We don’t always know how our work affects others. We hope it inspires. We hope it bears witness to the thing, any…thing, some…thing. We hope it marks time or opens the windows to let time out. We hope, yet can only speculate.
In January of this year, Los Angeles was burning. Sleep was a luxury for those outside the fire lines; prayer was a necessity for those inside. Food was an afterthought. I called a friend, “Can I come to you if I have to evacuate?” Otherwise, where would I go? The urgent evacuation alert told us to pack important items and be ready to go. My car would not start. No matter how many times I turned it over, it would not catch. Time slowed like a scene from Inception. Streets were blocked, curfew was in effect, and there was no one to come get me. It was a long night of praying the evacuation order didn’t go into active status, praying the fires didn’t turn toward me, praying the wind would just stop blowing. I spent the night checking funds and rental car agencies in the area. In the morning, I walked to a car rental agency and rented a car.
I packed water and more water, copies of my work, funeral programs, Bibles, important papers, and clothes I could re-wear over and over again.
I packed the lump in my chest and the memory of what it’s like to be physically on fire. After all these years, I could feel ten-year-old me running through the house, screaming as my terry cloth robe burned. Where was I going? Freakin’ flashback.
Even though I was affected on the outskirts, there were friends in the thick of it who had to leave because the fire was upon them. Friends who lost some and friends who lost all. Nevertheless, they are alive, and that was my biggest prayer for them. Loss is always devastating. Reconciling yourself to what is left is a long, hard task.
I wrote a poem for one of these friends ten years ago. It was on my mind to replace the framed copy I gave them. I don’t know why. A few days ago, I received an email from another friend who said that of all the things this person lost, they mentioned the poem. This other friend wanted to know if I would mind them reframing it for our friend. Imagine.
The poem took me ten years to write. It was a conscious, subconscious project that I mulled over, making mental notes while checking the air for signs of shifting timelines. After all that mulling over, the poem did not come to the page until the night before the reading. Printed, framed, and stuffed in a bag, I made my way to the event. I did a quick read-through with another friend outside the venue. The reading was a success. And now, ten years after that, the words are still speaking.
I am honored, humbled, and encouraged.
Lately, I have been wondering if my work counts, and by extension, do I? Guess that’s an all-around “Yes.”
Words count…even the time it takes for them to be born matters…
I wanted to share the article in this week’s issue of THE NEW YORKER, it’s an interesting take on what is happening for women playwrights. It’s a bit of a read, but I found it very informative. Here it is:
In the late days of June, as the old theatre season was ebbing away and new-season announcements were streaming in, a shock hit New York.
Playwrights Horizons, the birthplace of shows including the Pulitzer Prize winners “Sunday in the Park with George” and Annie Baker’s “The Flick,” announced its programming for 2025-26. It was, in some ways, a standard mix, including works by returning Playwrights artists (John J. Caswell, Milo Cramer, Shayok Misha Chowdhury) and several writers new to its stage (Jacob Perkins, Nazareth Hassan, the writing team of Jen Tullock and Frank Winters). These days, a six-show season is a surprisingly full slate; many theatres of similar size, crippled by rolling funding crises, have reduced their offerings. But something else stood out, too: in a notably diverse lineup (the majority of lead artists are queer, and two are nonbinary), there was only one woman writer, and she occupied half a slot.
Playwrights Horizons wasn’t alone. Other major theatres revealed their programming, some of which reverted to familiar patterns from a decade ago. The Roundabout Theatre will give one slot out of four to a woman, whose work will appear in the nonprofit’s Off Broadway space. The Manhattan Theatre Club, which, like Roundabout, uses both Broadway and Off Broadway theatres, will host two plays written by women of the four shows it has announced so far; however, in what’s become a common trend, both will be produced on its smaller, and thus less remunerative, Off Broadway stage. Classic Stage Company, under its artistic director, Jill Rafson, confirmed a season of three shows, all written and directed by white men. And the Williamstown Theatre Festival, enjoying its first summer under its new director, Jeremy O. Harris—the playwright who, in 2021, requested to withdraw his “Slave Play” from Center Theater Group when it presented a season with only one woman in it—has zero plays written by women among its 2025 productions.
