A Moment of Truth

from Todd Eric Hawkins, Managing Director

This past week I attended a preview of one of the new musicals opening on Broadway this season. It was a Monday night, I wasn’t particularly excited by the star, nor was I really in the mood to sit in the theater. But...I had a ticket so off to the theatre I went.

One of the disadvantages of being “in the business” is that there is a tendency to
be hyper-critical of theatre, especially when you are not in the mood to lose yourself in the story. Admittedly, this was one of those nights. I will not mention the show, because I am sure that my impression of it is completely based on my own psychological state, not on the quality of the show, or the performances. However, even in my disgruntled mood, a single line, in the hands of an incredible actress, pierced through all of the crap that I was carrying around. With just a few words, she was able to deliver that elusive, magical moment of truth: an emotional connection so strong that the audience has no choice but to connect.

At that moment, everything in my otherwise unremarkable, slightly annoying day fell away. For the first time that evening I stopped looking at the lights and the set and wondering how much they cost. I stopped nit-picking every performance and every song. I stopped being an ass.

Of all of the shows I have seen, I can only think of two occasions when a member of the
ensemble delivered, in my opinion, the best performance of the night. I have always heard the adage, “There are no small parts, only small actors.” Both of these performers have proven that statement.

It is rare for actors—especially those in the ensemble—to hear how much their performance affects audience members. I think good work deserves praise, no matter how small the role. So, while I will not mention the show, I would like to thank that actress—in spirit here, and in a letter delivered to the stage door—for reminding me why I am in the theatre.

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The Power of Story

from Judson Jones, Artistic Director

One of the things I love about New York is the subway system. So many walks of life. So many histories. So many geographical, religious, and political backgrounds.  So many different clothing options! So many different faces. I love the shared glances you have with someone when you realize that you’re both eavesdropping on the same conversation and a bit a juicy news just came out. And for the most part, I love the myriad of musical performers (some good…and some not so good) that hop on the subway to play and then pass the hat. And all of this is crammed together in a hole in the ground.

The other day, it was an unusually early morning commute. I was on my way to a set and, as TV shows tend to start shooting at the break of dawn, I was not in the mood to do anything but go over my lines in silence. So of course there’s going to be a baby that’s having a complete and utter breakdown on the train. This child had some lungs and wanted everyone to know that he was not happy! Put on my headphones, but instead of hearing Jeff Buckley, I heard Jeff Buckley being backed up by the crying baby chorus. Ditched the headphones and tried to focus on my script. Then the doors open and I see two guitars and an accordion walk on. I looked up to the ceiling and thought, “Well, my morning just got better.” I was just not in the mood. Then they started playing one of the most beautiful and sad pieces of music I have ever heard. I’m not an expert of Spanish music but it sounded like it was perhaps a traditional folk song. The first thing I noticed was that the child stopped crying almost immediately. He just stared at the musicians, his cheeks still covered in tears. And then I looked across from me and there was an elderly woman mouthing the words, with tears in her eyes. There was such passion and pain in her eyes. I’m not sure what the history of the song is, but to her, it was very personal and it was very deep. I just sat there and watched her, and the child, and the band. And I smiled. Oh, the power of performance.

Today, throughout the world, two holidays are being celebrated by millions. Passover and Easter.  Passover celebrates the great exodus of the Children of Israel from the bonds of slavery in Egypt. And Easter celebrates the resurrection of a messiah. Both of these holidays celebrate the miracle of great change, journeys, and hope. Today people will gather in homes and perform the ritual of the Seder and others will gather in churches and take communion.  And at the heart of both of these rituals are the stories that will be told as they have been for many, many generations.

Theatre, at its core, is just that. Storytelling. Take away the lights, the score, the costumes, the scenery and what are you left with? The story. But the paramount aspect of the storytelling is the communion we share with each other. It is during time when we come together and we don’t just observe, but we partake. And when we leave, we should all be full.

Have a truly wonderful holiday.

