From
Desk Of Roland Tec
Department Of Membership
The Shifting Ground Beneath Our Feet
The Dramatist-November/December 2012
"It's not uncommon these days for us to hear of theatres-particularly those that have championed new work-shutting their doors for good. But another less-talked-about change is in the air and I'm not quite sure what to make of it.
I can think of at least three regional theatres that have, in the past year or so, eliminated the position of Literary Manager. In most cases, the duty of reading scripts, however, has not been entirely shelved (officially, anyway) and usually someone such as the Associate Artistic Director is expected to pick up the slack. And if we are to believe the propaganda surrounding these changes, the elimination of this position is in no way indicative of a shift in attitude toward new work.
Make no mistake. If a theatre needs to trim administrative costs in order to continue producing work-any work, even 400-year-old work-we have something to be grateful for. There is one more theatre surviving these tough economic times. But the elimination of Literary Manager posts around the country also presents us with an opportunity for soul searching. Because, in the end, it begs the question: What were these woebegone Literary Managers ever really able to achieve for us in the first place?
The answer? Not much.
Most Literary Managers I know are swimming against the tide. They love new work. They spend their lives readng it and championing it. And yet, they have little power to determine what gets produced and what does not. This makes sense, of course, if one believes that the best artistic institutions are those run by a strong leader with a strong vsion, i.e. an Artistic Director. Most theatres are not governed as collectives; they are led from the top down.
And truthfully, my heart breaks a little every time I have a conversation with another playwright who wonders how to get anyone to just read her work, let alone consider producing it. Writing for an art form that's in decline is a thankless job; but someone has to do it.
No, really. Someone does.
Why?
Artists serve a purpose. It's often murky and difficult to articulate or encapsulate in 140 characters or less, but it's important nonetheless. And theatre is powerful and sometimes dangerous: when it's great. If we allow our theatres to be nothing more than echo chambers for what's on television and online, we are failing not only theatre, but humanity.
The funny thing is, human beings don't often recognize it, but we hunger for change. Sure, change is complicated and unsettling, but we seek it out in our daily lives and in our art again and again. It is only the living writer who can bring an audience to new vistas.
So, if I accept that I have a moral responsibility to drive the art form forward, what am I to do without a Literary Manager waiting patiently for my latest?
The truth is so obvious it sounds trite. Do the work. On our own terms. By our own means. Period. Ultimately, we need only a handful of ingredients: a captive audience, actors to breathe life to text and the time and space in which to make it happen.
When we do this-if even for an audience of ten or twelve-we are transformed. We cease being whining disappointed wells of need and instead we become activists, artists, leaders. As such, we are set free."
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
"...Sam Beckett does. There's so much that we playwrights can learn from him. Do not write a word that is not necessary. No music. Listen to the sounds, the music your characters make, and put that down precisely, but not an extra note, not an extra word."
From
Which one writer or play had the most impact on my writing
Edward Albee
The Dramatist-November/December 2012
"I want to tell you about some of the things that Beckett has taught me. He taught me, more than anything else, and first: Do not ever imitate another playwright, especially if it's Sam Beckett you're planning to imitate. He is unique, he cannot be imitated; he cannot even be parodied, which is a true test of the extraordinary power of a writer. I don't understand why so many people think that Sam Beckett is an avant-garde playwright. I don't understand why so many people think that his work is obscure and difficult. Take Happy Days, for example. Completely naturalistic play. Act I, a woman buried up to her waist in a mound of earth. Well, we know that feeling, yes? Act 2, the woman is buried up to her neck-she is older-in a mound of earth. We know that feeling, too. That, by the way, is why it is a two-act play and not a three-act play.