In 2015, the Lillys, a group that honors women in the American theatre, published the Count, a national survey that assessed the demographic makeup of playwrights found on the country’s stages. As one of the group’s founders, Julia Jordan, puts it, “Statistics are our superpower.” For years, advocates had been protesting the underrepresentation of women playwrights, particularly women of color, but they were getting little traction. Some theatres pointed to the canon and shrugged helplessly—was it their fault that Tennessee Williams, Eugene O’Neill, and Shakespeare were inconveniently male? Notably, when a theatre did program a woman, her play was relegated to the so-called “second space” or to a reading series. The Count gave theatres a way to see their place in the larger field. Individual programming choices—reflections of one theatre’s, or even one person’s, taste—looked rather different when placed in a national context.
Attention-getting methods like the Count—and, later, accountability projects such as “We See You White American Theater,” which published an extensive statement calling for the American theatre industry to address racial imbalance, as well as publishing hiring metrics on Instagram—pushed the field toward change. In 2023, the Lillys announced at its annual awards that, for the first time, New York theatres had achieved what the Lillys called “parity,” with the city’s playwriting lineups roughly paralleling the gender and racial distribution of the country at large. Was this victory? The Lillys began to think about disbanding; perhaps its work was done.
So when the new Playwrights season hit inboxes, Jordan called the company’s artistic director, Adam Greenfield, to ask what had happened. (Greenfield is a longtime friend of the Lillys; the group actually got its start at Playwrights, in 2010, back when Greenfield was still an associate artistic director, and the group holds its annual awards ceremony on the Playwrights main stage.) The Lillys told him that it wanted to convene an open meeting about what felt like a serious backsliding, and Greenfield instantly responded.
At the ensuing town hall, the Tony Award-winning playwright Lisa Kron said, “Adam acknowledged it as a ‘misstep,’ ” and noted that he quickly offered the Playwrights theatre for the occasion. Six days after the Playwrights announcement went public, a capacity crowd turned up to talk about representation and curation, and to try to imagine how to regain progress already fought for and, if temporarily, won. “We are here to mark that something seems to be amiss,” Kron said from the stage. “It feels emotional to us because this happened at Playwrights; it happened under Jeremy O. Harris. We feel these people to be our allies—they are our allies.” She went on. “Our issue is not with each other but with a system that considers one group central and the others as disposable.”
In the meeting, Jordan noted that the low representational numbers for women are difficult to square. By various measures (including the numbers of women graduating from degree programs in the arts), roughly two-thirds of the field’s writers are women—there is not, as artistic directors once argued, a pipeline issue. It seemed particularly bitter that, even as theatres made passionate arguments for diversity and new artistic directors took over from the old guard, certain habits were creeping back. Are we seeing a reflection of the country’s increasingly misogynist politics? Is there a kind of moral fatigue at play? “Last year, an all-male, all-white season didn’t exist,” Jordan said. “But this year . . . permission has been granted.”
At the meeting, Greenfield answered some questions from the crowd. “What does balance mean? In the past week, I’ve been thinking about that topic a lot.” Greenfield later wrote to me about his reasoning and about whether “misstep” actually describes his feeling about the season. “At the meeting, I wanted to immediately acknowledge that I should have prioritized women writers more in my decision-making. I see that, and I agree that it’s a shortcoming. In my efforts to uphold diversity and bring range to other aspects of the season, while staying mindful of budget constraints, I failed to make enough space for cisgendered and trans women,” he said. “But I would never call this slate of plays and artists a ‘misstep.’ I deeply love every one of the plays and artists programmed next season.”
Greenfield continued, “One of the many questions this meeting left me stewing over is, are we working from a shared definition? The definition of a ‘balanced’ season was vastly different five years ago than it is today, and it will be vastly different five years from now; it evolves alongside a global cultural conversation. Can any one season hold perfect balance from every person’s perspective?”
