We know that when there is cultural and racial equality in theatre, it makes room for artists from all walks of life to contribute to the history of theatre. This past year has reinforced what we have been doing at LAFPI – putting women of all kinds first! It is vital that we make space and open doors wider for women from all cultural backgrounds if we are to have a bold, forward thinking American Theatre that reflects America.
In CAUGHT IN THE MIX,Kira Powell shares with us an intimate and vulnerable solo piece. As a mixed Black & Latina woman who grows up believing she is white, Kira will take us on a journey through her life as she struggles to find and accept her true identity. Kira’s vulnerability and truth carries us through the hard and painful topics surrounding anti-Blackness; we not only witness her growth towards self love, we go through our own.
Constance: What do you hope audience members take away after experiencing your show?
Kira: I hope the audience leaves with a piece of my soul and a connection to me and to the rest of their fellow audience members as they each watch and relate to different parts of my story. I hope it brings healing to those who need it.
Constance: What’s been your biggest challenge in terms of your development/creation process?
Kira: To know when to stop writing and to trust that the script is enough!
Constance: What are you enjoying most as you create your show?
Kira: I am enjoying looking through all of my childhood photos and videos! I am surprised by the amount I keep learning about myself through this process.
Constance: The work will be given away soon – how does that feel?
Kira Powell: I’m feeling very vulnerable, but also ready to share my story.
Constance: How long have you been sitting with this work? Why Fringe? Why this year?
Kira Powell: I started writing my story during quarantine in 2020 in the forms of essays and a memoir. But in 2021, I evolved it into a one-woman show when I received an email about a scholarship opportunity for the Hollywood Fringe Festival. I took it as a sign that it was time for me to get my show together. I ended up winning the scholarship, and that’s when I knew there was no looking back!
Constance: Anything extra? Please share!
Kira Powell: This was such a challenging but very rewarding process! I can’t believe I put a show together in the amount of time that I had. On top of that, I am healing and sharing my story. I’m so grateful for the opportunity!
We know that when there is cultural and racial equality in theatre, it makes room for artists from all walks of life to contribute to the history of theatre. This past year has reinforced what we have been doing at LAFPI – putting women of all kinds first! It is vital that we make space and open doors wider for women from all cultural backgrounds if we are to have a bold, forward thinking American Theatre that reflects America.
It was a delicious discovery to the spirit to have scrolled upon Makena’s show Black Woman In Deep Water. This solo show is inspired by the incredible true story of Margaret Garner, a runaway slave, who escaped with her husband, in-laws, and four small children while pregnant with a fifth, only to be recaptured. Faced with a harrowing decision, she takes the life of one of her children rather than allow the child to return to the ills of slavery.
Constance: How long have you been sitting with this work? Why Fringe? Why this year?
Makena: It’s a project that I was assigned last year as a student of Stella Adler’s Art of Acting studio. We were to write a 15 minute solo show about a real person. After performing it, and things not going quite to plan, I decided I hadn’t done the story justice and began to expand on it knowing I had to tell the story again if given the chance. A colleague of mine who saw my show at the studio said she loved it and thought I should enter it in the Fringe so I looked into it and…here we are!
Constance: What are you enjoying most as you create your show? What has been the most surprising discovery?
Makena: This is my first time producing, writing, and acting in something all in the same go. It’s also my first Fringe. Additionally, I’m pretty new to LA. So let’s just say it hasn’t been a cakewalk. But I’ve enjoyed realizing that contrary to my initial feeling of being somewhat alone in this city, I do have a community of actors/artists that have stepped up to the plate, many without solicitation, to support me and to help me bring forth my vision. I’m generally a person who takes on everything and says “I got it”. But I had to let that nasty habit go because it became overwhelming trying to juggle everything. So I’ve reached out for help and the outpouring of love and support has been tremendous. One day I just sat and cried with gratitude for all the love and support I’ve received with this project. It’s been really good for my heart.
Constance: What’s been your biggest challenge in terms of your development/creation process?
Makena: I wanted to leave audiences with a sense of hope and empowerment. But with such a tragic story, I found that very difficult to do. I wanted to be authentic and honest in the telling of her story, not watering anything down. So it was like, how do I tell such a tragic story and still pass on a message of healing and hope, which is what I believe Margaret would want?
Constance: What do you hope audience members take away after experiencing your show?
