(AOL email still not working. I can be reached at: [email protected], if you need to be in touch. RSB)
Just for the heck of it, I’m going to try to discuss some things relating to theatre which I have found interesting, expressed (mostly) by established theatre people. I’ll admit that this is a diversion from writing about (therefore having to THINK ABOUT) other stuff, but I suspect that’s probably a good thing right about now.
One of the things I have noticed in a fairly lengthy career working and teaching “theatre stuff,” is that many “civilians” (a term I have long used to refer to those who aren’t really familiar with the life in, and of, the theatre) don’t really understand the nature of the theatre beast. That’s not really surprising, I know that I have no real understanding of what it would be like to spend my life as a plumber, an electrician, an accountant, or most other “life worlds.” But, every so often a true “theatre person” may come up with what I think is an interesting comment on the nature of the theatre and/or a life working in it. Some of those are what I want to touch on in this post.
Perhaps this can be made clearer through a brief tribute to Dame Maggie Smith, who left us recently. When she passed, I looked up her entry on the IMDB website and found some quotes credited to her. Here are a few that I found especially interesting.
In talking about acting, she said: “I love it, I'm privileged to do it and I don't know where I'd be without it.” I understand that, I think. I suspect that many of us don’t/didn’t work in the theatre just because we wanted to, but because we were, somehow, compelled to do so. The only thing I can compare it to would be to suggest that it’s a bit like “having a calling,” like a minister is supposed to have. WE may well love it, but it’s also something which is NECESSARY to us.
That doesn’t mean that it always makes us satisfied, however. As Maggie said, “The performances you have in your head are always much better than the performances on stage.” And, I think that’s not just true of actors! It can be frustrating when you always want to do your best work and you realize that actually doing it is, usually, the exception, not the rule.
There IS a sort of redemption available, however, as she pointed out: “I like the ephemeral thing about theatre, every performance is like a ghost - it's there and then it's gone.” I think that’s one of the beauties of the theatre. It’s ALWAYS opening night because this audience has (obviously) never seen this performance of this play in this particular production, and once the curtain comes down, all of it will be gone forever, except in memory!
Following up a bit on Smith’s comment on the ephemeral nature of theatre, in The Work of Art by Adam Moss, Stephen Sondheim is quoted as having noted that “What keeps theater alive is that it can be reinterpreted. I've often said the problem with movies is the performances are perfect, but always the same.” This leads us toward one of the fairly frequent points of discussion related to differences between stage and screen work.
Ian McKellen touches on this, especially in relation to the premiere of a movie, in the book, Ian McKellen: The Biography by Garry O’Connor, when he said: “It’s the oddest thing in the world, a film premiere. I mean it’s a total non-event. A man just shines a light through some celluloid and casts a shadow on a wall. And you’re sitting among an audience you can’t talk to and who can’t respond. It isn’t happening. It’s happened.” Personally, I think this just might be the most accurate description of the fundamental difference between movies and live theatre that I’ve ever encountered!
This speaks to a point which most “civilians,” I suspect, don’t ever consider regarding acting, especially. It’s a totally different creature for the screen from what it is for the stage. Movies are “performed” to suit the needs of the camera, so they are shot completely out of sequence and as separate scenes. Generally, all of the scenes in a single setup are shot before moving on to a different camera setup. That means that the actor does NOT have the benefit of “developing” his/her character over a continued sequence, but must be prepared to play any moment of the story at any time with no development as one would have in a theatre performance. In a theatre performance, the actor has to portray the entirety of the character’s existence, in sequence, every time the play is performed. Never having worked on a movie, I won’t try to guess which is more difficult, but I am quite sure that it’s not the same. But that isn’t the focus of this post.
In 2009, I was privileged to be able to see the London production of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart, with Simon Callow as Pozzo. Now this was a production of a play of which I am very fond, performed by a magnificent cast. When I directed a production of it at WCU in the Spring of 1978, I was criticized because the reviewer said that I didn’t have the two major characters express the appropriate amount of “existential anguish.” As it happens, neither my cast, nor I, felt that those two characters were supposed to actually have such feelings — they are too passive. I was pleased to discover that McKellen and Stewart seemed to feel much the same way, as was discussed by Stewart in his autobiography, Making It So.
There's a common misperception that Godot, like the rest of Samuel Beckett's plays, is hard, challenging, complicated, and obscure. Well, it can be, in the wrong hands, but it needn't be. Vladimir and Estragon are poor, homeless characters who meet every evening in the hope that Godot will keep his appointment with them and take them under his wing. Their counterparts Pozzo and Lucky are also homeless, but while Vladimir and Estragon are passively waiting for life to happen to them, Pozzo and Lucky are, in their own dysfunctional way, actively searching.
