Mezzanine Friends
By Monya De
I was about to commit the biggest Los Angeles sin possible: saying no to someone’s art. A friend’s art.
Background: I have known him for over a decade. He is an alum of my alma mater and a triple threat who leaned into acting, writing, and directing through college and the ten years thereafter, the person who would be known in flyover states as an overnight success.
And he wanted me to come to his show.
I had supported him gamely, consistently: the short film screenings, the long film screenings, the live performances, the comedy. Tickets were purchased; the comp list was for his bros.
But, over that time, my tastes had sharpened and refined. (I prefer that description to “became picky and sometimes more interested in doing laundry than parking in Hollywood on a Saturday during the Era of Peak Clubbing.”)
I was no longer interested in anything and everything, and a previous showing of his niche performance art left me, a part-time theater critic, saying “Well…I… appreciate his . . . talent . . .”
His show was dark. Meandering. I wanted something fun.
A quick digression to explain how this friend invites people to purchase tickets to his shows. We are not talking about a quick Instagram post or an email to the list we used for Adam’s birthday invite. No, this is targeted Messenger messages and Instagram DMs to each individual friend and acquaintance. Addressing them by name. This began before automation tools got really good, so I would absolutely believe he was putting in the effort to write out each greeting by hand.
Our school alumni are reputationally obnoxiously close-knit. That being said, I realized I had only ever interacted with him at alumni events and one house party he had hosted, where I met his new girlfriend. Social media dispatched news of their wedding, one kid, maybe another, I am not sure.
For years, I had included him in many dozens of invitations: birthdays, socials, get-togethers. They did not, however, include introductions to top casting directors or the next level of screenwriting agent.
The hustle must be respected, of course, and I respected it. Respecting the hustle is more or less why movies, television, and venture capital exist. But, after having shown up to his DMed beckoning for the aforementioned performance art, I received another message, personalized, the energy level at “golden retriever.” Another show.
I took a very deep breath, realizing I was torching my reputation as the supportive friend, and said “I’m excited for you, but this particular kind of performance is not for me.”
He responded with understanding. A few months later, he started advertising another show of the same ilk. To my surprise, another personalized DM arrived.
Ok, so setting a boundary hadn’t worked. Then I noticed it was a day before the performance.
The dude was trying to fill seats.
I could not for the life of me figure out why he was advertising to me, inefficiently, by hand, and completely neglecting his built-in fan base. He had worked with some huge names in Hollywood, and it would have been much easier to create a social media campaign targeting those fans. Not to mention: an audience full of old friends is not exactly what you want if you want to get honest feedback on your art.
And yet. The one thing I had learned while fundraising for cancer research donations during my triathlon preparations was that prior donors/customers are your best prospects.
Hmm.
I detached, necessarily, contemplating my newfound identity as a “mark.” A mezzanine friend.
I thought of how nice it would have been to get to know the children and wife of a longtime friend in the vast suburbia cosplaying as a city that is Los Angeles. I did not want to think of him as just the “talent,” just another eager beaver in the streets full of starry eyes, but I was being forced to.
I thought of a newer friend. Rock musician. The number of times I have gone all the way to the Sunset Strip, where your entire destiny is reduced to a parking ticket; shared her posts before her shows, the numerous times I invited her to something fitting both our niche interests.
Like delayed clockwork, the text replies come in weeks later: “Oh hahahah sorrrryyyyyyyy I was in the studio!”
We did hang out at a TikTok-famous venue once, but then I remembered I was there helping her to convince drunk Gen Zs to accept free tickets to her show.
As it turns out, the dreamers may be getting it all wrong. A Nashville singer, Sammi Rae, lamented on the Threads app about none of her friends attending her last show but noted she drew 30 perfect strangers. The other artists on the app quickly advised her she could not build a career based on people attending out of association or obligation. The 30 strangers she brought in were the start of something real.
And it makes sense. The whole point of art is to connect with others who need that art. Filling seats with mezzanine friends could work for a while, but the person giving orchestra-level attention while sitting permanently in row ZZ (Obstructed View) is allowed a certain fatigue, a dulling of enthusiasm for the play or dance or magic show or immersive concept she did not choose, when interest and effort is so unrequited. The artist has a mandate to do the work to find their true audience.
I have relaxed into my role as a mezzanine friend to some, and am starting to delight in the knowledge that I can be choosy because the stakes are so low. We will be exactly the same, whether I go or not.
Monya De is the screenwriter, director, and producer of ANOSMIA. She is a journalist, physician, startup founder, and actor/narrator. She is on the research reviewing committee for the International Association for Dance Medicine and Science.
She has been a reporter for the ABC News Medical Unit, a commentator for the television show Hopkins, and a script consultant for shows including Harry’s Law, The Ghost Whisperer, Brothers and Sisters, House, and The Firm.