Makena: I wanted to share a piece of widely unknown history, which I thought, beyond its brutal tragedy, was a powerful story about love. This play is inspired by the true story of Margaret Garner which, like many slave stories, is often examined from a standpoint of tragedy and victimization. And while those elements exist, I wanted to go further than that story to show that she was a woman with cares and worries and deep love and passion. She was a woman trying to reclaim her autonomy as a woman and as a mother. I think to humanize her beyond her tragedy is to make her relatable to every human. I think when we see how much more alike we are than different, we realize we can understand each other more and possibly heal the deep hurt of the past.
Constance: The work will be given away soon – how does that feel?
Makena: There is a certain level of anxiety that comes along with giving it away. It is a passion project which I’ve been developing for over a year now. It’s my baby! I’m excited to tell Margaret’s story because I think it’s powerful. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to a certain level of trepidation. But more than anything else, joy, excitement, and gratitude to have the medium to share something so deeply personal with the world.
Constance: Anything else? PLEASE Share with us!
Makena: This project is deeply personal to me. Not only because I wrote it, but because I’ve added elements of West African culture and heritage that have been passed on to me from my Ghanaian family. I want to share that heritage which I’m extremely proud of and show how it is connected to the American story. The human story. At first I felt intimidated by the tragedy of her story and wanted to forget about the project altogether. But as I began to research her, there were coincidences that kept poking out at me which made me feel almost as if I was meant to tell this story. For example, Margaret and her husband’s names are the same names of my own parents. When they were arrested they ended up being thrown into Hammond Street jail which is my last name. They even had a daughter that was born on the exact same day as my sister! While they may seem benign coincidences to some, I took them as a signal from the universe to be brave; to explore the possible connections between her story and my own. And I’m glad that I did.
For more information on BLACK WOMAN IN DEEP WATER in #HFF21, visit http://hff21.co/7193
We know that when there is cultural and racial equality in theatre, it makes room for artists from all walks of life to contribute to the history of theatre. This past year has reinforced what we have been doing at LAFPI – putting women of all kinds first! It is vital that we make space and open doors wider for women from all cultural backgrounds if we are to have a bold, forward thinking American Theatre that reflects America.
Worth It! is Carla’s fourth fringe show! A hilarious comedienne who shares her wild talent in this fast paced, award winning musical extravaganza, Carla morphs into over forty characters as she questions her net-worth + self-worth. A show where hope takes the lead is a show we truly need during these disrupted times.
Constance: What do you hope audience members take away after experiencing your show?
Carla: I hope the audience walks away with a better appreciation of their own value in our world, and the power they have to change their energy by changing old thought patterns. Oh, and I hope they walk out humming the catchy songs! LOL
Constance: What’s been your biggest challenge in terms of your development/creation process?
Carla: Sometimes I go into “premature polishing mode” when an idea is still hatching. During the writing process, I had to gently remind myself to give my creative ideas room to fully develop on the page before I started editing.
Constance: What are you enjoying most as you create your show? What has been the most surprising discovery?
Carla: I’m enjoying making myself laugh during rehearsals. Even if I’ve said a line 20 times, sometimes I will hear it in a new way and think, “Son of a gun Carla, that’s funny!” As far as surprising myself, I’m always surprised by the messages my soul wants to give me. Those messages seem to come out on the page!
Constance: The work will be given away soon – how does that feel?
Carla: With every show, it feels vulnerable to share. But this time it feels particularly joyful to share because live audiences are finally going to be with us, and not just through a screen.
Constance: How long have you been sitting with this work? Why Fringe? Why this year?
CARLA: It took me two years to write this show. I think I was hesitant and even a little resistant because “Worth It” talks about money and my family’s relationship with money. For some reason, money seems like a touchy topic. The show also talks about the relationship between our self worth and how that can affect the abundance we let into our lives. The show is fast paced comedy with music videos, but still, these are pretty big themes! Why Fringe? Why not?! Fringe is a fun, creative, supportive wild ride! And Worth It takes place during the pandemic, so it’s incredibly timely right now.
We know that when there is cultural and racial equality in theatre, it makes room for artists from all walks of life to contribute to the history of theatre. This past year has reinforced what we have been doing at LAFPI – putting women of all kinds first! It is vital that we make space and open doors wider for women from all cultural backgrounds if we are to have a bold, forward thinking American Theatre that reflects America.