Beckett was capable of mixing metaphor and reality without the metaphor ever getting in the way of the reality. He is the most naturalistic of playwrights. I'm convinced that if Waiting for Godot had first been performed on an outdoor patio, nobody would have been confused. And had Endgame been done in a recreation room, nobody would have said, "This is obscure, this is difficult, this is avant-garde." No writer that I know writes as purely, as clearly, as Sam Beckett does. There's so much that we playwrights can learn from him. Do not write a word that is not necessary. No music. Listen to the sounds, the music your characters make, and put that down precisely, but not an extra note, not an extra word.
There are probably four or five essential playwrights in the twentieth century: Beckett, Pirandello, Brecht, Beckett. And perhaps there are four essential novelists in the twentieth century: Proust, Joyce, Kafka, Beckett. Because Beckett did something extraordinary that no other writer has ever done. Not only did he reinvent the play, not only did he reinvent the drama, but he also reinvented the novel. This simple, pure, clear, most naturalisic, and most valuable of playwrights."
Which one writer or play had the most impact on my writing
Edward Albee
The Dramatist-November/December 2012
"I want to tell you about some of the things that Beckett has taught me. He taught me, more than anything else, and first: Do not ever imitate another playwright, especially if it's Sam Beckett you're planning to imitate. He is unique, he cannot be imitated; he cannot even be parodied, which is a true test of the extraordinary power of a writer. I don't understand why so many people think that Sam Beckett is an avant-garde playwright. I don't understand why so many people think that his work is obscure and difficult. Take Happy Days, for example. Completely naturalistic play. Act I, a woman buried up to her waist in a mound of earth. Well, we know that feeling, yes? Act 2, the woman is buried up to her neck-she is older-in a mound of earth. We know that feeling, too. That, by the way, is why it is a two-act play and not a three-act play.
Beckett was capable of mixing metaphor and reality without the metaphor ever getting in the way of the reality. He is the most naturalistic of playwrights. I'm convinced that if Waiting for Godot had first been performed on an outdoor patio, nobody would have been confused. And had Endgame been done in a recreation room, nobody would have said, "This is obscure, this is difficult, this is avant-garde." No writer that I know writes as purely, as clearly, as Sam Beckett does. There's so much that we playwrights can learn from him. Do not write a word that is not necessary. No music. Listen to the sounds, the music your characters make, and put that down precisely, but not an extra note, not an extra word.
There are probably four or five essential playwrights in the twentieth century: Beckett, Pirandello, Brecht, Beckett. And perhaps there are four essential novelists in the twentieth century: Proust, Joyce, Kafka, Beckett. Because Beckett did something extraordinary that no other writer has ever done. Not only did he reinvent the play, not only did he reinvent the drama, but he also reinvented the novel. This simple, pure, clear, most naturalisic, and most valuable of playwrights."
"These tattered texts remind me that I'm not merely a craftsman-for-hire; I may even (on my best days) be an artist. When I wrote them, I bled, and so I own them. They are my property."
From
What does Guild membership mean to you
Doug Wright
The Dramatist-November/December 2012
"I don't have a sprawling home, or even a single cabana abutting my non-existent pool. But I do have one tiny shelf in my office of the plays I've penned. Each word in them is genuinely mine; their collective vision sprang from the demons locked inside my feverish little brain. No one may change a word of text without my permission. Every director, actor and designer hired is subject to my approval. I am the only writer credited on each title page. These scripts exist simultaneously in two worlds: that of the theater, of course, which is highly collaborative, but also the land of literature, which is fiercely individual and idiosyncratic, where authorial voices are as distinct, as singular, as thumbprints or strands of DNA, where writers aren't rewarded for being "team players" but are valued instead for their eccentricities, their singularity, and their stubbornness in resolutely expressing their own hard-won, uncompromised truths. These tattered texts remind me that I'm not merely a craftsman-for-hire; I may even (on my best days) be an artist. When I wrote them, I bled, and so I own them. They are my property.
