When novelty is no longer enough

This kid went to my high school and peformed at the competition.


Last night I attended "Bust A Groove," courtesy of ASUSU. It was free, which immediately conjured up the adage "You get what you pay for." In spite of my slight inclination to play the skeptic, I tried to void myself of expectations.

Fortunately, it proved to be a pleasant surprise. Bringing urban flare to small town, Utah, breakdancing phenoms from across the state gathered to wow aficionados and the unenlightened alike. As an unelightened, the first hour and a half floored me, but gradually the novelty wore off. It doesn't make sense, but I've felt this same feeling at concerts too. I am often completely enamored by the performance, yet still conscious of the watch on my wrist and my throbbing feet--restless.

Then, the question arises: how do we avoid losing novelty in our art? Granted, part of my restlessness could be due to my ignorance concerning the art, but I believe there is some truth in too much of a good thing. In my own art, I, as the performer, can get bored or redundant. This leads me to seek new paths of unfamiliarity. To engage an audience you certainly have to be engaged yourself. There is security in performing something routinely, but there is also great peril in that security: boredom.
When I vary from the beaten path, two things happen:
1) I'm fortified by rich improvisation and upwelled passion
2) I'm mortified by hesitation and glitches
The latter occurance is cause to resort to old habits, but it is never worth it. The rewards of somewhat experimental performance outweigh the shame. There is self discovery in risk. You may walk away red-faced a few times, but unabashed courage will take root with action.

Fellow artists, how do you circumvent redundancy?