Jud

Lies & Truth in the Theatre

from William Franke, Director of Development & Communications

Much has been made in the past few weeks of Mike Daisey’s one-man show The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs, particularly the truthfulness of it.  Perhaps none of this would have come up had it stayed in the theater and not been presented as truth on This American Life, where it transitioned from theatre to journalism.

(Full disclosure: I have not seen the live performance at the Public Theater. But like many people*, I was enthralled with the half hour excerpt of Daisey’s performance presented on This American Life. I was equally captivated by the episode that they ran last week, “Retraction.”)

I know some people who find it ridiculous that Daisey is being lambasted for being less than truthful. They repeat Daisey’s defense that he is an artist of the theatre and that his monologue—a piece of theatre—does not need to meet the same rigors that a piece of pure journalism does.

The reason this sticks in my craw is that it reminds me of a refrain I’ve heard over and over again: that actors = liars. (A few examples: A friend of mine was told by her in-laws “We can never be sure if you’re telling the truth, because you’re an actor.” I was once approached by a former coworker to pose on the phone as her grown daughter’s boss to give a glowing recommendation to a potential employer. When I refused, she said “C’mon, you can do it. You’re an actor.”)

My understanding is that, while Daisey created a theatrical piece, he did so as a storyteller, purportedly relating stories of his actual experiences without caveat, without footnote. Instead, what was brought to light was that he made much of it up to manipulate the emotions of the audience.

Yes, actors in any play are up there on stage saying things they don’t mean, things they may not personally believe, pretending to be people they aren’t. But when actor and audience enter the theater, there is a contract, an understanding between both parties about what is going on. Even with plays based on historical events, audiences understand that liberties are taken: historical personages and events are merged for the sake of dramatic expediency. The irony of this situation is that in a room full of people sharing an evening of these agreed-upon lies, something transcendent often occurs. Greater truths are discovered. That is the power of theatre when everyone is in it together.

We Are Family

from Todd Eric Hawkins, Managing Director 
 

In school, I was constantly bullied; I was ganged up on, beaten, and terrorized on a regular basis. Or at least that is how it felt at the time.

On my first day of sixth grade, I transitioned to a middle school in Norman, Oklahoma. It was the first time I wasn’t able to walk to school; I had to ride the bus.  This concept to me was terrifying. At 11 years old, I was already almost 6 feet tall and I was painfully shy—a combination that would prove to be a liability.

I sat on the bus that first morning, scared of the new experience. To soothe myself, I held my books to my chest, trying to make myself as small as humanly possible. I can only assume that I thought that if I stayed still, none of the other kids would notice me and, therefore, wouldn’t pick on me. My height made this impossible.

One of the boys on the bus asked if I was a boy or a girl. I, of course, told him that I was a boy. At the time I didn’t realize it, but the next move would be the beginning of my many encounters with bullies. He told me that he thought I was a girl, because I carried my books like one. Everyone laughed and that was all it took, I was called a fag for the first time in my life.  At the time I didn’t even know what the word meant, let alone whether I was one or not.

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. When I look back on that time and the events that followed over the course of the next six years, I am oddly thankful. Without that teasing I wouldn’t be the person I am today, nor would I have found a home in the theatre.

In the Drama Club, I found my allies, a merry band of misfits who were all looking for some kind of escape from the cruel, unjust world that we were forced to inhabit. In the auditorium after school, during countless hours of rehearsal, I felt like a valued member of the team. That feeling gave me the strength to ignore the name-calling and fight back when pushed.  I discovered who I was.

The theatre has always provided me with a sense of family. Whether it was high school, college, or Theatre East, the people who surround me when I am actively engaged in the art of making theatre are the best people I know. 

I think much of it has to do with the collaborative nature of the theatre. Nothing can get done without everyone involved doing his or her job. Success depends upon it.  Even when things don’t seem to be going well, the show, as they say, must go on, and the players must pull together and do whatever it takes to make it happen. That lesson may be the most valuable thing I have learned from the theatre.

I am honored to be a part of the Theatre East family, and as part of that family, I am committed to doing whatever it takes to make it a success. Thank you for welcoming me and above all for your continued support.

