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sanctuaries have been replaced by Cafe-toriums and the like.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 11th. 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.
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 11th. 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.