I am thrilled to have discovered Alma’s solo show online and hope that you all have a chance to experience Strong like Honey, which stars Alma Collins. This show is a love letter. A daughter recounts her generational relationship with her mother and grandmother and how ultimately becoming caregiver to her mother both challenged and healed their role reversal relationship.
Constance: What do you hope audience members take away after experiencing your show?
Alma: Just because someone doesn’t love you the way you feel you ought to be loved, it does not mean they don’t love you. I want people to walk away understanding the power of forgiveness. Healing and insight does not come from anger or revenge, but sometimes through simply doing what is right, no matter how one feels about a situation. I hope some of the memories I share about growing up in Venice will bring a smile to those who grew up there.
Constance: What’s been your biggest challenge in terms of your development/creation process?
Alma: The hardest thing I’ve had to overcome is the feeling of “Who wants to hear my story?”
Constance: What are you enjoying most as you create your show? What has been the most surprising discovery?
Alma: That I have so many stories and characters inside me. Maybe I can do as August Wilson did . . . he kept writing his stories, and through them all there was always a common thread. I discovered precious memories I’d not thought about in years.
Constance: The work will be given away soon – how does that feel?
Alma: I’m ready and not ready at the same time. I’m an actress. I’ve never tried to write anything before. It feels daunting at times. “Strong Like Honey” is my baby and I hope people find my baby beautiful.
Constance: How long have you been sitting with this work?
Alma: I began writing “Strong Like Honey” in February 2018. My friend and mentor, Adilah Barnes, has been trying to get me to write a solo show for years. I started taking Jessica Lynn Johnson’s free workshops a couple of years ago to learn about solo performances instead of just observing.
Constance: Why Fringe?
Alma: Why not? Plus it would be amazing to be invited to do my show in Edinburgh, Scotland. Maybe I’ll meet my Jamie Frasier out there.
Constance: Why this year?
Alma: I’d planned on doing Fringe last year, but it was cancelled due to Covid. I’m not glad it was cancelled, but I think I’m better prepared this year.
Constance: Please! Anything extra to share?
Alma: Two years ago I did a 15 minute excerpt for Adilah’s “Hot Off The Press.” I didn’t even have a complete script at the time, just an idea. A couple of months later, at Jessica’s free Saturday workshop, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I saw what you did a few months ago and it changed my life.” Her statement caught me off guard and also reminded me that when we have a gift, we are accountable for what we do with it. If anything I do or say encourages someone to forgive, to love, to go on their own journey towards healing, then I’ve done my job.
I’m really scared I won’t be able to do what I want to do in theatre. I know it sounds crazy but I have high expectations for the impact theatre has on people as well as the shape of the future. I grew up in a Black baptists church and that was my first real experience in theatre. Rev preaching, often going off book depending on the energy (or holy ghost) of the church. The choir serving as chorus, preparing the way for the Lord to lead. It was all so dramatic when it needed to be, gentle/ wise/ joyous/holy. Just like how I feel when I watch plays. Cathartic. I loved that shit. Watching sista Yolanda shout in short dresses and high heels was my favorite part. Sometimes her booty would show a little or her bra. I always wondered what she was going through to make her shout that way. I wondered if her man left her or if her daughter didn’t come home. Like, sis had character development down and it all was displayed from the pews. It was her role and my favorite character no doubt. Staged and organic.
I don’t feel like that when I watch plays that often. And I mean, I’d be foolish to believe every play should (or even could) offer me the Black baptist experience (like the broadway musical The Color Purple for reference of it being done in mainstream). What makes this sort of gospel theatre so special to me is the call and response, the audience playing a role in the play as well. Sometimes at theatre engagements, I’m the only one laughing and showing any form of human life in the audience. I’ve been asked to keep quiet in theatre spaces from being too loud and carrying on during musical numbers as if I was in church and not in a chair that’s way too small for my ass and cost me 35+ dollars to sit in. All to pretend I’m not even there.
I write with the church in mind (and I’m not even religious). One of my favorite memories was during a performance of my one act play Comb Your Hair (Or You’ll Look Like a Slave) in LA a few years back, when my partner’s grandma walked right across the stage during the show to go to the restroom. Or during another show a few years before when the producer announced my play “by Leelee Jackson,” my brother shouted from the front row “YEEEE” (which is something we say where I’m from to show love and support or to say I see you). I love that shit. I like to call it the second show, the play that happens in the audience during/around the performance.
