Read (My Travels with) Agnes Moorehead – The Lavender Lady for Free Online

she was distant, objective, and cold and I was hurt. I was forty years old, an executive, husband, father and I sat there just like a little boy who is trying to act grown up. It was like with my mother. I wanted her to notice me. And this grand, domineering, creative, flamboyant, positive counterpoint of my mother had the same effect on me. She fit the part perfectly and hardly noticed me. However, she said things so unimportant in an important way and occasionally quoted from various plays and books and she seemed to be all-knowing. I was mesmerized by her, excited. There were so many words of wisdom. I felt anointed, as if I were in a religious experience. I was in her presence.
    After her first announcement and instructions, she said, “You want to be in the theatre? Do you know what the theatre’s all about? You’ve got to be a drudge.” I found out later that it was her favorite word and I loved it. “You’ve got to be a drudge before you can become a genius. To be a good actor, one must have a constant urge to work, unceasing, unrelenting work. You have to love to act and love to be on that stage. You can never let up a minute. If you do, you’re dead. She was a fabulous figure standing there with her chin jutting forward. She fixed us with her snapping blue eyes and railed at us as if we were a bunch of three-year-olds. And she shouted, “drudge, constantly, constantly. A good actor must be constantly learning, constantly studying, and constantly working even when he’s not making any money. A dedicated actor will constantly do this.” She talked in rhythm. She repeated words. She repeated themes. Next would be the same material but presented always with variations, always expanded in a number of different ways. She was fascinating. “The trouble with young actors today is that they’re not dedicated. They’re not willing to work, drudge! They think, ‘Oh, I know this now and I don’t have to keep learning it.’ No.” Her face took on a stern expression. Her eyes glittered something like the blue sapphire she wore on her finger. “Today’s young actors are self-indulgent, and self-satisfied, followed by permissive education. You lack discipline. You want everything doled out to you but you can’t swallow acting skills in a capsule. Success as an actor is 99% work and the other 1% is the way your particular spirit does your hard work.”
    It seemed like she could talk on and on and it was always interesting. “How can you continue to be interesting if you stop growing?” she commanded in astonishment. “What will you work with? What will you druff on? You druff from every experience in life you have ever had. Anything that I have ever learned in the University or in life I have used in the theatre. It’s like a writer. Your books are the entire content of you, of what you’ve seen, heard and learned.” Then she said something that I never quite figured out. “Talent is cheap.” Then she leaned forward, drawing her wrinkled face into a witch’s snarling, sardonic smile. “Talent is cheap, but not prevalent.”
    In “Bewitched”, she told us, she arose at 5 A.M., was ready for make-up at 6 A.M., started shooting at 8:30 A.M. and worked until 7:30 P.M., read her lines for the next day, and then popped off to bed. “And you must do this day after day, week after week. I work all the time. I’m always working, even when I don’t lack money. An actor never stops learning. I believe in excellence. Otherwise, why bother? Most men buck the ballet (a school included in addition to the scenes and lectures classes, pantomime, fencing, musical comedy, camera and film technique).” She went on. “But you must learn all the tools of your career. If you don’t want to,” and an imperial dash of the wrist dismissed all such deadbeats, “you can find a less-demanding school. When I came to Hollywood with Orson Welles”, and her voice grew stronger, “I impeccably taught myself all the skills of