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Are You Not Entertained?

from William Franke, Director of Development & Communications

 

While I realize that quoting the catchphrase from an Oscar-winning film from 11 years ago may not seem the most timely of ideas, I couldn't help but think of Maximus bellowing to the crowds at the Colosseum after reading the latest post at An Uncommon Mind. Subtitled An Autodidact's Guide to Public Education, it is the blog of Joanne O'Brien, who is a high school teacher as well as a longtime friend of Theatre East*.

 

In her post from last Sunday, Joanne addresses the challenges of Engagement vs. Entertainment in education, asking "How did we come to confuse engagement with entertainment, and to insist that teachers perform like marionettes, bouncing around the classroom, mouthing scripts prepared by others?" She goes on to argue that truly engaging educational instruction "challenges the student to seek out the answers to questions of 'how' and 'why' in addition to the 'what' and 'who' of a topic. This search goes hand-in-hand with challenging activities, and rewards students for delving deeply into subject matter."

 

As I read this, it occurred to me that what Joanne strives for in the classroom is what Theatre East strives for in the theater. In the classroom, the "why" makes learning so much more interesting than the simple rote memorization of names, dates & places. And of course in the theater it is enjoyable to see complex characters in interesting situations and it's rewarding to be able to parse out the "why"—the motivation— behind each character's words & actions. But that would stop at being merely entertaining. At Theatre East, as we lay out in our core beliefs, we believe that theatre enables a greater connection to the world and to each other & that it is a catalyst for critical thinking.
We seek to advance the dialogue of the shared human experience through works that utilize simple storytelling,providing our community with a platform to deepen its understanding of themselves, each other and the world we share...works that provoke you to see the "what" up on stage, think about how the "who" is you, and challenge you to debate what your "how" & "why" would be under those circumstances. And not to have the solution laid out up on stage, but rather allow it to be  something you discover & unlock inside of you.

I feel we've done a pretty good job wrestling with some meaty issues in our past couple of seasons with EYE OF GOD (what are the limits of faith, especially where they intersect with a woman's right to choose?) and THE SOLDIER DREAMS (who has the right to make end-of-life decisions for a loved one? and how can we connect with them before it's too late?) and I look forward to the discussions that will follow NORMALCY in August-September. What will those post-show conversations be like? Well, you'll have to come to the show and see for yourself!

 

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*(and wife to Theatre East's Resident Composer & Sound Designer, Scott O'Brien.)

Planted Seeds

Jim's aunt, grandfather, visiting relative (actually from NYC!), and uncle (L to R)

We're excited to have our first guest post! This one comes from Theatre East community member & supporter Jim Farfaglia:

Seeing plays in New York City is a big deal for an upstater like me, so back in December 2007, while in town visiting a college buddy, I was looking forward to a good show. The tickets to a play at the Beckett Theatre were a gift from a friend of a friend, who offered just a brief preview as he placed them in my hand: “I’ve heard good things about this one.” I was ready for the larger world theatre can offer our certain lives. I was ready to see things fresh. But what I wasn’t ready for, standing and applauding that performance of Harvest, was what broke ground in my opening heart as that curtain closed.

I was raised in a rural area near the Great Lake Ontario, where winter blizzards and rain-filled springs create rich muck farms. Two of my uncles’ families made their lives on those farms, and my earliest memories are filled with all the drama homespun lives can produce. The characters of Harvest wrestled with that kind of life, and watching their passages through the play was a tender reminder that only a few of my uncles’ generation were still with us and, when we buried them, we would also be burying the farming life. The emotion I felt for both the Harvest performance and my ancestry stirred with my applause—and the seed to somehow honor my family was planted.

A few years had to pass before I could nurture that seed to fruition. I took every opportunity to talk with my relatives—the older the better—asking them to share what they remembered from those farming days. We nosed around the root cellars of our memories, compared notes over dinners made from Grandma’s recipes, held photos of our loved ones like prized produce.

During the first half of 2011, I wrote feverishly, something within me urging: Now is the time. By September the book was complete and Country Boy, a collection of poems about the people, places and thinkings of my youth, was bound. How fortunate I was to be able to place a copy of it in my father’s hands six weeks before he passed away, and how my memories curled up with his in our last talks.

