The ‘What the Constitution Means to Me’ Star’s Best Acting Lesson Came From Her Dog

The following Career Dispatch essay was written by Cassie Beck, who stars in the national touring production of Heidi Schreck’s play “What the Constitution Means to Me.”

In February 2019, I picked up my gorgeous 2-year-old black lab mix from Animal Lighthouse Rescue in New York City. She had been airlifted from the streets of Puerto Rico to the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She was terrified. 

When we were finally home, I introduced her to her crate, bowls, and toys. Then, I left her alone. I had been coached to let her decompress in her own space where she can see and hear me but doesn’t have to interact. She sat up straight, back against the wall, and shook for two hours. She wore herself out. She was so vulnerable. My heart broke for her. She didn’t know that on the other side of all her fear, there was a life full of love, fun, and adventure.

We’ve all been told that great actors are fearless. But what does that mean? Just deciding to have no fear doesn’t really work. This idea is often coupled with another piece of advice: to “make bold choices.” So in an effort to be bold and fearless (aka a “great actor”), we try wacky things that have nothing to do with the scene; or we become reckless, throwing our whole body at a moment. (An audition partner for a commercial licked my face once. I was not happy.) 

We sometimes get so hung up on showing our willingness to commit to the part that we just throw energy around. We wrack our brains to think outside the box in order to give an interesting, memorable performance. Or sometimes, we shut down and just want to sit in the corner and shake. 

I named my dog Lola. After a couple of weeks, she seemed reassured that I wasn’t going to hurt her, she was going to be fed, and she would get to go outside for smelly walks. But the outside world was still scary. I never pushed her, only stood with her as she began to conquer her fear of other dogs, strange surroundings, and the dreaded elevator. I started to wonder how she was doing it. I wasn’t stuffing her with treats or tricking her out of being fearful; she was doing it herself. Was it just thanks to time and repetition? If so, she was moving with remarkable speed. 

 I started to pay attention. That’s when I noticed her technique: her unending curiosity. It’s what ultimately pushed her past her inhibitions and toward courage. I let her “choose” to get on the elevator once, rather than just leading her to do it. She sat and watched it for a while from behind my legs. Then she slowly stuck her head in for a few sniffs; next came one dainty foot and then another. She retreated a few times, head cocked, and then, finally, walked in with purpose. Today, she races into the elevator with glee and abandon—in other words: fearlessness. 

What if performers tried shifting fearful thoughts or sensations into curiosity? “I’m scared to do this run-through” can turn into, “I’m curious what it will feel like to put the whole play together.” “I’m dreading getting notes” can turn into, “I’m curious what the feedback will be”. This goes for self-talk, too, including my personal favorite: “I’m afraid I’m not prepared or good enough” can sound more like, “I’ve done what I can; let’s see what happens.” It’s a gentle shift, but I think it can ultimately lead to a more dynamic, connected, interesting process, audition, or performance—which is what we want! Fear is a distraction from presence, but curiosity sits right smack in the middle of the moment; and that is the birthplace of organic, unforced, truly bold choices. 

Two years later, Lola is totally feeling herself. I’m proud of how she continues to expose herself to new things with confidence. And she has a strong foundation from a loving home. I know for me, a strong foundation for any project is preparedness, sleep, and doing physical warmups. All that’s left is to show up with curiosity, because on the other side is a livelihood full of love, fun, and adventure. Besides, curiosity only kills the cat.