That is the one, incalculable reward of being a playwright: you are the CEO of your own imagination. The Dramatists Guild was founded to protect this essential principle, one that is (regrettably) always under siege. The Guild exists to protect my talent; not to exploit it. In its vigilant embrace, I can write unfettered with the reassurance that the worlds I create will always belong to me; I will never be forced to "cave." And that beats the hell out of a pool."
What does Guild membership mean to you
Doug Wright
The Dramatist-November/December 2012
"I don't have a sprawling home, or even a single cabana abutting my non-existent pool. But I do have one tiny shelf in my office of the plays I've penned. Each word in them is genuinely mine; their collective vision sprang from the demons locked inside my feverish little brain. No one may change a word of text without my permission. Every director, actor and designer hired is subject to my approval. I am the only writer credited on each title page. These scripts exist simultaneously in two worlds: that of the theater, of course, which is highly collaborative, but also the land of literature, which is fiercely individual and idiosyncratic, where authorial voices are as distinct, as singular, as thumbprints or strands of DNA, where writers aren't rewarded for being "team players" but are valued instead for their eccentricities, their singularity, and their stubbornness in resolutely expressing their own hard-won, uncompromised truths. These tattered texts remind me that I'm not merely a craftsman-for-hire; I may even (on my best days) be an artist. When I wrote them, I bled, and so I own them. They are my property.
That is the one, incalculable reward of being a playwright: you are the CEO of your own imagination. The Dramatists Guild was founded to protect this essential principle, one that is (regrettably) always under siege. The Guild exists to protect my talent; not to exploit it. In its vigilant embrace, I can write unfettered with the reassurance that the worlds I create will always belong to me; I will never be forced to "cave." And that beats the hell out of a pool."
"...the only reason I will control what I create is because almost a hundred years ago American playwrights banded together to ensure that that's the way it had to be."
From
The Last Page
What Guild Membership Means To Me
by John Weidman
The Dramatist-January/February 2013
"The Dramatists Guild means a lot of things to me, but first and foremost it means ownership and control. Absolute ownership and complete control of the work I create when I write for the theatre.
There are certain givens that many playwrights today simply take for granted. That a producer cannot fire them from their own play and replace them with another playwright. That no one can change a word of what they've written without their permission. That a producer cannot add interpretive artists-directors, actors, and designers-to their play without their approval.
The thing that playwrights sometimes forget is that these givens were not always givens. That in fact they were not "given" at all. That these protections were fought for and won by generations of playwrights working collectively through the organization that they created to establish and defend what are now accepted as fundamental working norms.
And that organization is the Dramatists Guild of America.
There's a playwright I know who believes that these essential protections are not something he owes to the determined efforts of Eugene O'Neill and Robert Sherwood and Edward Albee, but rather something he owes to the negotiating skills of his agent and his attorney. If that's the case, he should ask his agent and his attorney to negotiate the same protections for him next time he makes a movie deal.
The ever-expanding community the Guild has become, the ever-increasing number of services the Guild is able to provide, these are all part of the exhilarating way in which the meaning of the Guild continues to expand and evolve.
But every time I sit down to write for the theatre, I try to consciously remind myself that the only reason I will control what I create is because almost a hundred years ago American playwrights banded together to ensure that that's the way it had to be.
And in the end that's what the Dramatists Guild means to me."
The Last Page
What Guild Membership Means To Me
by John Weidman
The Dramatist-January/February 2013
"The Dramatists Guild means a lot of things to me, but first and foremost it means ownership and control. Absolute ownership and complete control of the work I create when I write for the theatre.
There are certain givens that many playwrights today simply take for granted. That a producer cannot fire them from their own play and replace them with another playwright. That no one can change a word of what they've written without their permission. That a producer cannot add interpretive artists-directors, actors, and designers-to their play without their approval.
The thing that playwrights sometimes forget is that these givens were not always givens. That in fact they were not "given" at all. That these protections were fought for and won by generations of playwrights working collectively through the organization that they created to establish and defend what are now accepted as fundamental working norms.