I keep the second show in mind when I write. I remember being young and watching the Tyler Perry Madea plays on bootleg dvd’s when we didn’t have cable (which was often). The auditorium was full of Black people watching something that was written with them in mind. Spoke to them and held their attention. Stories that concerned them. That was so special to see at 13 years old. Not that I had a clue then that I would be a playwright but this familiarity of theatre that started from the church made it resonate. My aunty went to a Tyler Perry live play once and she said that during one of the songs, “The audience drowned out the actors.” She went on to say how the experience there was different from watching the dvd’s and before I had even been to a live musical theatre experience like that, I knew she was right. That kind of spirit/energy/engagement is so special. I feel it in my plays when I’m writing them. How to engage with the audience instead of pretending they aren’t there. I live for it. And I want to participate in theatrical practices that are concerned with the audience reflecting the characters portrayed on stage. Ugh, it gets me so upset that well funded theatre with a certain caliber of “excellence” is often withheld from the characters who are reflected in the play. One time my full-length play The Shit Show had a reading in LA that I couldn’t attend because I could not afford to go (they didn’t offer me a comp). That’s wild to me.
I’m really scared I won’t be able to see what I want to see in theatre arts. I keep seeing this vision of theatre outside the white gaze. Outside of white influence/imagination/expectation. Outside of what we have had to indulge in for the sake of “fine arts” even if it had nothing to do with our mothers and fathers. I picture alternative theatrical spaces that goes out to those whose lives are reflected in the play. I know of plenty of smaller community theatre spaces committed to uplifting theatre in marginalized spaces (some who have produced my work) so I know it exists and that kind of theatre makes me so full and feel so seen. I want a future where those spaces are created and paid attention to and well funded. Spaces who keep the audience in mind as well as the characters/people who are centered in the work.
I don’t know if I’ll get to see a future where this is the dominant theatrical narrative. I’m trying now and it’s hella hard. Getting funding/attention/community support is very hard when everyone wants you to write/be like Hamilton (which I’d NEVER do). I want my plays to live on in those spaces. I want to live where every play in my community reflect me and those in the community. Less attention to the big ass theaters who aren’t assessable or concerned with the working and working poor communities. It feels like an uphill battle and I have no idea if there’s anything on the other side or just me dreaming something that ain’t real.
For most purists, the notion of “live-streamed,” or “on-demand,” theatre feels antithetical to the spirit of theatre. I myself have lamented the inability to look an audience in the eyes and hear them breathe. When COVID-19 struck, Amrita Dhaliwal and I were on tour with our Hollywood/Edinburgh/Melbourne Fringe show The Living Room, a comedy of grief; a two-month long tour across the US and Melbourne, Australia. As everything was cancelled and I watched our careers screech to a halt, I knew what to do. Amrita and I had built a show about it. I had to grieve.
Amrita Dhaliwal & Gemma Soldati in “The Living Room” – photo by Kevin Krieg
I skipped the denial phase and went straight to anger at Delta Airlines for not issuing refunds initially. It wasn’t long until the depression set in. I laid in bed for days checking the New York Times latest COVID-19 stats, paralyzed by the graphs. It was around this time I started to see the writing on the wall and accepted that it was over. There would be no shows, no rehearsals, no collective catharsis or effervescence. Theatre was dead.
But what to do with the dead? Bury it? Burn it? I did both. All summer I stood in soil that held my performative impulses down below the seeds I planted. I lit candles that illuminated a new room in my mind, one that showed me my passion wasn’t dead, just my practice. So, I searched for new practices. I found Batik and began sewing like a mad woman. I drew pictures with an untrained hand. And made shadow puppets. I hunted down music with unprocessed sounds and distant voices.
Eventually the bargaining stage of my grief came in the form of the new solo show I was hoping to premiere at the (ultimately cancelled) 2020 Edinburgh Fringe. In the fall, an Artistic Director of a theatre in New Hampshire (where I’m currently based) approached me. She wanted to commission me to create a new live show during the pandemic. It felt like a clandestine operation. Like grave diggers in the night, we raised the dead with patience and focus. And thus my latest show came to be. But, there was a COVID caveat. It had to also be live-streamed. I shuddered. It was like performing my show from outer space – like Mike TeaVee in Willy Wonka floating above his parents as a million little signals. Ultimately, I accepted the offer. The 12-person max audience of masked faces was a wonderful sight, but the real gift came from the ether. Friends from Australia writing to say they woke up early to watch. Godchildren in Santa Cruz talking to my character on the screen. They couldn’t see me sweat, but they could see the signs of life.