It’s not often that we can see so clearly the line between a life-changing event and its humble beginning.  Today, when I attend a book signing and read from Country Boy, I always start by telling the audience about a little theatre company tucked away, like the sweetest farm garden, in a corner of New York City. And I tell them about a play that brought me to my feet, that brought my pen to paper. Thanks Jud. Thanks Christa. Thanks cast and crew. May you always hold close the truth that Harvest did not die with its last performance. In fact, it thrives.

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you can find Country Boy on Amazon.

you can find a schedule of Jim's readings at the CNY [Central New York] Arts Center here.

Advocacy and Inspiration

from Todd Eric Hawkins, Managing Director 

“Before we sang, we spoke. Before we danced, we walked. Before we wrote, we told stories. Before we told stories, we lived.

Those songs, dances, writings allow us to speak to one another across generations. They gave us an understanding of our commonality long before the DNA told us we are all part of one glorious procession.

At any point on the timeline of human history, there are tales to be told, of love and loss, glory and shame, profundity, and even profound stupidity– tales that deserve retelling, embellishing, and, if need be, inventing from whole cloth. This is our story. This is our song. If well sung, it tells us WHO we are and where we belong.” 

These words come from the opening lines of Wynton Marsalis’s lecture “The Ballad of American Arts,” delivered on March 30^th, 2009 at the 22^nd Annual Nancy Hanks Lecture on Arts and Public Policy. Speaking to a sold-out audience gathered in the Concert Hall of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Mr. Marsalis’s lecture focused on the importance of arts and culture to the American identity. It was the most powerful speech on the arts in America that I have ever witnessed.  (View the entire speech here).

The lecture, held each year on the eve of Arts Advocacy Day in Washington DC, is named after the second Chairperson of the National Endowment for the Arts, Nancy Hanks. During her eight-year tenure (1969–1977), Ms. Hanks was able to grow the budget for the NEA from $8 million to $114 million—an unbelievable feat considering she was able to do so at time when members of Congress disputed any funding of the NEA at all.

Ms. Hanks believed strongly in the value of the Arts, dedicating her professional life to ensuring that the arts were a vital part of the American dialogue. It is fitting that the lecture is targeted to an audience of arts advocates from across the country the night before they meet with their elected officials to reinforce the value of the arts in their districts back home.

Arts Advocacy Day is the only annual event that brings together a broad cross section of America’s cultural and civic organizations, along with hundreds of grassroots advocates from across the country. Each year the event is instrumental in the advancement of key legislative initiatives, maintaining levels of funding for the federal cultural agencies, and influencing tax, international, and educational policies. (learn more about Arts Advocacy Day 2012 here)

We must ensure that every American has the same opportunities that we at Theatre East had growing up. Not to turn everyone into an artist, but to give everyone an understanding of what the arts make possible, and to capture the imaginations of those who will find it their calling.
Before we produced, we learned.

Each of us can share stories of teachers who saw something in us that no one else saw, or community theatres that gave us our chance to play and explore. People who encouraged us to major in drama, and continue to hone our crafts in graduate school.  Without that support system, how would any of us have had the courage to move away from home to put it all on the line in New York City?

Today we must remember that we were afforded those opportunities because someone before us fought to make the arts part of the American dialogue.  This year as I represent Theatre East in DC, I would like to take with me your stories of how the arts have impacted your life.  What about the arts has changed you? How would it have been different without the arts and why is it important to you? Please share your stories in the comments below, or email me directly at Todd@TheatreEast.org.

There is power in numbers, and together we will ask that the arts and arts education be a national priority.

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Sacred Spaces

 from Judson Jones, Artistic Director

So this post is a bit like the stew I made this past week: It’s a little bit of this and a dash of that. But I promise you there’s a rhyme & reason to it.

