in　an　obscure　play　at　a　backstreet　theatre。　My　part　was　a　real　challenge；　furiously　rehearsed　for　weeks。

On　the　second　night　after　opening；　I　was　aware　of　a　strange　lack　of　response　from　the　house。　Believing　there　was　something　lacking　in　my　performance　I　tried　a　little　harder　–　and　harder　still。　No　improvement。

Only　in　the　interval　was　the　terrible　truth　revealed：　There　was　no　one　in　the　audience。　I　was　mortified。　To　this　day　I　feel　the　blush　on　my　cheek　when　I　think　of　myself　pouring　my　heart　out　–　to　no　one。

I　quit　acting　soon　after　that。　It　obviously　wasn’t　the　right　choice　for　me；　if　a　response　was　so　essential。

By　contrast　think　of　an　artist　like　Renoir；　who　went　on　producing　pictures；　day　in　day　out；　year　after　year；　decade　following　decade。　Nothing　ever　stopped　him；　no　amount　of　discouragement；　poverty　or　failure。　He　painted　away；　regardless　of　people’s　opinions；　in　pure　delight　at　his　own　creativity。

To　be　an　artist　merely　for　the　return　it　may　bring　is　as　doomed　as　entering　a　relationship　only　for　what　you　hope　to　get　out　of　it：　warmth；　togetherness；　intimacy；　sex；　security；　money；　status　or　whatever：　The　minute　the　reward　is　not　forthing；　it　all　es　to　an　end。

Love　is　like　art：　to　survive　it　has　to　be　genuine；　sustained　by　its　own　imperative；　and　never　requiring　an　applause。

A　lot　of　people　have　a　fear　of　mitment。　I　suppose　what　they　really　abhor　is　being　dependent；　handing　over　control。　I　can　relate　to　that。

What　I　can’t　understand　is　why　anyone　should　want　to　control　another；　especially　in　the　name　of　love。　For　if　you　attempt　it；　it　leaves　the　other　person　with　no　option　but　to　resist；　evade　or　deceive　you；　or；　worst　of　all；　succumb　to　your　will；　in　which　case　their　personality　expires；　and　you　are　stu