The Legacy of Joe Balfior

Posted by Barbara Garro in HandPrints Stories & Videos | 0 comments

© Barbara Garro, MA

Of all the teachers in my sixty-five years, none got through to me like my acting teacher/director, Joe Balfior. From our first meeting, it was as if my whole life played out before him.

I clearly recall sitting across from him as we sipped tea together at his squeaky, antique oak dining table. Never married, Joe lived alone on the first floor of a small brick house on a quiet street in Albany, New York. After his retirement, he taught students in his home, and I became one of them. I figured he was probably near eighty, and while he looked frail physically, his spirit projected a robust energy. “People tell me I am here to spread sunshine, and I’ll keep spreading it as long as I’m here,” Joe said.

Everything in Joe’s house told a story: eclectic paintings, silks, prints, and theatre posters lined the hallway. His music and book collections covered the living room walls, surrounded by rich antique furniture that was surprisingly comfortable. Even the bathroom presented a feast for the eyes. Thought-provoking posters encircled the room, and anecdotal books beckoned from atop the tank. Seeing Joe’s bathrobe and toiletries, I wanted to know everything I could about this fascinating man.

My Mentor Joe

Joe made me feel like an artist painting the canvas of my life, by forcing me to pay attention to my “paint”, always asking, “Is that what you want on your canvas?” He challenged me to look at what I did; why; and whether it served me well or ill. His two questions remain the guideposts that still rule my relationships today:Do I like the picture of me that I see when I am with this person? Who am I, in this person’s eyes?

If I expected fast results without the daily practice, Joe let me have it. “How can I get it through that hard Sicilian head of yours that to be in such a hurry is to waste your time? I can’t practice for you, and I can’t reach into my head and take what’s there and hand it to you. You have to be patient and do the work.”

Joe’s weekly lessons were a combination of life lessons and acting lessons. When he sensed I was ready to become aware of something, he would peel back a mask I wore, and show me what was true behind it. I remember when the first mask fell, and Joe got frustrated. “Who are you talking to? Who? I’m two feet away from you and you’re speaking to somebody out in my garage. That’s not communicating. You don’t need another person for what you’re doing. I might….” And then he stopped, lowered his voice and said, “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be teaching you and I’m yelling at you. Will you forgive me?” he asked with a hug.

“Communicating is like electricity. You need to complete the circuit,” he explained. “If you want people to listen to you, you have to make them feel that you are speaking personally to them. You can’t make what you’re saying more important than whom you say it to; you get no juice. The communication doesn’t flow. It’s dry, acrid, and pithy.” And he taught me that it’s the same in real life. Real communication cares as much for the other as for the self.

Communication is Love

An understanding and forgiving teacher, Joe taught me much about acting while he educated my heart. I learned to be open to whatever life brings: the joys and the sadness. He helped me to come to terms with my life, and to bless it all. I learned to breathe in life; physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

During our sessions, I caught glimpses of the enormous energy Joe had undoubtedly enjoyed through most of his long life. But by the time I came along, he was worn out by the end of our hour session, and I wished I might have met him sooner. I loved our time together. He loved me powerfully, like a father, and I loved him.

Today I am mindful of Joe’s legacy each time I practice my breathing, or perform in public; and I am grateful.