While spending time with family over the holidays, Christa & I found ourselves in the tiny town of Winona, Texas and ended up taking a tour with some family through the old forgotten high school. Winona is a small, sleepy town of around 582 people. I seem to recall dating a girl in my youth from Winona (or perhaps it was Mineola). Anyway, we were walking through the abandoned hallways when we came to the auditorium, now filled with debris, discarded desks, and dust of years past.  I love high school theatre. I'm not sure why exactly. Perhaps for the same reason I love watching high school football: You see a lot of mistakes and a lot of missed opportunities, but there's so much heart. As I walked through the old theater, you could almost see the audiences of the past. Hear their laughter. Feel their suspense. I sat in one of the old wooden seats and strained to hear the heartbeat of the old place.  You just don't see auditoriums like this anymore. Everything has become so utilitarian. Art, by itself, is no longer enough to deserve its own space. Art now has to be art-and. These once magnificent sanctuaries have been replaced by Cafe-toriums and the like. The works of Shakespeare aren’t enough. It can’t be just Horton Foote. It has to be Horton Foote and a Fiesta Station. Sorry. Wasn't my intention to get on a soapbox.

Back to the auditorium. I made my way through the space, across the stage—most of the boards rotted away by time—and found myself in the wings, right outside the dressing room. This is such holy place for me. I stood there, staring at the closed door, and could almost smell the pancake makeup. I thought of how many young actors must have stood there…waiting for the moment. The call for places has been made, but the opening music hasn’t begun yet. You hear the audience just beyond the curtain, people are rushing around, there’s electricity in the air that is palpable…and then there’s a pause. A beat. A divine moment. Everything goes quiet…and you breathe it in. This may not be the Nederlander, but to these magnificent souls it might as well be. As I stood there I thought of the countless students that stood in that same sacred spot. And I felt them. I felt their hopes and dreams, their passion, their love, their nervousness, their joy. And I cried. By myself. Just stood there and took in the moment.

Saturday night Christa and I went to see the Harold Clurman Laboratory Theatre Company’s production of Imagining Heschel at the Stella Adler Studio—a production I highly, highly recommend seeing before it closes on February 11^th. I was again reminded of the holiness of the theatre: to see actors pouring out their very hearts and souls for the audience; to experience a designer’s work as it folds into this world that will become your journey for the time you are there; to hear the words that a playwright has labored over, sometimes for years, to make sure that every word, every bit of punctuation is perfect and needed; to realize a director’s work, the hours of planning and pacing and doubting, all in the hopes that this piece of art connects in some real way with those present. Oh, it is something to be revered. For me, there’s no other place like it on earth.

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do something

from Christa Kimlicko Jones, Associate Artistic Director, Director of Programming:  

Back in the summer of 2001, when Jud & I lived in Austin, we were producing with the dirigo group. At that time, the group bit off a huge project called The Gypsy Chain—a heartfelt new musical, with over 30 in the cast, new music, full band, book, the whole thing. We dealt with the largest budget we’d ever encountered up to that point. While there were a lot of immediate producing lessons learned during this project, there were also some personal major life lessons. During the project, we had a fundraising event (as you are wont to do) and we had the honor of the presence of the lovely Julia Butterfly Hill (the activist who sat in a tree for two years). I remember the exact moment I met her that night...I can only describe her as pure beauty. She walked up to us, barefoot, flowing hair, jeans & a baby-doll tee that said in lowercase letters across her bosom: ‘do something.’ I couldn’t take my eyes off of her as she spoke. And all I kept thinking was "Hmm…do something." "How interesting," I thought, "that it is in lowercase letters. That perhaps, a seemingly understated act could actually mean something in the world." I remember thinking "Wow, she sat in a tree for 2 years. That is far from understated. That is HUGE." But the more I listened to her, the more I realized that perhaps she didn’t think that.  Perhaps she felt that it was understated. It was simply what she had to do. And then I thought "Yeah, whatever; there is NO WAY that I could do that!  SHE really did something.  She really made a bold move.  How can I even compare? What the heck am I doing? Plays? Geez. What does it matter?"

Every choice we make has an impact on the world. Every thought, word, and action has impact. Every time we make a choice to do something or not, to speak or not, we are changing our reality, changing our world. The question is not, “Can we make a difference?” but “What kind of a difference do I want to make?

