by Jewel
It was not out yet nor a western per se. It was a Civil War–era drama called Ride with the Devil, directed by Ang Lee. Acting had been a goal for me since the beginning of my career, though I rarely had time to go out on auditions. I happened to be in L.A. when Ang Lee’s office asked to meet with me. Thankfully there was no script yet or sides, so I did not have to read lines (a practice I was not particularly good at). Instead Ang asked me about how I was raised. To my surprise he asked me to walk for him. I walked across the room. “Again,” he said, in his quiet but assertive way. I walked back across the room. “Okay,” he said, “This time be heavier. You are too light on your feet. Don’t be graceful. Be determined.” I was caught off guard but obliged, and put more weight in my heels and let my arms feel the gravity of the room. He stood watching with his arms crossed, his hand holding up his chin, his head tilted slightly to the side. He stared at my feet and my fingers. Abruptly he looked up at my face and said, “Thanks for coming.” That was it. I called my agent and recounted the odd experience. I expected I would never hear from him again. Every great actress in Hollywood was trying out for the part.
I was shocked to be offered the female lead a few weeks later. I had less than zero experience other than theater classes in high school, and was very intimidated by the cast of talented young male costars. Ang assured me that we would get together for weekly acting lessons. He began our next meeting by handing me his watch. “Pretend you are not from this planet. Pretend you don’t know what this is. Go.” I felt utterly ridiculous, but when he handed me the watch I dropped it immediately. It fell to the floor with a thud. I hoped I hadn’t broken it but didn’t pick it up. I felt if I had no idea what something was, I wouldn’t want to touch it before I’d figured out whether it was safe or not. I studied it there on the floor. Once assured it did not have legs or teeth, I touched it cautiously with my toe. When nothing bad happened I reached down to touch it quickly. I studied it like a child would. Was it soft? Edible? After I went as far as touching my tongue to the man’s watch he stopped me and I handed it back to him a bit sheepishly. He put it on his wrist. “Let’s do some tai chi.” After that the lesson was over.
For weeks I had lessons that consisted of nothing more than tai chi and walking. Ang gave me glimpses into my character. She was a Civil War bride, widowed. She would have a baby at a young age and need someone to protect her. She would learn to be tough and survive. As the filming date neared I began to panic. I needed to learn to act, not walk!
On the day of our last lesson, Ang and I shared a car back to a hotel in New York. It dawned on me that this was it—time was up! I felt utterly unprepared and massively underqualified. In tears, I looked at him and whimpered, “Why did you hire me? You could have any actress you want. Why me?” He looked at me, his face as calm and smooth as the moon, and said, “You have period teeth.” And that was it. No pep talk. I turned back to the window. I was the only actress who had not fixed her teeth. That’s what had gotten me the role. Awesome. He got out and left me with my low feelings of self-worth and doubt. Looking back I think he was counting on these feelings, and also on my willingness to look inside myself and dig deep for solutions. It mirrored the journey of my character, I would find out. If I hadn’t been blinded by sheer terror, I would have laughed at the irony.
I showed up on set in Missouri to find a cast who, for the most part, were less than pleased that a pop star had been hired on their credible film. Many felt I was going to ruin it. I silently feared the same. I didn’t want to disappoint Ang, much less make a fool of myself in front of millions who were going to buy tickets just to see if I could pull it off. One actor in particular was quite mean to me, which was just the kick in the butt I needed. The more he hated, the harder I dug in.
I got into character using the tools I already had—writing. I was able to connect with her fear, her longing, and her strength when I wrote from her perspective. I wrote a song about her loss and her isolation and sang it before I filmed my scenes, to get into the emotional framework. By the time we finished rehearsing and began filming I felt mildly courageous, and for better or for worse was as ready as I would ever be.
I don’t think even Ang was prepared for how little I actually knew about filmmaking. In one scene early on, I was to walk into a cave where some soldiers were and deliver a line. Action was called. At the end of the shot, Ang came up to me and said, “Jewel, you’re not hitting your mark.” I thought he meant metaphorically—an emotional point I was not getting to. I vowed to act harder, to bring more emotion. Action was again called, again I walked into the cave, and again I said my line, and again Ang came up to me afterward and said, “Jewel, you need to hit your mark.” He was perturbed, I assumed, by my lack of ability. I had a talk with myself and I went big the next time action was called. But still I fell short of the mark. Ang came out from behind the camera and said, “Jewel, you have got to hit your mark!” This time he pointed downward and I followed his gesture with my eyes to see a beanbag on the floor. The actors saw the light go on for me and some snickered. I never missed a mark after that.
I had no idea there were close-ups to save emotional intensity for, or long shots in which I could be less dramatic. I was spent every day before we got to my close-ups. Ang took me aside and pointed out that I was approaching acting like a theater artist. This was not in real time. I had to conserve my energy over a twelve-hour day, not blow it in the first two hours as if it were a live concert. This was most helpful. I began to get the hang of the technical aspects, and with time I gave myself permission to just assume I knew what I needed to know about acting emotionally. I remembered what Sean had told me. He said I was a natural, and to stay out of my own way.
