The Heart of the Art

My love affair with theater is, in a word, tempestuous. I realized in the past year that I take a lot of the drama way too personally. As such, I have contented myself to stay at an arm’s length from it for the greater percentage of the time. But then… then something happens to remind me of the reasons I fall in love all over again every single time.

I found out today that someone with whom my path crossed quite frequently in community theater took his final bow yesterday. I have sat in the audience at my beloved Barre Players, but not involved myself in any production for… gosh, six years now. And yet… almost every show is vivid in my memory as are many of the cast of characters whom I met in that old church.

Like any theater, there was backstage drama. Petty and ultimately inconsequential. And enough to drive my sensitivity mad. But there are so many people there who just do it because they love the theater. Who, even when they have better things to do, will step in and help out. Because they want to HELP. 

The process of writing and revising and contemplating publication has opened my eyes to the subjectivity of art. It’s a crapshoot. It always is. What is good really has nothing to do with definition. Because the definition is always subject to the emotion of the person who creates it. I do think there is such a thing as more polished quality… sure… but sometimes more polish on the surface means less heart underneath.

The sad news of today reminds me of the heart. Of the intangible that binds me to theater forever. Even if I choose to limit my returns to stage commitment. I’m not going to forswear the nobility of art and the desire to lift conscious beyond a song and dance routine… but… there is something very real, very conscious, very… alive about the camaraderie of the moments of a song and dance routine. Even if the music is off key and the syncopation of the steps is lacking. If… in the six weeks that a cast and crew come together to create something resembling magic happens… then there is still an art. Even if it isn’t captured under the Lekos. Something that is about connecting with another random soul with whom a director arbitrarily assigns intimate proximity in a green room for six weeks. Connecting with someone else who finds a joy, a momentary release from the stresses of life, a chance to attempt something different than day to day.

I am reminded of this beauty today. Something that gets so easily lost in the petty bullshit that exists between ego clashes and artistic differences. Sometimes… well, sometimes there are shows when that stuff doesn’t matter. When it is about the people in the green room – or the sound booth. A chance to bond and connect with another person. Even if that connection never leaves the confines of the theater. 

It is such a connection that grieves my soul tonight. It has very little to do with art. Or the ‘nobler’ purpose of theater. It’s about a guy who was always there in a pinch. Someone who came to every rehearsal with an open mind and good spirit. Someone with a sense of humor and enough respect to be apologetic when he couldn’t be there. Someone who was delighted when it meant the opportunity to work with his wife. Someone who was always, always appreciative.

I’m sad to think I won’t see him when I revisit the purple seats. That his gravelly voice won’t resonate against the tin ceiling. He often got cast in the older man roles… but he was young at heart… and too young to not have another scene.

There is a sincere value of being in the moment on the stage and discovering the character and the power of the dialogue. But… I’ve realized with unfortunate duplication in the past year… that it is the moments off the stage that are immeasurably more valuable. That, really, life enhances not by growing through a character I portray or direct. My life is enhanced by the people I meet and admit into my life through theater. And… on a day like today… I realize it aches when the lights fade on the exit of one of those friends.