Now the Edinburgh Fringe, among many, are adding digital elements to their festivities. I will be featured in this new virtual reality. And while I am dismayed that I cannot be present for my show The Adventures of Sleepyhead, I feel that I’ve sent an ambassador to represent me – much in the way a painter must feel when their work is viewed without them at the gallery. Digital audiences will undoubtedly have a different experience of my work and I will too, but just like a person listening to a conversation from another room, curiosity is piqued and for me that is enough.
Gemma Soldati in “The Adventures of Sleepyhead”
When people say, “theatre is dead” they fail to acknowledge the natural cycle of death and rebirth. And to those of us who are worried that this move to embrace digital shows will threaten the life of live theatre, rest assured knowing that it is in our biology to come together, to sing, dance, talk, emote, touch, reenact and play. No human invention will ever replace that.
Gemma Soldati is an American performing artist. Her focus is clown inspired work developed in front of live audiences.
For the longest time, my favorite question during author Q&A panels went something like this: “Can you tell me about your writing process?” or “What is your writing practice?” or “How do you revise your work?” I was always hoping to glean some magic truth, a golden nugget that would suddenly motivate me to be generative, skillful and efficient all at the same time. I would think to myself, these writers have done something I haven’t yet accomplished, they must know something I don’t.
I am still interested in the answers to these questions, but I have now come to realize–it seems so basic and cliché that I’m embarrassed to confess it here–that one should not hold onto advice, call it wisdom if you like, for longer than its expiration date. What resonates today may not work for tomorrow. And further, two seemingly opposite ideas can both be true at the same time.
Here’s an example: When I heard Cheryl Strayed say she didn’t write everyday, I felt relieved, giving myself a pass for not being a daily writer. She instead created opportunities, funded by organizations or with her own money, to hole up somewhere and write in chunks of time. A while back I took her advice and booked a three night stay in Santa Barbara to finish a draft of a script. Driving back to Los Angeles, I felt euphoric from the marathon writing, and I wondered why I hadn’t done such a thing before. Well, there’s a good reason why. I’m a parent with a parent schedule, and it’s hard to justify the cost of a hotel when you don’t plan on going out and you have a designated workspace in your own apartment. However, there was something psychologically motivating when I went away. I powered through in a way that I never seemed to be able to at my desk, even when I had the allotted time to get the writing done. Cheryl’s advice, it turned out, was sound. But let’s be honest, that was over six months ago. I’m not going to do that every month; I can’t afford it. Then what of all the time in between self-made “writing retreats”? While Cheryl allowed me to be gentler toward myself and to create space for the creative work, I know a younger version of myself might’ve interpreted that positive experience as proof positive that “I can only write in hotels on long weekends.” I still take comfort in knowing that you don’t have to write everyday to call yourself a writer. But I also see value in cultivating the discipline to write everyday or establishing a writing routine. It’s not anything I’ve ever achieved, but I still strive toward that practice.
Here’s another example that is less about the writing process and more about the steps to publication or production. In other words, putting yourself out there. Once I read a very compelling argument against paid writing contests. I can’t remember if it was an article, blogpost, or comments section rant, but the author made salient points. We were writers, already strapped for cash, being asked to submit our work to an applicant pool so large and/or nebulous that acceptance was as likely as winning the lottery. For some reason, this author’s screed made sense to me. It was undoubtedly validating a growing sense of resentment at having to go through so much vulnerability and rejection. I don’t blame myself for adopting this stance, I only wish I hadn’t held on to it for so long. Only recently have I started submitting myself to contests, publications, and development opportunities, and it has cost me a lot of money. I have had very slim success–but slim is obviously better than none.
I am guilty of holding good advice to my chest as if it were my cuddle blanket. I am quick to adopt ideas that alleviate my insecurities or justify my inactions. Often, the advice is revelatory and genuinely useful. Often it has an arresting shimmer when it comes out of the mouth of someone I respect, someone whose work I admire. They must have the answer, they must know THE WAY, I think to myself. But when someone tells you THE WAY to accomplish a goal, it’s important to remember that there are many ways. The fact is that every writer is different and, more importantly, every writer evolves. A writer’s process for one project may be completely different for another. Sometimes you have to throw spaghetti at a wall and see what sticks; other times it is wise to hunker down and focus on the one project eating at your brain and haunting your dreams. It’s smart to look to others for advice, especially those who are doing what you want to do, but re-assessing how that advice aligns with your current philosophies and practices and listening to your own creative pulse is just as important.