And that organization is the Dramatists Guild of America.
There's a playwright I know who believes that these essential protections are not something he owes to the determined efforts of Eugene O'Neill and Robert Sherwood and Edward Albee, but rather something he owes to the negotiating skills of his agent and his attorney. If that's the case, he should ask his agent and his attorney to negotiate the same protections for him next time he makes a movie deal.
The ever-expanding community the Guild has become, the ever-increasing number of services the Guild is able to provide, these are all part of the exhilarating way in which the meaning of the Guild continues to expand and evolve.
But every time I sit down to write for the theatre, I try to consciously remind myself that the only reason I will control what I create is because almost a hundred years ago American playwrights banded together to ensure that that's the way it had to be.
And in the end that's what the Dramatists Guild means to me."
Monday, May 20, 2013
"...and for the first time in such a terribly long time, fell in love with the theatre again by watching an innocent who let the magic of theatre wash over him with complete joy."
From Desk Of Gary Garrison
Department Of Creative Affairs
The Dramatist-Septemer/October 2012
Title: The Gift of Elijah
"I've been around the theatre a long, long time-well, almost forty years to be exact. Like so many of you, over those forty years I've seen a lot of theatre: high school and college theatre, community theatre, hole-in-the wall theatre, struggling-to-stay-alive theatre, regional theatre, off-off Broadway, Off-Broadway, and Broadway theatre. And during those same years, I immersed myself in the making of theatre as an actor, dancer, director, choreographer and finally, as a writer.
It's easy at any point, I guess, but particularly after 40 years, to be sometimes jaded and a little worn with a healthy dose of been-there/done-that/drank-the-Koolaid/bought the t-shirt which I now use to wash my car. But like everyone else, I still get excited to see a masterful new play (like Clybourne Park or Venus in Fur), am more than curious when a Latin superstar is attached to a Broadway revival and enthusiastically anticipate the arrival of a new original musical with a fresh idea (Doug Wright and Amanda Green's Hands on a Hard Body). But nothing before or after will ever match my reaction to a recent experience I had in the theatre.
A very special person in my life introduced me to a very special person in his life, and she in turn, chatted about the really special people in her life. One of those people was her son-a high school sophomore that LOVES the theatre (you could hear the word in all caps when she spoke about it). As a playwright, actor, aspiring producer and film director, Elijah LOVES all things theatre. He's a walking encyclopedia for names of artists, producers and productions. He draws his own show posters for the prouctions he's seen and those he wants to see. He writes his own plays, acts in his own plays, and by necessity I'm sure, produces his own plays. As I listened to his mother describe him, I was hit in the gut by something immediate: she could have been describing me when I was fifteen. As she was describing Elijah, I think I flashed back for a nano-second to my own youth, but quickly let the conversation race me back to the present. I mean, after all, that was 40 years ago and I'm such a different person, right?
As the Tony season was ending, and I was counting the days to the beginning of summer, I had one more show to see before I could cast my Tony ballot, Newsies. I went through the Rolodex of my brain, searching for a friend who might enjoy seeing the show. For a whole lot of reasons (some friends don't like musicals, some friends don't like Disney, some friends didn't like the movie, some friends don't like matinees, some friends don't like me, blah blah blah) I couldn't think of anyone. And then I thought to ask Elijah because I knew he'd enjoy it. I didn't know his taste, but the characters are around his age, most kids loved the movie, and I was betting he was an Alan Menken fan. So I made the invitation.