—Julia Butterfly Hill

It was that evening that I realized that while, no, I can’t sit in a tree for 2 years…I can produce theatre.  And that is something.  It is what I know to do.  I can produce a play that might help someone see the world in a new way…to perhaps think a bit more...to feel…to inspire someone else to act as they might. As an actor, I can create a role as best I can so that a story is heard fully. As a teacher of the arts, I can help inspire others to find their voice and do their work as they might.  As an artist, I AM doing something. This is my activism. And I think that Julia would be proud. You know, I think that so often it’s easy to feel this way.  Like putting on a play, or making a movie, or acting in a play isn’t perhaps enough. Or that working at a law firm, or doing administrative work, or babysitting, or, etc., etc., etc., isn’t enough. Well, I encourage you to really think about it. It seems to me that if you are diving in and moving things forward and aiming to be the best human you can be (we all have our parts to play), that you are indeed doing something. Of course, we can always strive to challenge ourselves further—strive for excellence—and that, in itself, is doing something. Being an active participant in this amazing world is doing something.

So, as I write, what I am most excited about is being a part of bringing this next world premiere to New York audiences. In the fall of 2012, Theatre East will bring you Normalcy by Bennett Windheim. It's a story that asks great questions and provides few answers, hopefully sparking many diner, subway, and maybe even breakfast conversations. We at Theatre East will be doing what we do.  And we look forward to sharing it with you.  And hopefully inspiring you…to ‘do something’ too. 

Don’t deny the power of those little words.

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In Support of the Arts

from Todd Eric Hawkins, Managing Director 

It is hard for me to watch the news without spending a great deal of time with my head in my hands. I would think this is true for many viewers on both sides of any given issue. We have become an extremely polarized society and, in doing so, we are losing the middle ground.

I don’t claim to be an expert when it comes to politics. I don’t know the intricacies of the banking industry, or the factors that have led to our current economic crisis. I should know more, but it is difficult to wade through the talking points coming from both sides of any given argument. I am not sure when our world became so black and white and uncompromising.

Part of my confusion comes from how I was trained to view the world. I am and have always been a student of the Arts. In the fifth grade, I played the cello in the orchestra. I learned harmony and what it means to be a part of a group, each with their own individual part that makes a whole. In high school, I took Speech & Debate and learned how to present facts, debate issues and, in the process, form my own opinions. In college, I turned to playwriting and was taught how to tell a story, present differing opinions and allow disparate voices a chance to be heard.  The Arts...taught me how to think.

The Arts now suffers the same fate as other debated topics, it has been boiled down to a black and white issue. To one side, the Arts are a waste of tax dollars and less vital to the education of our children than math and science—an argument that has successfully led to the decimation of funding for public arts education. To the other side, the Arts are not only integral to a quality of life, but they have a positive impact on local economies and provide our community with a platform to explore ideas.

As a finance manager I understand that the arts can be seen as the easiest thing to cut in order to make ends meet. However, the very principles that art taught me are now missing from the way we as a society debate our most pressing issues.

As we approach the end of 2011, I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has worked so tirelessly and given so much in support of Theatre East. I am proud to be part of an organization that focuses so much of its time, energy and resources to arts education and community engagement.

Thank you for your continued support; I look forward to continuing the dialogue in 2012.

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original photo by cseeman

"I Hadn't Grown Up Enough to Know It"

from William Franke, Director of Development & Communications

Thanks to everyone who read last week's post...it certainly seemed to resonate with a lot of folks out there.

I came across this video of Patsy Rodenburg on YouTube that I just had to share. Ms. Rodenburg is a Master Voice and Shakespeare teacher, and this video is from a series of talks she gave at Michael Howard Studios and it tells a very similar tale to what we discussed last week.

The whole video is worth watching, but this abbreviated clip (3 minutes) gets to the heart of the matter. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

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What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

from William Franke, Director of Development & Communications

Yesterday I went to see a wonderful production of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure at NYU's Gallatin School. I'm friends with the director and also know one of the performers from working with her in a Gallatin production of 1001 last fall (I was there as a guest artist).