Rafson, from Classic Stage Company, wasn’t in attendance, but she told me later that she was aware of the paradox of announcing a season with no women in it while also strongly believing in inclusivity. “It would be wildly misleading to say I hadn’t noticed, and I feel confident that my colleagues were in a similar position. We know that it’s an issue when it’s happening,” she said. Rafson noted several factors that contributed to the situation: the brevity of a three-show season (“It is so hard to get a full representation of your theatre’s interests across so little work”) and the Classic Stage mission to reëxamine the canon (“I only have two commissions out right now. They are both to female writers doing adaptations of classics.”) “Don’t judge me by one season. Judge me by the breadth of work,” Rafson said. She takes comfort in the openness of the conversation around the issue. At least, she said, “we will not pretend that this is perfect and O.K.”
At the town hall, the question of what might happen next still seemed very much up in the air. One person suggested that artistic directors announce their next seasons early, weighting them more heavily toward women writers. One commenter levelled criticism at the Lillys for not studying another underrepresented group, disabled playwrights; others advocated for women writers over fifty. The playwright Chisa Hutchinson asked that the room stay “solution oriented” by reminding those present that women buy the majority of theatre tickets. “Show up! Buy some tickets!” she said.
And there did seem to be a certain amount of exhilaration, in fact, in the showing up itself. In the weeks after the meeting, Jordan said that she was actually feeling optimistic: “Our theatre community is so small and is so easily shamed!” She spoke warmly about Greenfield’s response, as well as Harris’s, who wrote to her immediately expressing his allyship. And—more than most—Jordan knows that this is a tide that can move back in the other direction. “There’s not that many theatres, maybe five hundred across the country, and, by and large, I would say 99.8% of them do not want to be assholes,” she said. “They don’t see themselves that way; they don’t want to be that way. Before, all we had to do was show them the mirror; once they looked in the mirror, they actually changed really quickly,” Jordan said. “So I just—I am extremely hopeful, and I feel like, if anybody can, we can make this correction of turning the ship.”
Perhaps the old strategy will work again: a public calling out, appeals to the well-meaning in power, careful application of both pressure and gratitude. But what’s worrying is how easy it was for the most conscientious among us to overlook such a huge swathe of the landscape. It’s true that it’s possible to program a diverse season—the Playwrights lineup shows a thrilling range of race, gender expression, sexuality, and artistic approach—and yet still almost ignore half the population. What is it that makes women so invisible? So many are standing right here. ♦
These last lines: “What is it that makes women so invisible? So many are standing right here.”
I feel this so deeply right now. Here’s to a changing culture.
Cynthia
Sharing an image of mine, very much in alignment with chaos, structure, and foundation.
In the outdoor wildflower garden are what I call ghost flowers. They are mercurial, sprouting overnight, with translucent stems and ugly leaves, like lithe mushrooms in a bad wig. The first time I saw them I was sure they were mushrooms, wondering how they could have sprouted in such a sunny space. And then as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared again, transforming into green stems, folding or shedding their spotted sheer leaves, moving on only hours after they arrived.
My writing is often through a nature focused lens. It makes it sound like I know what I’m doing. That I know how to care for a garden, that on a walk I might casually point out the names of specific plants and trees. That is not actually the case. My cat eats all indoor plants with great enthusiasm so I’ve given up on those. The small outdoor wildflower garden that is “mine” is not tended by me.
One can be on a close journey with a part of the world without ever needing to be an expert. I’m never going to go inside and google the ghost flowers. There is a part of me that likes walking in mystery with the surrounding world, using my powers of observation not to identify, but to respond.
Sometimes when I feel withered by life, like I have not been watered or sunned, envious of the blooms in a tiny terracotta wildflower garden, it’s because I’ve forgotten to use those powers. The senses that look and listen. To arrive in the world each day with nothing preformed, predetermined, and only an empty sense of readiness.
When you look at the ghost flowers this way, they are tall, cursed goddesses in torn robes, returning every fortnight only in July to sway below the grapevines and night jasmine, turned back to green stalks by late morning. They are the reason for summer insomnia and restlessness, singing humans awake with songs not heard by ears. When you look at the ghost flowers this way, they are worth so much more than a name.