The day of the matinee I was feeling like-uhm, hmmmm, let's just say: not good,; my nose was a faucet, I was running a slight fever, I was starting a cold and I felt like I'd been backed over by a taxi a hundred times. Regardless, I drug myself to the theatre because I had to see the show, and I wasn't about to disappoint Elijah (who I understood was thrilled about seeing the show). As I rounded the corner to the theatre, my feet dragging towards the theatre marquee, I spotted Elijah standing beside his mother. Smiling ear to ear, a beacon lighthouse in each eye and an energy that radiated excitement and a little nervousness from every pore. There was no mistaking him: this was the kid that LOVED theatre. I said, "You must be Elijah." His energetic respond was, "Yes!" I said, "Are you excited to see the show?" His response was: "I'm sooooo excited to see the show!" I believed him. I know unapologetic truth when I hear it and I saw, in an instance, his love for all things theatre. Something told me right then, right there, this was not going to be my typical day in the theatre.
From the moment we stepped towards the lobby door of the theatre, I could almost feel Elijah's pulse race and his heart beat faster-it was that palpable. His eyes widened: it seemed like he couldn't see enough. Was it my imagination or was he counting down the seconds until he could get a program in his hand, study the stage, study the audience, watch the house lights fade and listen to the overture begin? Whatever it was, I was under a spell. I forgot my own junk that I'd carried to the theatre (tired, sick), and for the first time in such a terribly long time, fell in love with the theatre again by watching an innocent who let the magic of theatre wash over him with complete joy.
Elijah didn't watch the show from his seat so much as he saw the show perched forward on the first third of his seat-that's how close to it all he wanted to be. He greeted song after song with enthusiastic (and very genuine) applause; his face was a mirror for the stage: happy when the story was happy, sad when the story took a darker turn. I didn't have to know one detail of the story to know that Elijah understood it all. He heard every word of the text, every note of music; he saw the detail in the choreography and marveled at the architecture of the set. He was, in a word, a believer.
At the intermission when he, along with other audience members, cheered the cast off for their break, I knew something profound had just happened for me: I was witness to how theatre can transform lives, be it for an hour or for a lifetime. Something caught in my throat (my heart, if you must know) and I knew I couldn't speak, so I mumbled something to Elijah about hitting the restroom. As I rose out of my seat, he looked at me with a face exploding with happiness and said, "I'm going to get some souvenirs. Do you want anything?" I almost lost it right there. Souvenirs: remembrances that you witnessed something special, something worth remembering, something possibly profound to you. How could I tell this kid that the look on his face was all the souvenir I'd ever need because I'd never forget it?
As I walked away from Elijah I was at war with myself: the intense desire to be a theatre kid again in battle with this old self-aware intellect I've drug around, often like a dead weigh, for years. Surely there has to be a way to live in that joy again, I kept thinking; surely there has to be a way to reconnect with all the magic that theatre affords you. Can any theatre artist forget the headache and heartache of being an artist in a over-complicated world to rediscover the simple pleasure of life lessons learned through make-believe?
When I returned to my seat after intermission, Elijah was in his seat proudly sporting a newspaper boy's cap (bought at the concession stand). Already weak in the heart and soul, I had to turn away and choke back a few more tears. "Got the hat, huh?" is all I could manage. "Yeah, and look at this: poster, the c.d., the souvenir newspaper..." displaying what a teen-ager's savings could afford. Thank God the lights fell for Act Two so I didn't have to respond because, well, I couldn't have; I had nothing cogent to say.
When the show ended, and the audience spontaneously rose to its feet to show their appreciation for the gorgeous story-telling we'd all witnessed, I stood next to Elijah, happy to be standing, applauding the effort of so many who had made such an impression on this young man and so many others in the audience. This was a well-deserved standing ovation, and not your obligatory "let's cheer the television stars for remembering their lines" ovation. More importantly, when I looked at Elijah I saw the thanks he was extending to the cast in his posture, his sincerity, his enthusiasm and that familiar ear-to-ear smile. "Yes," I thought, "this is why you stand. This is when you stand; when applause alone isn't enough."
When the cast left the stage, and the audience began to leave, Elijah scooped up his show souvenirs, locked eyes with me, and said, "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll never forget this." I manage to mumble, "Neither will I," and I knew the truth of what each of us were saying.