Voices in my head would say things like, You don’t know what you are doing. You are going to make a fool of yourself. You are alone. You are afraid. I stayed up nights worrying about the next day’s scenes. Fear was once again ruling my life. To which I told myself, I am capable. I can figure anything out. Half measures dictated by fear are the only thing that can make me look foolish. I will show my heart and try my hardest. I am joyful.
I bought a tape recorder and taped my antidote sayings, listening to them on a loop all night. It sounds silly, but it really helped. I would wake less exhausted, less anxious, and able to access my courage and some joy for the day rather than doubt and fear. Even if my costar still hated me, I didn’t. I might not be the best, but I would try my best. That’s all I could do.
The best part of filming was the head wrangler named Rusty Hendricks. He was older, kind, familiar, more like the people I had come from—rural, in a word. On days off he would let me ride the horses to unwind. He taught me to rope, and I practiced on a roping dummy every day waiting for my scenes.
Halfway through filming I got the news that Jacque was losing her battle with cancer. She had been sick for some time, but we always thought God would spare her. We thought she could raise her frequency to the point cancer could not exist in her. We thought she could pray and meditate it away. She was in hospice and her family was told to come say their goodbyes. I was devastated. She had become my rock, my source of unconditional love.
Ang was kind enough to film around me and let me go back to San Diego to see her. I had paid her hospice and her medical bills, and gathered with her family and my mom, and we stayed with her until she passed. It was the Fourth of July. To this day conjuring the memory of her emaciated frame brings such a sadness to my heart and tears to my eyes. I loved that woman, and as odd as it sounds, I loved Zarathustra. I would never get to speak to either of them again. I would no longer be able to call Jacque when I lost faith in myself and hear her sweet pep talks or have her there to encourage me when I felt small. Dusk settled in as we stood around her bed, and she drew her last breath just as fireworks began to explode outside. We cried and we laughed, sure that she was orchestrating such a grand and dramatic departure. We held hands around her body and watch
ed the beautiful display of color explode across the sky through the window.
I returned to filming but felt utterly alone. My friend and guru was gone. I was so convinced I was not strong or capable of knowing answers for myself. I still could not see my own strengths, and felt I needed my mom or someone else to tell me what to do.
Making the film and writing the book of poetry helped me deal with the grief, and my saving grace was that my dear friend Lee was there with me every step of the way. He had worked with me for several years, and he was my only friend and connection to Alaska. He cooked for me on busy days, went on tour, and came with me to the set. We lived in the same house together in Missouri where we filmed. When I was exhausted he rubbed my back and soothed me to sleep. He was aware of my mom’s influence over me, though for the most part I kept my spirituality, and my mom’s, to myself. And I kept it from Ty as I told stories of my life. I felt no one would understand other than those of us who were followers of Z.
• • •
BENEATH THAT PINE TREE, Ty listened as I carried on about the movie and myself. When I finally paused, he asked if I wanted to go fishing. We walked with a clear fishing line, no pole, to the spring. I watched his thick hands deftly puncture a bright orange fish egg on a small silver hook. He dropped it in and guided the line to a quiet eddy, where the water calmed. He spoke quietly, letting go of the cocky bravado he had led with. A fish bit and he lifted it out of the water. It had a silver and pink belly and brown spots, a brookie. Ty strung the line through its gills and tethered the stringer in the water to keep it cool while he caught others. At the end of an hour five small fish hung from a clear line, glittering in the sun. We would fry them later and eat them. I watched him handle the tiny fish, cleaning each one. The air took on a magical quality as the light turned golden and specks of dust were illuminated in the sun’s final rays. I was falling in love. I walked behind him as he took the fish to the camp and began to wonder what was beneath his shirt.
That night beneath a full moon we kissed for the first time, the water sang and babbled and the dry fingers of the pines rubbing together in the wind serenaded us. I could see his muscles working beneath the translucent sheath of his skin. We glowed. I felt as if the brightness of the moon was illuminating our hearts and lighting us both from the inside. The passion and our connection were so visceral it was hard to move. “If I pass out,” he whispered, “don’t leave.” I smiled and lifted the white sheet over me like wings.
twenty-four
do you love me like i love you
Ty was still rodeoing and was traveling with the Professional Bull Riders, an organization he and nineteen other riders founded in order to make bull riding a stand-alone event, a trackable sports property, and to make their salaries comparable to those of other pro athletes. The top athletes of rodeo hardly made enough to retire. Promoters and the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association made most of the money.
He had not had the chance to see me perform yet, so I kept him on the phone one night as I walked out in front of a crowd. I held the phone up and asked all eighteen thousand people to say hello. Then I put the phone in my bra strap and put my guitar over my shoulder, while Ty stayed on the line for the first several songs, in a front-row seat from hundreds of miles away.
The next night he handed his cell to a cowboy behind the chute and climbed on a bronc. I could hear his breathing intensify, and the announcer say, “And now, the great Ty Murray is up on the great bucking mare Spring Fling.” I heard Ty call for the gate, the grunt of the animal, the whistle eight seconds later, and the announcer again saying, “That was Ty Murray, ladies and gentleman, putting in a score of eighty-one.” He returned to the phone shortly after, breathless.