I understand that what Stewart was saying was to suggest that ALL of these characters are seeking something (Godot) who/which will answer their questions, provide some meaning for their lives, etc. But none of them are truly “suffering.” They just, quite optimistically, believe that if they can survive (and seek) long enough, Godot will arrive (or be found) and the answers they seek will be provided. Stewart goes on: “At first glance, the script of Waiting for Godot is a wild jumble, a lake of language. But as you read it closely, you discern a pattern of ripples and bubbles in this lake, the words taking on meanings and intentions that clue you in to Vladimir and Estragon's objectives. In preparation for doing the show, which had its London premiere in 2009 at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, I spent every day with my head in the script, trying to absorb this material into my brain and body so I could bring it to life on the stage. Only with Shakespeare and Dickens had I experienced such a complete union with a writer's words — and, in Beckett's case, stage directions. Look at this dialogue:”
Estragon: (Anxious) And we?
Vladimir: I beg your pardon?
Estragon: I said, And we?
Vladimir: I don't understand.
Estragon: Where do we come in?
Vladimir: Come in?
Estragon: Take your time.
Vladimir: Come in? On our hands and knees.
Estragon: As bad as that?
Vladimir: Your worship wishes to assert his prerogatives?
Estragon: We've no rights anymore?
Laugh of Vladimir, stifled as before, less the smile.
Vladimir: You'd make me laugh if it wasn't prohibited.
Estragon: We've no rights anymore?
Vladimir: (Distinctly) We got rid of them.
Silence. They remain motionless, arms dangling, heads sunk, sagging at the knees.
“On a first reading, this back-and-forth might come off as gibberish. But as you familiarize yourself with its peculiar rhythms and subtle courtesies ("your worship," "take your time"), you discover a tenderness in the two men's shared desperation. All the more so if your sparring partner happens to be Ian McKellen.”
I believe, and I tried to guide my production to try to express the futility of their passive waiting. I believe that Pozzo and Lucky, for all their dysfunctional failures, are shown to at least be making some efforts towards finding some sort of solution to their questions, where Vladimir and Estragon, like so many of us, are merely passing time, waiting for answers to be provided by someone/thing else without realizing how fruitless that is.
Go ahead, reread the play, see if the interpretation I propose (with what I believe is support from Patrick Stewart) doesn’t make a good deal of sense. Or, come up with a better one.
In her recent book, Shakespeare: The Man Who Pays the Rent, Judi Dench, (interviewed by Brendan O’Hea), makes some interesting comments about how the theatre has changed during her, lengthy, career which I think are worth noting.
While discussing the idea that The Merchant of Venice has become somewhat controversial, due to its perceived anti-semitism, Dench was asked whether the play should be banned, to which she replied: “Not at all. You stand there, say the lines and let the audience make up their own minds. They’ll be divided. Some will feel very sorry for Shylock and some will think he’s got his comeuppance. But that’s for them to decide. Our job as actors is to tell the story and fill in as much of the characters’ intentions as we possibly can. But there has to be room for the audience to ask questions. Otherwise they’re just coming, watching something with all the answers on a plate, and going away again.
“And also, our job as actors is never to judge the characters. Because then the audience are denied the chance to interpret the play themselves. The audience need to understand every choice that the characters make. They may not like or agree with those choices, but they need to understand where they come from.”
I take this to suggest that Dench does not believe that the theatre’s job is, necessarily, to provide the answers, but simply to ask the questions, and let the audience seek their own resolution to them. I confess that I agree with this notion.
I was quite intrigued by some of Dench’s comments regarding the use of Stanislavski’s ideas as actors, which I am unconvinced is a reliable approach to actually performing a role. I was especially fond of her response to O’Hea’s comment regarding a previous discussion, when he commented that: “That sounds like a very Stanislavski approach. So would you, for instance, think about what Ophelia had for breakfast?” To which she responded: “No, probably not. Stanislavski is very useful for grounding you in the character, but, in any case, that’s homework. Of course you have to know what the castle’s like, when your mother died, why you put on those particular clothes that day – and yes, perhaps what you had had for breakfast – but that’s just for you, not for the rehearsal room. By all means go into the detail and explore the hinterland of your character, but do it on the tube going home.” For what it's worth, I agree!