Now, Shakespeare is wonderful and there have been all kinds of articles and musings about how applicable he is to all disciplines & walks of life. But what struck me was my conversation with the young woman I worked with before. She's now a sophomore and when I asked how things were going, she was busy, of course, but she said she was also "figuring out what I want to be when I grow up." While she had a realistic view of this task, she felt a sense of urgency; even though she agreed when I told her she had time yet to figure it out, I could tell she was anxious (as many students are) to get it settled. (She had at least determined that she no longer desired to be a lawyer, so that helped narrow it down.)

I like to think that her experience in the theatre will only serve her well later in life, no matter what course she chooses. The time management skills she's developing when rehearsing a play are invaluable, because she's working both individually and collaboratively with a larger group. There are those times spent exploring the text in rehearsal, but that follows grappling with its mysteries alone, on her own time, so that she has something to bring to the table in those group sessions (not to mention learning her lines on her own time, so her nose isn't always stuck in the script).

The group dynamic should also prove beneficial. Regardless of the laurels bestowed on any one person for any one achievement, the fact is that no one truly accomplishes anything alone, whether it's landing on the moon, winning an election or a championship, creating the next iPhone, or discovering the next great medical breakthrough.

But really the most important way this student's theatre experiences will have an impact on her later life is something we can't pinpoint now. Something intangible now will come as an epiphany years down the road. I recently read a story about the late Steve Jobs and his similar experience while at Reed College, where he took a calligraphy course:

I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it’s likely that no personal computer would have them....

[emphasis added]

And it's this subtle, unquantifiable effect that both theatre & the arts has that is perhaps the most profound. This ability to permeate our consciousness, only to bubble up in unexpected ways—whether we're students (lucky enough to be) studying the arts in (the ever-dwindling) arts programs in schools, or a member of the audience at a play. I firmly believe that there will be someone out there, maybe even at our next reading (on November 21st), who at some point will have a chord struck deep within them and realize how that piece of art relates to a challenge they're facing in their own life, and that realization, that connection will help them overcome that challenge, triumph & endure. Or maybe even help them realize what they want to be when they grow up.
 

Hey, Theatre East-ers, we want to know:  

What is the most profound effect—immediate or delayed—that theatre (whether as theatre-maker or audience) has had on your life? Let us know in the comments.

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The Wonder of Theatre

from Todd Eric Hawkins, Managing Director 

For my 12^th Birthday, my family took me to see The Man of La Mancha at the University of Oklahoma. It was the first time I experienced live theatre. I remember very few details about the events that led up to stepping into the lobby of the theater, but from that moment on everything is etched into memory.

The theater was the most beautiful place I had ever been. The red carpeted lobby that curved around the back of the theater, the chandeliers that hung majestically above my head as we waited to be seated. There was an excitement in the air. I watched as people began to fill the lobby, I listened as they reconnected with friends and talked about their lives and the people they knew in common.
 
When we entered the theater, my Grandmother asked me to find our seats as she handed me the ticket stubs. I walked up the side of the aisle looking for the letter E and then walked along the long curved row of seats until I found the numbers on the tickets. The crowd was pouring into the theater as we sat down. As they entered, the noise from the lobby became a whisper. The kind of hushed speech I heard at church on Sunday mornings. 

As the lights began to dim and the orchestra started to play, I was overcome with a sensation that I had never felt before. I felt as though an electrical current was shooting through my body. My Grandmother would later recall that at that moment I sat on the edge of my seat and stayed there for the entire performance, as if I was trying to “be up there with them.” 

Whatever I thought I wanted to do when I grew up before that night vanished from my 12 year-old mind. I was being summoned to the theatre. 

It would be 14 years before I experienced that sensation again so fully, the day I arrived in New York City for the first time. 

I flew into LaGuardia Airport filled with all of the stories of danger that my parents had instilled me. As the cab crossed the Triborough Bridge and headed down the FDR, I thought it was the noisiest, dirtiest city.  Why would anyone choose to live here? Then the cab turned off of 50^th Street onto Broadway and Times Square came into view. Suddenly, I was home. 