This July (from the 8th to the 13th), the SheLA Arts Summer Theater Festival is taking over West Hollywood’s Zephyr Theatre. Four new plays by gender-marginalized playwrights will be showcased at this premier new works festival, and I’ve got the inside scoop straight from those very playwrights!
Aditi Pradhan
MEET ADITI PRADHAN, the playwright behind The Great Tikka Tour.
Play Synopsis: Perpetually single Roshini is helping her older sister, Divya, plan her wedding when she’s visited by an unexpected guest: the ghost of her recently deceased mother, dishing out dating advice. Roshini realizes that in order to release the ghost, she must find the perfect tikka masala for Divya’s wedding. The sisters traverse the streets of Los Angeles on their mission, while Roshini lets her fear of intimacy get in the way of her relationships and Divya questions whether she wants her arranged marriage at all. While both sisters try to figure out their romantic lives, they learn that perhaps the greatest love story of all was between their mother and her two daughters.
Ally Marie Lardner: Hey Aditi! What was the inspiration for your play?
Aditi Pradhan: I was inspired to write this play when I was navigating the early days of my relationship. My mom, who had an arranged marriage, would give me advice, and I found myself wondering how she could relate to my interracial relationship. It made me question the assumptions I’d made about arranged marriage—and about my mother. I’m recently engaged, and this show has taken on a new meaning for me!
Ally: Who do you think should definitely see this play?
Aditi: Anyone who wants a lighthearted comedy that celebrates the women who hold us up.
Rehearsing “The Great Tikka Tour”
Ally: What do you want audience members to know before they arrive?
Aditi: The less they know going in, the better!
Ally: What’s one lesson you’ve learned so far in the process?
Aditi: It’s been really awesome to take this play that is so based on my experiences, and work with the creative team to bring it to life! I’ve loved hearing their perspectives on colorism, arranged marriages, and family relationships.
Ally: One last question for now, Aditi: What are you like as a writer?
Aditi: I tend to start with a world—whether that means a physical space or a time period or a phenomenon. I got the idea of a play that took place mostly in restaurants, and from there, the tikka tour was born! Writing and producing this play has definitely left me craving tikka masala.
MEET CELESTE MORENO, who wrote book, music, & lyrics for The Tears of la Llorona (Las Lágrimas de la Llorona).
Celeste Moreno
Play Synopsis: Set 100 years ago along the US/Mexico border, “The Tears of La Llorona” retells the Mexican myth of the Weeping Woman. Llorona has become infamous for stealing children in the night, but the Calaveras—a band of mariachi women—guide us through a reimagining of her origin story. Resurrected from the dead, she seeks vengeance on her murderer. But fate creates uncertainty within Llorona after chance encounters with her husband, a girl she finds kinship with, her lover, a white boy exploring Mexico for the first time, and an old Abuelo who is her connection between the living and spirit worlds.
Ally: Hey Celeste. What was the inspiration for your play?
Celeste Moreno: My Mexican great-grandmother, Nani, married an American rancher. The story is that he threatened her—if she were ever to befriend anyone or attempt to learn English, he would kill her. She escaped her captor, changed her name, and fled across the country with two of her children. From other women of Mexican heritage, I have heard family history that echoes hers—stories of women kidnapped, forced into marriage, sometimes killed. Not a new story, and one that remains relevant today…
Ally: What do you want audience members to know before they arrive?
Celeste: Do you know the legend of La Llorona, the Weeping Woman? Long ago, she drowned her children in a fit of madness. Unable to rest even in death, her tortured spirit now wails night after night, lamenting for all eternity, compelled to snatch up small children that wander into the dark… [This] is a gothic music theater ghost story, based on the old Mexican myth La Llorona—The Weeping Woman—re-envisioned through the lens of personal family history.
Ally: Who should definitely see this play?
Celeste: This play is for those who celebrate their cultural differences—those left behind, those ignored. La Llorona is speaking directly to the Latino community, providing a new theatrical piece with music that is in English and Spanish, bringing themes of Anglo/indigenous clash to reflect the experience of a huge portion of our continent’s population.