I've often heard that to see the world through a child's eyes is profound, and I was blessed with an incredible gift to see my art through a kid's heart and soul. So in our regional theatre issue, where theatre is everywhere, I challenge you to see our artistry through the eyes of a child. If you let it, it can alter your world in ways you never thought possible, or maybe had just forgotten."
Department Of Creative Affairs
The Dramatist-Septemer/October 2012
Title: The Gift of Elijah
"I've been around the theatre a long, long time-well, almost forty years to be exact. Like so many of you, over those forty years I've seen a lot of theatre: high school and college theatre, community theatre, hole-in-the wall theatre, struggling-to-stay-alive theatre, regional theatre, off-off Broadway, Off-Broadway, and Broadway theatre. And during those same years, I immersed myself in the making of theatre as an actor, dancer, director, choreographer and finally, as a writer.
It's easy at any point, I guess, but particularly after 40 years, to be sometimes jaded and a little worn with a healthy dose of been-there/done-that/drank-the-Koolaid/bought the t-shirt which I now use to wash my car. But like everyone else, I still get excited to see a masterful new play (like Clybourne Park or Venus in Fur), am more than curious when a Latin superstar is attached to a Broadway revival and enthusiastically anticipate the arrival of a new original musical with a fresh idea (Doug Wright and Amanda Green's Hands on a Hard Body). But nothing before or after will ever match my reaction to a recent experience I had in the theatre.
A very special person in my life introduced me to a very special person in his life, and she in turn, chatted about the really special people in her life. One of those people was her son-a high school sophomore that LOVES the theatre (you could hear the word in all caps when she spoke about it). As a playwright, actor, aspiring producer and film director, Elijah LOVES all things theatre. He's a walking encyclopedia for names of artists, producers and productions. He draws his own show posters for the prouctions he's seen and those he wants to see. He writes his own plays, acts in his own plays, and by necessity I'm sure, produces his own plays. As I listened to his mother describe him, I was hit in the gut by something immediate: she could have been describing me when I was fifteen. As she was describing Elijah, I think I flashed back for a nano-second to my own youth, but quickly let the conversation race me back to the present. I mean, after all, that was 40 years ago and I'm such a different person, right?
As the Tony season was ending, and I was counting the days to the beginning of summer, I had one more show to see before I could cast my Tony ballot, Newsies. I went through the Rolodex of my brain, searching for a friend who might enjoy seeing the show. For a whole lot of reasons (some friends don't like musicals, some friends don't like Disney, some friends didn't like the movie, some friends don't like matinees, some friends don't like me, blah blah blah) I couldn't think of anyone. And then I thought to ask Elijah because I knew he'd enjoy it. I didn't know his taste, but the characters are around his age, most kids loved the movie, and I was betting he was an Alan Menken fan. So I made the invitation.
The day of the matinee I was feeling like-uhm, hmmmm, let's just say: not good,; my nose was a faucet, I was running a slight fever, I was starting a cold and I felt like I'd been backed over by a taxi a hundred times. Regardless, I drug myself to the theatre because I had to see the show, and I wasn't about to disappoint Elijah (who I understood was thrilled about seeing the show). As I rounded the corner to the theatre, my feet dragging towards the theatre marquee, I spotted Elijah standing beside his mother. Smiling ear to ear, a beacon lighthouse in each eye and an energy that radiated excitement and a little nervousness from every pore. There was no mistaking him: this was the kid that LOVED theatre. I said, "You must be Elijah." His energetic respond was, "Yes!" I said, "Are you excited to see the show?" His response was: "I'm sooooo excited to see the show!" I believed him. I know unapologetic truth when I hear it and I saw, in an instance, his love for all things theatre. Something told me right then, right there, this was not going to be my typical day in the theatre.