In the heat of the afternoon I cleaned the chicken coop and its surrounding grounds – it is one of the methods to keep down the fly population, and it is a labor of love. The chickens did their thing as I did mine. Occasionally I’ll see a chase when a rooster haunts after his favorite gal. Sometimes all of the roosters will gang up on one hen. I haven’t gotten used to this behavior, and instinctively I want to interfere, but refrain from it. I really don’t understand their chicken-logic. I think it’s a territorial thing when the dominant rooster will not accept being cuckold by a lesser chicken in the order of chickendom.
This afternoon, “Henri” was the energetic one and reigned terror in the roost. I always watch my back when I’m working in the garden. In the past, he’s attempted attacking me with his dance and jumps that aim his talons at me. I meet him straight on. If I back down then I’m sunk forever. Despite my bravado, it still scares the heck out of me. Lucky for me, I have an ally in “Number One” (that is his real name), the main rooster who keeps order in his domain. He’s smart enough to know not to bite the hands that feed him. “Number One” will peck and chase away “Henri” as soon as he sniffs “Henri’s” evil thoughts. But, even with “Number One” nearby, I still keep something at hand to fend off “Henri” should he have it in his cuckoo-brain to go-for-it.
As I raked and raked the ground while keeping an eye out for “Henri”, I wondered how pleasant it would be without him around. I’ve threatened him numerous times that he would make a tasty pot of Coq-au-vin if he keeps up with his nasty behavior. After 3 years of living in the near-terror of having this nasty rooster around, today I finally asked myself more than once if it would be nicer without him around.
The action of raking and raking, then dumping the manure mixed with dirt into the garbage can, and sweating in my farmer’s uniform of coat and boots under the blistering sun, I started to melt.
“Wouldn’t it be nice?” I pondered. “Wouldn’t it?”
I questioned my own thoughts. The little urban farm looked cleaner as I moved from one side of it to the other. My thoughts became less clouded as my body drenched in sweat was refreshingly fatigued. As I gathered my garden tools and walked out of the little farm I felt less inclined to be rid of “Henri”. I came to the conclusion that without characters like “Henri” life would be less interesting, if not only less hazardous. Another day, and again, “Henri” and I have come to a truce. I went inside, peeled off my wet clothes and showered away the dirt and salty sweat.
Without the “Henris” and “Number Ones” vying for the top roost and the best girls, then my chickens would just be hollow zombies. There wouldn’t be that tension and heat that sizzles the mystery of what it is that we do.
We share the universal phenomena of life, love and death and everything in between. As human beings we move and travel in linear time in our mind and in the cycles of the season with our senses.
We pass our minutes, days, weeks, months, years and decades like the spokes of a wheel marking the miles and miles of the journey with selfies, postcards and worries.
We cry tears of joy or sorrow. We burst out laughing in madness or glee. It’s really a wonder to me how full life can be.
After many false starts I am still here.
I’m learning to surrender to the wonder of it all.
As I drove home from my other job, navigating the streets and freeway traffic, I knew I had to write something. Maybe from fatigue or emptiness, I toyed with the idea of conveying silence. Words can make a lot of noise. One word can be loud.
So let me try singing silence to you.
Just be still.
Just be.
After spending a week in the hospital as someone dear to me recovered from surgery I felt moments melting together. The thought of losing someone to their last breath condenses time. I don’t mind now that he doesn’t pick up after himself. I will miss it if I lose him.
As I write this, I’m flying back to Los Angeles from Washington, D.C., my first airplane trip since February of 2020. I attended my first (and second) Major League Baseball game, ate out in a restaurant, toured a museum, even spent time in five classrooms. It was great, but it certainly didn’t feel normal. The mass transit system in D.C. was nearly empty. Downtown and Chinatown were ghost towns. Capitol Hill was bereft of 8th graders on school field trips. When will we truly get back to normal?
And what IS normal?