I spent that evening ignoring my parents’ advice and walking the streets of Times Square, stopping to read each billboard and picturing my name in lights. I passed Tommy, Kiss of the Spiderwoman, Phantom of the Opera, and Angels in America. 

The following day I had an audition for several regional theaters through my college program and I had purchased a ticket to a show—my first Broadway show—for after the audition to celebrate my success. A success that would unfortunately never happen, not the way I had imagined anyway. 

I performed my monologue from Division Street the next day for a panel of two judges. In order to go forward to the actual audition you had to receive a yes from both judges; I got only one. I was devastated. 

That night I drug myself to the theater to see Cyrano: The Musical. I took my seat and waited for the show to begin. The lights dimmed and the overture began. Suddenly, as the music began to swell the name Cyrano began to be written on the scrim as if it were being hand written by Cyrano himself. The signature ended with a long stroke of the pen across the surface as the scrim began to rise. Suddenly, I was no longer a bitter and depressed 26 year old, I was 12 again. 

The power of theatre is that it has the ability to uphold, tear apart, and reassemble how the viewer thinks, feels, and, in some cases, behaves. Theatre has always acted as a bumper in my life, continually pushing and steering me on my journey and shaping me into the person I am today. 

I proudly accepted the role of Managing Director at Theatre East as a way to make sure that experiences like mine are available for others. Together we will work to provide a platform for our community, allowing them to experience the power of theatre that changed my life.

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Finding and Revealing One’s Voice

from Christa Kimlicko Jones, Associate Artistic Director,Director of Programming: To be honest, I was dreading writing a blog post and then I realized that, in fact, what I am most anxious about is putting myself out there. Putting my voice, my thoughts out there. Exposing myself. But then, I realized, that perhaps that’s exactly what I need to write about. That’s usually the case, isn’t it? To tackle those fears head on?!
Then it occurred to me that finding and revealing one’s voice is one of the main reasons why I do theatre. It’s really what interests me most about theatre. It’s why I love to be a part of a rehearsal process so much. It’s why I read plays and want to bring them to life. To exchange ideas. To expose. To question. It’s why I feel like a theatre company is important; Theatre East is definitely a celebration of many voices coming together for a greater mission. It’s also why I teach (Voice & Speech) at Stella Adler Studio. I get to help a young actor breathe more deeply, more fully, and find their most specific, most muscular way of speaking so that they might better reveal the character’s passions, allowing for an audience to be moved, changed so that they might see a bit of themselves.
I guess I’m incredibly interested in people, in their stories, in their thoughts and dreams, their opinions—and in revealing, unveiling, exposing the truth. I’m interested in coming together to tell stories, so that we don’t feel quite so alone in this crazy journey of life.
It feels a little funny to share this in blog format. I have to say that if I had my way I’d rather sit over a lovely cup of coffee or tea (or beer or wine or whatever) and look people in the eye…and connect. And exchange. Listen. Respond. Truthfully. In the moment. Of course, there are only so many hours in the day! So, until then…this will do.
Nevertheless, that’s why I do what I do. The people are what keep me going. The stories. The ideas. The hopes and the dreams. The light bulbs. The furrowed brows. The challenge of it all. The searching for truth. One’s pure and honest, glorious voice.
And I’m thankful that I get to be a part of a world and of a craft that allows for that revelatory exploration.
Actors’ Equity Association, the union for stage actors, sends out membership renewal cards twice a year. One of the things I look forward to the most is the quote or anecdote included in the letter portion. This one hit the nail on the head for me:

"I wanted to be an actress in 1912; I want to be an actress today. That walk from the darkness backstage through the door or opening in the scenery where I make an entrance into the bright lights with that big dim mass out beyond, which bursts into applause, then the first terrifying sound that comes out of my throat, which they describe as a voice, but that first instant it is the siren of terror and intention and faith and hope and trust and vanity and security and insecurity and bloodcurdling courage which is acting." ~Ruth Gordon (1896-1985)

Yes, it’s scary to put one’s self out there—but if you do, unabashedly so, in my heart of hearts I feel that it’s absolutely worth it. Until next time,
Christa

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