From the moment we stepped towards the lobby door of the theatre, I could almost feel Elijah's pulse race and his heart beat faster-it was that palpable. His eyes widened: it seemed like he couldn't see enough. Was it my imagination or was he counting down the seconds until he could get a program in his hand, study the stage, study the audience, watch the house lights fade and listen to the overture begin? Whatever it was, I was under a spell. I forgot my own junk that I'd carried to the theatre (tired, sick), and for the first time in such a terribly long time, fell in love with the theatre again by watching an innocent who let the magic of theatre wash over him with complete joy.
Elijah didn't watch the show from his seat so much as he saw the show perched forward on the first third of his seat-that's how close to it all he wanted to be. He greeted song after song with enthusiastic (and very genuine) applause; his face was a mirror for the stage: happy when the story was happy, sad when the story took a darker turn. I didn't have to know one detail of the story to know that Elijah understood it all. He heard every word of the text, every note of music; he saw the detail in the choreography and marveled at the architecture of the set. He was, in a word, a believer.
At the intermission when he, along with other audience members, cheered the cast off for their break, I knew something profound had just happened for me: I was witness to how theatre can transform lives, be it for an hour or for a lifetime. Something caught in my throat (my heart, if you must know) and I knew I couldn't speak, so I mumbled something to Elijah about hitting the restroom. As I rose out of my seat, he looked at me with a face exploding with happiness and said, "I'm going to get some souvenirs. Do you want anything?" I almost lost it right there. Souvenirs: remembrances that you witnessed something special, something worth remembering, something possibly profound to you. How could I tell this kid that the look on his face was all the souvenir I'd ever need because I'd never forget it?
As I walked away from Elijah I was at war with myself: the intense desire to be a theatre kid again in battle with this old self-aware intellect I've drug around, often like a dead weigh, for years. Surely there has to be a way to live in that joy again, I kept thinking; surely there has to be a way to reconnect with all the magic that theatre affords you. Can any theatre artist forget the headache and heartache of being an artist in a over-complicated world to rediscover the simple pleasure of life lessons learned through make-believe?
When I returned to my seat after intermission, Elijah was in his seat proudly sporting a newspaper boy's cap (bought at the concession stand). Already weak in the heart and soul, I had to turn away and choke back a few more tears. "Got the hat, huh?" is all I could manage. "Yeah, and look at this: poster, the c.d., the souvenir newspaper..." displaying what a teen-ager's savings could afford. Thank God the lights fell for Act Two so I didn't have to respond because, well, I couldn't have; I had nothing cogent to say.
When the show ended, and the audience spontaneously rose to its feet to show their appreciation for the gorgeous story-telling we'd all witnessed, I stood next to Elijah, happy to be standing, applauding the effort of so many who had made such an impression on this young man and so many others in the audience. This was a well-deserved standing ovation, and not your obligatory "let's cheer the television stars for remembering their lines" ovation. More importantly, when I looked at Elijah I saw the thanks he was extending to the cast in his posture, his sincerity, his enthusiasm and that familiar ear-to-ear smile. "Yes," I thought, "this is why you stand. This is when you stand; when applause alone isn't enough."
When the cast left the stage, and the audience began to leave, Elijah scooped up his show souvenirs, locked eyes with me, and said, "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll never forget this." I manage to mumble, "Neither will I," and I knew the truth of what each of us were saying.
I've often heard that to see the world through a child's eyes is profound, and I was blessed with an incredible gift to see my art through a kid's heart and soul. So in our regional theatre issue, where theatre is everywhere, I challenge you to see our artistry through the eyes of a child. If you let it, it can alter your world in ways you never thought possible, or maybe had just forgotten."
Friday, May 17, 2013
Monday, May 6, 2013
Richard Foreman, his work, and Old Fashioned Prostitutes (A True Romance)
Here's a great article/interview with Richard Foreman about his work, career, and new play, Old Fashioned Prostitutes (A True Romance).
Check out the entire article/interview with great pictures from the production.
Check out the entire article/interview with great pictures from the production.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)