Eventually we would spend every day off with each other, either on the road or at the rodeo or bullring. I fell in love with the culture, studied the ins and outs of each event, and had the opportunity to partake in brandings on ranches that were hundreds of years old. I was usually the only female who wasn’t in the kitchen cooking or watching kids but instead out with the guys.
I’d grown up working cattle, but Alaskans did not do things the way they did here in the Lower 48. Ty was a fifth-generation cowboy and there was a way of doing things that had been passed down from generation to generation. On one particular day we were at the Muleshoe Ranch in Gail, Texas, and a cowboy named Gary had given me a colt. It was customary to name a colt after the person who had given it to you. Gary was called Nanner because they said his nose was longer and more hook-shaped than a banana. He was nice but prone to sudden moods, from what I had been told. The guys asked what I would name my new colt, but before I had the chance to respond, Nanner turned on me and said something quite mean in front of everyone. Everyone turned quietly to me to see what I would say. His remark hit me hard and stung, though thanks to years of barrooms and touring, I turned to a cowboy next to me and said in a bright tone, “Hey, Kleet, I think I’m gonna name my colt after the guy who gave him to me after all.” “You’re gonna call ’em Gary? Nanner?” Kleet asked. Many of these guys did not know me. All they knew is I was some pop singer and they wondered what the heck I was doing there anyway with the King of the Cowboys. Everyone was curious to see how I’d handle myself. “No,” I said. “I’m gonna call him Cocksucker.” At this the guys broke up laughing. Gary was less amused but knew he had no ground to stand on and he looked down and grumbled and fiddled with some rope in his hand. No hard feelings though. We went on to be good friends. Cowboys tease hard and test each other and move on. I didn’t mind holding my own.
Later that day the owner of the ranch asked Ty if I knew how to rope. He invited me to get up and heel a few calves. Everyone’s favorite job at brandings is to heel calves, but all I’d ever heeled were Ty’s feet as he walked in front of me. I mounted one of Ty’s horses and headed into the pen with Chris Shivers, a world champion bull rider. I was nervous, but knew enough to go in slow so as to not stir the herd. I pulled my hat down hard so it wouldn’t blow off—the cowboy equivalent of toilet paper on your shoe. I remembered what Ty told me, that I had to change the plane of my rope depending on the angle I approached the calf. Chris got one before me and I was so nervous I wouldn’t hold my own. I swung my rope and pantyhosed one (when you catch the calf around the hip instead of the ankle). “Bring ’em!” the pit boss called, and I dallied quick and turned my horse toward the fire, where the guys mugged the calf down and took my rope off so I could drag another. After the first one, I got into a groove. Chris and I went one for one, and eventually there was only a single calf left. Chris swung and missed. This perked the gang up. I walked in and took my shot, and missed. “Woooooo!” one hand called, razzing us both. Everyone gathered around yelling, “Chris, you better not let some singer out-rope you!” “Don’t you worry,” he answered, “No way she will!” He swung and missed. Finally I swung and got that last calf clean around the ankles. I was so proud I could have burst. But I remained stoic. Just another day in the office, boys. I took my dally and with my free hand tipped my hat at Chris as I headed out of the pen. To this day, when all the cowboys get together at the bullring they love to tease him about it. He still turns bright red. All those men teased me so much that I am not too proud to say that having the chance to rub it in his face in this book brings no small pleasure. It brings a large one.
Ty was wild in those days. He drank whiskey and carried on. Many nights were spent in honky-tonks, me dead sober, but enjoying the fun everyone was having. When Ty was with me on the road, his presence usually inspired all my band and crew to be a bit braver and a bit wilder. He and Steve Poltz were fast friends. There were many a drunken night when clothes were switched and Steve would be wearing a cowboy getup and Ty his baggy faded 501s and vintage tuxedo shirts, his hat tipped up and cocked to the side at what I called “drunk o’clock.” Hotel rooms were trashed in Vegas during the National Finals Rodeo, and once my drummer Trey jumped off the balcony yelling, “
I’m a cow-fucking-boy!” after imbibing with Ty. To be fair, he had asked my permission first. I said sure, as long as he knew that no matter what, he had to play the next day. He played the next day with me at Royal Albert Hall with a severely sprained ankle. I remember having him play the kick drum intro to “Everybody Needs Somebody Sometime” extra long to torture him a little. They were fun times.
Those were my last tours overseas, as it was too hard to be gone six months at a time. I realized why so few musicians had serious family lives—they were gone too long to sustain a meaningful connection. I was tired and I was in love and I wanted to give my relationship with Ty a chance. I figured love is a garden, and if you want something else besides daisies to grow, you need to tend to the roses. Despite my critical acclaim for Ride with the Devil, I realized I would have to live in Hollywood and go out on auditions on what few days off I had if I wanted a second entertainment career. I enjoyed acting, but I didn’t need to be any more rich or famous. I moved instead to Texas with Ty and took a break after Spirit.