Ally: What are three plays you wish everyone could see before encountering yours?
Celeste: My play leans into the storytelling of classic Greek tragedy, in particular, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (Ted Hughes translation). Though stylized, the story speaks to the human parts of us. Pan’s Labryinth, with its evocative imagery, visuals, and dark mythic tone, informs the tone. Fiddler on the Roof, with its culturally specific music, was also a huge influence.
Ally: Thanks for sharing, Celeste. Tell us: why is your play necessary, here and now?
Celeste: Given the state of the U.S., there has never been a more prescient time for this story. My story of the clash of Anglo and indigenous, a story of a family torn apart, is now mirroring events unfolding daily in our nation. While happy to see Llorona given life on stage, I am furious that events set over 100 years ago feel like stories heard on the street, in offices, happening to people all around me. I am furious that we have to implement protocols to ensure that my actors and audience are safe from marauding kidnappers who hunt people based on the color of their skin, with the blessing of our federal government.
Play Synopsis: Set in a 19th-century Parisian brothel, ÉLÉPHANT follows 13-year-old Clérèse as she comes of age under the care of her mother, Magdith, a sex worker desperate to shield her from a brutal world. When a visitor arrives, Clérèse’s body begins to change, and a fantastical journey unfolds. Developed with Rising Sun Performance Company over several years, this dreamlike, allegorical tale explores puberty, trauma, and transformation. Inspired by Toulouse-Lautrec, global documentaries, and lived experience, ÉLÉPHANT offers an intimate, raw, and visually striking exploration of girlhood, womanhood, and the cost of survival.
Ally: Hey Eva. Tell us about the inspiration for your play!
Eva Pollitt: [The play is] a combination of fever dreams, Henri Toulouse-Lautrec paintings, a big elephant statue in the French town I was living in, and my own explorations of loneliness and longing for love.
Ally: Who should definitely see this play?
Eva: Mothers and Daughters. Anyone who is interested in French culture. Anyone who likes feminist magical realism.
Ally: Is there anything you want audience members to know before they arrive?
Eva: They are about to see a violent world through the magical eyes of a child.
Ally: What are three pieces of art you think everyone should see before encountering this play?
Eva: 1) Toulouse-Lautrec Paintings. 2) The film It Felt Like Love by Eliza Hittman. And 3) Any theatre work by Angélica Liddell.
Rehearsing ÉLÉPHANT
Ally: What’s one big budget item or otherwise crazy-ambitious idea you have for afuture production of this play? (If you can share without spoiling too much!)
Eva: I’d love for it to go to the Festival D’Avignon—the biggest theatre festival in the Francophone world. While most plays are in French, there are many international artists and multilingual plays as well… I’m curious what French audiences would make of the story, language, and world.
Ally: Sound amazing! Last question for now: What do you hope audiences take away after seeing the performance?
Eva: “I hope their hearts feel splintered open in a cathartic way. I hope they feel more inclined to love, no matter how much bravery it takes.”
MEET REGAN LAVIN, the playwright behindBACCHANALIA.
Play Synopsis: In a remote forest, Agave and Sage welcome four young artists to an off-the-grid retreat. What begins as a creative escape devolves into something far darker as Agave introduces disturbing exercises, covertly doses the group with psychedelics, and casts Owen as the reincarnation of Dionysus. Under her influence, alliances fracture, reality blurs, and the artists spiral into chaotic psychosis. As identities dissolve and the group transforms into a modern Greek Chorus, the retreat hurtles toward a violent, mythic finale—echoing the tragic ecstasy of The Bacchae. A haunting exploration of power, community, and the thin line between art, humanity, and madness.
Ally: Hey Regan. What was the inspiration for your play?
