of mine who would let me do lights for his shows. I’d get one scene up on stage with his team each week. I was so nervous every time. I would get up there, standing between these titans of improv and I would wilt in the heat of my own expectations.

My improv was always atrocious in those shows. My scenes would stretch uncomfortably into silence.

Probably because there was no one to pull the lights on me.

From then onwards, that coach has always treated me with a sort of polite disdain. As if, for him, I was encased in amber as an artist. As if I hadn’t spent countless hours since practicing and honing my improv skills.

To him, I’ll always be that scared little improviser, trapped in the headlights of the oncoming show.

I hate that. I hate that I can’t grow in his estimation.

But recently I realised, I do it too.

One of the privileges of teaching is that you get to see improvisers right at the start of their journeys. Some students have natural talent and others really need to work at the craft before they see results. But having natural aptitude is no guarantee of future mastery. Likewise, struggling at first often produces an eventual skillset that is deeper and more nuanced. Innate talent can only take you so far. Tenacity and dedication to improving your abilities will always win out in the end.

I realised I was carrying around out-of-date mental snapshots of my former students based on who they were when they were in my class. Further, I needed to make an effort to update and reevaluate these mental models as often as possible. And that means seeing their shows, attending their classes, reading their blogs and making time to chat to them about where they are with the art form.

I don’t want to be someone with a fixed notion of what a fellow artist can achieve. I want to give everyone a thousand thousand chances to be astonishing.

Because that’s exactly what I hope for myself too.

<aside> 💡 Hey, my name’s Chris Mead. I write an article about improv almost every week. You can get the latest in your inbox by subscribing to my newsletter. Or check out the archive.

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