I talked to a lot of old friends this trip. One thing I noticed was how many people were re-evaluating where they are in this post-pandemic life. I had coffee with SO people who told me they were contemplating their next act: writing a memoir, quitting their soul-sucking job, finding a way to make a difference in the world. Perhaps the one thing the pandemic taught us was how short life can be, how none of us are guaranteed fourscore and ten, how it’s time to start tackling the items on our bucket list.
Another thing struck me as I spoke face-to-face with human beings again: when I asked how their pandemic year was, every one of them began by talking about how fortunate they were. They recounted their blessings. Even those who lost family members or jobs began the conversation by talking about the good things that came of Covid. And every one talked about a lesson from the pandemic or a routine they plan to keep once they return to “normal” – whether it’s online yoga classes or saying “no” to social occasions they really didn’t have to attend or carving out time with the people they truly love.
So what does the future hold for theatre? When will we feel comfortable to sit inside, in the dark, with strangers whose vaccination status is unknown?
Some theatres, like the Fountain, invested in outdoor furniture, built a stage next door to their brick and mortar building, embracing a new way to create theatre. Others are scheduling full indoor seasons beginning this fall. And then there’s zoom performances…
A good friend in Virginia runs a terrific theatre in Alexandria: MetroStage. Unfortunately, after decades of performing in an old lumber warehouse near the Potomac River, her theatrical home was about to disappear. A multi-story, high-end condo would replace the cabaret musicals and exciting new plays that had graced MetroStage.
Fortunately, the city mothers and fathers were trying to brand that end of Alexandria as an arts district. Part of the deal was that MetroStage would remain in the neighborhood, courtesy of a black box theatre they would build for her in the basement of one of the new buildings.
The downside was that she had to raise a lot of money to finish the raw space. And the theatre would have to shut down for more than a year. Enter the pandemic when every theatre in the world shut down. Her timing was exquisite.
Artistic Director Carolyn Griffin can hardly wait for the opening of her new theatre space. And yet, she keeps thinking about the theatre from around the world that she saw online during the pandemic. Some of it awful, some of it magical. (I still smile when I think about a zoom production of The Railway Children from the York Theatre Royal that was absolutely magical. If not for the pandemic, I never would have seen it.)
Carolyn believes that our pandemic year has taught us that audiences outside of our immediate neighborhoods are hungry for theatre. The homebound elderly need theatrical inspiration. So do kids in schools too poor to afford a school bus to bring them to a performance. Despite that spanking new performance space, Carolyn says her pandemic lesson is that 21st century theatre must embrace 21st century technology, making theatre accessible to more than just in-person season subscribers. Theatre can truly be for everyone.
If Carolyn is correct, that presents a challenge for us as playwrights: we must create pieces that actually work better on the small screen. Not just talking heads in a zoom call, but theatrical pieces that jump off the screen. Twyla Tharp commissioned Misty Copeland and some of Twyla’s dance company to create unique work specifically for the small screen. It was amazing. Dancers in their tiny New York apartments or Inglewood garage bouncing off the walls, avoiding bookcases, seemingly flying on and offstage. It was like watching Fred Astaire dancing on the ceiling in Royal Wedding. We have to think outside the box to create this kind of work for the theatre.
And even if we only want to create work to be performed live, onstage, we have to write cheap. In other words, even the “no more than six actors” rule that has reigned supreme over the past few decades is too big. Theatres have held on by their fingernails. Budgets are amazingly thin. Plays featuring two characters – or even one – are more likely to be produced in the next few years. And unfortunately for living playwrights, much of that work will be tried and true titles designed to lure back an audience. We’ll be competing with the famous dead white guys.
Our last challenge is to ask ourselves what an audience wants to see onstage in a post-pandemic world. If the 1920’s are a model, it’s likely to be comedies and lighter fare. I doubt there will be much interest in a pandemic play, but I could be wrong. Look at Angels in America and the AIDS crisis.
But I’m an optimist. I’m going to view these challenges as pandemic blessings for us as writers. They allow us to reassess our own work, our own goals, our own “next act” as we sit down at the keyboard and start writing something new.
I can hardly wait!
Kitty’s second book in The Fina Mendoza Mysteries series State of the Union will be published by Chesapeake Press August 13, 2021. A mysterious bird poops on the president’s head during the State of the Union address. Can our young detective find that bird before the Secret Service, the Capitol Police, and the rest of Washington and hear its secret message?