Regan Lavin: I’ve always loved Greek tragedy, especially Euripides’ The Bacchae. After a recent read of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History… I began thinking again about what makes us transcend and forget ourselves and the social mores we are taught. What can bring us to that state of joyous ecstasy? I fell down this wormhole of researching the Dionysian festivals… the rites were thought to put their participants—primarily women—in a trance, and bring them to a state of catharsis wherein they could forget themselves. In a day and age where many people want to escape, this show is my exploration of what that might look like now, as well as [serve as] a cautionary tale regarding how quickly community can turn to cult when power is brought into play.
AML: Who should definitely see this play?
Regan: Artists—and I use that term broadly! If you crochet in your free time, if you write poetry in your journal, if you think you’re awful at whatever form of art you practice, but it brings you joy, you are still an artist!… It’s okay to make art just for the sake of creating!
Ally: What do you want audience members to know before they arrive?
Regan: First and foremost, I want audiences to know the content warnings before arriving since this play can get dark and triggering. I also want audience members to know that this play does get a little weird and a little out there… it’s a world premiere, so I’m still learning a lot about what works in the script and what I want to change for next time! My director, Samara, has been such a fantastic partner in helping me refine each of these characters and make the script really sing.
Ally: What are three pieces of art you think everyone would see before encountering your play?
Regan: Definitely Euripides’ The Bacchae and Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, since they were my two biggest inspirations to write this play. I’d also include Ari Aster’s Midsommar or Susan Soon He Stanton’s Solstice Party.
Rehearsing BACCHANALIA
Ally: Tell us about your writing process!
Regan: I describe my process as working in “concentric circles,” a term I learned from one of my college mentors, Michael Rau. I’ll write the first draft of a work, bringing in all the incoherent ideas and pieces I want to use and letting it be messy, before then editing it down… A bad first draft is always better than a nonexistent one. I’ll often even challenge myself to write the worst script I could conceive of just to get out of my perfectionist brain and stop judging myself.
Ally: What’s one big budget item or otherwise crazy-ambitious idea you have for a future production of this play? (If you can share without spoiling too much!)
Regan: My dream for this production would be an outdoor, immersive production in the middle of the woods, where the audience can engage in some of the artistic activities if they choose, allowing them to truly feel the call of nature and the dirt under their feet. Although this piece gets dark, I also want it to offer an idea of the alternative that could be and provide audiences a chance to regain a childlike sense of wonder and awe towards making art.
Four creative new plays by four promising female writers? For theatre nerds like us, there’s nothing more exciting… except maybe a way to do it on a budget. For those of us who overspent on Fringe shows (no shame there!), the SheLA Two Show Pass offers a cost-effective way to attend two shows of your choosing—effectively designing your own personal program. Don’t miss your chance to attend these world premieres!
I’ll leave you with Regan Lavin’s last words, because I think here, she speaks for all of us at the LAFPI, SheLA and our theatre community in general:
Ally: Why are your plays necessary, here and now?
Regan: All art is political, whether the creator intends for it to be or not, and [these plays are] no exception. Community is one of the most beautiful things in the world, and artistic community is particularly vital and political. Too often, power-hungry individuals attempt to impose conformity, control, regulation, and obedience in the name of community, distorting its true meaning. [These plays are] necessary to remind people to lean on and embrace community while cautioning against that exploitation.
The SheLA Summer Theatre Festival runs Tuesday, July 8 – Sunday, July 13, with additional digital performances available for viewing through Tuesday, July 22. For more information and to purchase tickets, go to shenycarts.org/she-la
WHY: Because Linzy Beltran blows your mind with her fearlessness, candor, and heart at a time when our city needs it most. Because her physical soliloquy – where she glitches in and out of Latino stereotypes, falsities, and cultural behaviors – was mesmerizing and executed with off-kilter precision, power, and authenticity.
Because El Mago holds space with tenderness and fire, daring us to think together about the hard truths without ever losing our joy. Because the way the character transitions through moments is so fluid, it’s hard to tell what’s improvised and what’s choreographed.
Because this was my first clown show, and I left the theatre empowered, not defeated. Because Linzy reminds us in the funniest of ways that now is not the time to turn the other cheek, for we are in exigent times.
