44-2,p27

The Value of Persistence

by Dusten Galbraith

"How did you learn to do that?" It's a question I've been asked many times while juggling. "Practice, lots of practice" is my usual answer, but the truth of how I learned and why I kept it up runs much deeper.

I travel a lot on business. In 1985 I was on a long trip to New Jersey. In an effort to find something cheap and legal to do alone in a motel room, I bought a copy of "Juggling For The Complete Klutz." This looked like the perfect activity. Unfortunately, my klutziness was more than complete. I got stuck at the first exchange!

The book and the beanbags lived in my suitcase for several years. They came out once in a while, but I could never get past that third throw. Then in 1989, on a trip to Milwaukee, I found Art Smart's Dart Mart & Juggling Emporium and told my sad story to owner Jim Boland. He reached across the counter and handed me a booklet entitled "Scarf Juggling." Money changed hands. I rushed back to my motel. The next evening I had it!

When I got back home I dug the Klutz book and beanbags out of the basement. A quick rereading showed me my problem. I hadn't understood the pattern. Now it was time to get to work. The scarves were lots of fun, but the beanbags eluded mastery.

That winter, I took my sons to a magic and juggling show presented by Bruce Block (famous cigar box balancer and juggler). After the show Bruce signed autographs and showed the steps of learning to juggle. One of the things Bruce showed me was "how not to" by rushing the throws. Just the way I was doing it. Now I had two of the things I needed, the pattern and the rhythm.

Slowly but surely (mainly slowly) I improved my control. After a few trips to libraries for books on juggling, and to Milwaukee for hints from Jim, I qualified for the "basic cascade" award from the Juggling Institute. From there I couldn't be stopped! It was rubber balls to bounce, rings, clubs and devil sticks. I did a show and taught a class at the YMCA and did some shows for Cub Scouts. I've even been seen walking down the hall at work juggling quarters.

Well, that's how, but lately I've been asking myself "why?"

While practicing at the gym or the park, I've met some other people who know how to juggle. Notice, I say "people who know how to juggle," not "jugglers." They learned the cascade and a trick or two, then stopped. When I asked them where they had learned to juggle they said they had learned from a friend one day in college or picked it up while working as a caddy.

I also met a few people I considered to be real jugglers - not professionals, just people who juggle on a regular basis, loved it and were always looking for more tricks and ideas. Some had learned slowly, like me. Others had picked it up in almost no time at all. Their typical first line upon meeting in the park was something like, "That's great! Have you tried this variation?" I'm still in touch with some of these people.

Why, I wondered, did some people learn to juggle and then stop so easily while others were hooked and loving it.

You're welcome to draw your own conclusions, but I think in my case it was the time and effort required. For some who learned quickly and easily, juggling was a cheap thing, something of little value not worth pursuing. While for me, who had long pursued the goal, it was a prize to be loved and greatly valued.

The Wages Of The Streets

by Danny Avrutick

I don't know how much money I make. It comes in and it goes out without much scrutiny. Days and nights, cafes, subways and juggling shows all get mixed together. How much money I make varies with how far I want to push myself or compromise my dignity.

And believe it or not, money is not always the primary goal. It occupies a high place, but there's also artistic satisfaction, learning new material and just plain taking it easy and enjoying the experience.

A beginning street player will be very concerned about money, or even brag about it. This is natural in the early stages when one's self-identity and esteem are fragile. You can almost measure a player's maturity and cultivation by the reticence to talk about money.

In 1970 I was playing duets in San Francisco with a fiery, frizzy-haired violinist. He found me sitting on the pavement hunched over my music and he taught me to stand up straight and play with presence and pride. We performed together, and I made my first real money with him. People often asked us how much money we made. When I would naively divulge an approximate figure, my partner got furious. "I don't ask them how much they make!" he raged.

I couldn't understand or share his sensitivity at the time, but I've long since gravitated to his position.

In New York City in 1976 there was a cabaret night of street performers. The M.C. gave a flattering introduction to each act and afterwards chatted with them. He inevitably asked in a trivial quiz show tone, "And whats the most you've ever made?" or "How much do you usually make?"

The suckers were honest, while the more experienced people just made up any figure to get off the hook. Everyone was uncomfortable with the exchange and the real winners just refused to answer. I remember best a black magician who just looked back at the M.C. and pleaded, "I make a decent living. Can I get away with just saying that?"

At one point I felt so offended I shouted out to the M.C. "How much money to you make?" and a few others in the audience applauded in sympathy. But the question is why so many people feel its their business to know.

Some people ask it this way: "How much can you make?"

Well, how badly do you want to amass how much? Do you want to shout and rave and jump up and down, or retain more composure? Do you want to burn yourself out fast, and maybe be exhausted the next day as well, or do you want to persevere into the night still smelling sweet? Do you want to subject your girlfriend into using her appeal to shake a basket around in front of you, or retain a more self-contained attitude?

How far do you want to go? How desperate are you? What are your standards of minimum inner self-respect?

It's all okay, but the street player must choose consciously and accept the fact that there will be subtle effects on his or her self-esteem which are worth more than money in the pocket to one who is sensitive.

Sure, I make a lot of money sometimes, but how about the days I've trudged around with my sack only to find no spots, or no inspiration or dog doo everywhere? And I still go out to face it from scratch every day.

I go out to face the people who watch and take pictures and walk away as if I were a building or a pigeon, and jerks who pull their truck up next to me and leave it with the motor running in the midst of my most inspiring expression.

And then there's the knowledge that some family and strangers look down on me as a beggar, telling me how much money I could be making if I'd just put this much time and energy into a high-tech profession.

After a profound, heart-wrenching discussion of these points and a few beers too many, I might be seduced into thrilling you with figures of "the most money I've ever made." Maybe. But please don't pop the question lightly!