[From Linzy – Go Here for local organizations and links to stay informed and get involved]
WHY: Because No is a fully embodied physical piece that pulls you into a guttural experience. Because it makes you question how we engage with our own inner thoughts, how we use our voice, and what it means to stand by what we believe in. Because this isn’t just performance… it’s conviction made tangible.
Because this piece doesn’t fit inside a box. It stands in a category all its own. Because I’ve never seen an artist have such a raw, exquisite relationship with a microphone. Because every gesture is dynamic, intentional, and speaks volumes.
Because the way Annalisa moves through space with awareness and connection is a marvel. Because her fluidity is like a swan, and yet every moment is grounded, deliberate, and unshakable.
Because this is the kind of work that reminds you: Saying no can be a complete sentence, a political act, a reclamation.
WHY: Because this show grabs you by the heartstrings. Because Aditi found a beautiful, clever way to frame vignettes as a TED Talk inviting us to explore the history of women earning the right to drive, while also celebrating girls in tech. Because it’s both educational and emotional, and makes you think about freedom not just who gets it, but what it costs. Because driving isn’t just about movement, it’s about agency and self power.
Because one vignette broke my heart in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Because it reminded me that a woman’s right to leave does not always come easily, and is far too often met with consequence or violence. Because Aditi delivers these truths with care, attention, and deep love.
Because for every revolution and societal shift, there is loss but there is also hope. Because the future always brings change.
WHY:Because Hookin’ for Love is a funtastical dive into what it means to be human. Because Chris Farah is fully locked in as Fancy, and her commitment lets us go on a wild ride of witty banter, hilarious antics, and moments that unexpectedly hit you in the gut. Because it’s not just funny, it’s revealing. Because Fancy makes us laugh while nudging us to examine what we’re missing in each other.
Because in a world of endless scrolling, AI, and digital distractions, we’ve become experts at avoiding intimacy. And Fancy isn’t having it. Because love still matters. Because connection is still worth fighting for. Because Fancy reminds us with sparkle and grit that human interaction is still our most valuable currency.
(You just might catch Fancy next living her best life in New York still hookin’, still lookin’, and always searching for love in all the wrong (and right) places. Visit https://www.instagram.com/chrislfarah/)
WHY: Because the poetry cracked something open. Because it offered a vulnerable and lyrical window into the character’s mindset and maybe, just maybe, into our own. Because the journey Jasmine crafted was insightful, imaginative, and emotionally layered. Because the way the character’s brain processed emotion through rhythm, image, and expression felt as textured and real as our own inner worlds.
Because the voice of a Black girl, in all her truth, brilliance, and vulnerability, is urgently vital. Because the time is now. Because for far too long, Black girls and women have carried our sorrow in silence, wearing pain like armor. Jasmine’s work reminds us we don’t have to anymore.
Because this is the season of release, healing, permitting ourselves to feel it all, and to speak it aloud.
WHY: Because what I witnessed was more than a performance—it was a full-body experience. Because the creative use of craft projections, natural elements like water and plants, and layered shadows turned the space into something mystical, something not of this world.
Because the projections by Catalina Nicoletti didn’t just illuminate—they conjured. Creating a world of memory and myth that danced across each of the four acts. Because the choreography of hands, light, water, and space was nothing short of divine.
Because watching Pia suspended in the air, fighting through space, felt radical—especially now, in a time of active global struggle. Because it wasn’t just movement; it was resistance, and it was survival.
Because the sculpture onstage—a magnificent Time Machine or cluster of clocks—was more than set design, it was a portal. It sits onstage like a relic or oracle, vibrating through your solar plexus with a quiet power that doesn’t fade.
Because Pia is utterly in command of her body, using it as an instrument to express a storm of emotions, questions, and longings. Because her performance felt ancient—tribal, ancestral—like something passed down through breath and bone.
Because she gave us a story told not through words, but through presence. Through embodied language. Through silence that spoke volumes. Because this is an amazing artist family that travels around the world to perform.
Because this international gem is in Los Angeles for a short time. Because this is ritual theatre. Because this is the kind of piece that swells through your whole body. Because this show reminds you: not everything about being human can—or should—be spoken.