I was also especially taken with the discussion they had regarding the playing of Ophelia’s “Mad Scene,” when Dame Judi said: “The audience know that she’s not too tightly wrapped because other characters talk about it before she enters. We hear that she’s been chatting endlessly about her father, spouting gibberish, thumping her chest, coughing, twitching. And because we’ve already heard all that, you, as the actor, don’t have to bring it on with you. When you’re young you try every which way to make her mad. I realize now, of course, that you only need to choose one thing. For instance, she could come in, look at Gertrude, walk past her, and kneel or curtsey to somebody else and say, 'Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?’ You don’t need to do generalized mad acting. Much more unnerving just to convey it in one moment like that.
“But when you start out, you don’t trust yourself to do less. Or at least I didn’t. But that thing 'less is more’ should be written up in letters fifteen feet high.”
O’Hea then asked: “And who taught you 'less is more’? Who did you observe?” To which Dench responded: “Oh, I learnt from standing in the wings at the Vic every night and watching what was happening onstage – I never used to go to my dressing room. And then later in my career, working with the likes of John [Gielgud] and Peggy [Ashcroft] taught me about economy. And reminding myself that the audience are very, very clever. We are inclined to underestimate an audience’s intelligence.
“It also helps to have been doing it for the last sixty-whatever years. When you’re young, you don’t dare to do less. Just because you can twitch and slide on the floor doesn’t mean you should. Acting is learning how to edit. It’s not just about what you put in, but probably more importantly what you choose to chuck out. Much better to do one thing than five. It’s all a question of balance – how much madness, how much passion. Learning how to convey just enough. It’s hard, but that’s what our job is, isn’t it? Finding the minimum we have to do to create the maximum effect – and all in service of the story.”
I willingly admit that I am something of a “Shakespeare NUT,” and am very much a “Stratfordian,” because I have never encountered what I consider to be credible evidence that the “guy from Stratford” couldn’t have written the works he is credited with and what “evidence” I have encountered disputing that idea all seems to be suspiciously prejudiced, and likely quite prejudicial. I recently was thinking about such matters, and was reminded of one of a scene in the 2018 movie, All Is True, which I quite enjoy. This scene takes place between a young student named Henry and Will while the now-retired Will is working in his garden at New Place in Stratford. Henry expresses his surprise at how Will’s plays have moved him and wants to know how Will could have created them. The scene goes like this:
HENRY: There is no corner of this world which you have not explored. No geography of the soul you cannot navigate. How? How do you know?
WILL: What I know. If I know it. And I don’t say that I do. I have - (a moment to consider) Imagined.
HENRY: But they say you left school at fourteen... You’ve never travelled. Imagined? From what?
WILL: From my self!
HENRY: Your self?
WILL: Yes! Everything I’ve ever done. Everything I’ve ever seen, every book I’ve ever read, and every conversation I have ever had, including, God help me, this one. You will find the whole of me in every word I ever wrote. My thoughts, my feelings, my dreams. If you would be a playwright and speak for others then speak first for yourself. Search within. Consider the contents of your own soul. Your humanity. For that is the business of the theatre. Everything else is just stage directions.
Write what you are, what you know, what you feel and what you can imagine my friend. And if you are honest then whatever you write all is true.
I think this may be the key to understanding ALL work in the theatre, not just playwrighting, but every aspect. This work is, all-encompassing. It can drain you and leave you shattered. It requires everything you’ve ever done, been, felt, thought, believed. It doesn’t promise to give you fame and fortune, but, on those occasions (rare as they usually are) when the entire production comes together, there is NOTHING I can think of which is like the sheer joy of being a part of that experience.
I probably have not done a truly adequate job with this post. This stuff isn’t easy to explain, but, if you’ve ever been a part of the sort of experiences I have been talking about, I suspect that you understand….
If you haven’t yet had such an experience, I hope you do someday. I think it’s transformative.
I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, rambling on about something else. Maybe I’ll actually write about something which non-theatre folks can understand.
🖖🏼 LLAP,
Dr. B
Just for the heck of it, I’m going to try to discuss some things relating to theatre which I have found interesting, expressed (mostly) by established theatre people. I’ll admit that this is a diversion from writing about (therefore having to THINK ABOUT) other stuff, but I suspect that’s probably a good thing right about now.
One of the things I have noticed in a fairly lengthy career working and teaching “theatre stuff,” is that many “civilians” (a term I have long used to refer to those who aren’t really familiar with the life in, and of, the theatre) don’t really understand the nature of the theatre beast. That’s not really surprising, I know that I have no real understanding of what it would be like to spend my life as a plumber, an electrician, an accountant, or most other “life worlds.” But, every so often a true “theatre person” may come up with what I think is an interesting comment on the nature of the theatre and/or a life working in it. Some of those are what I want to touch on in this post.
Perhaps this can be made clearer through a brief tribute to Dame Maggie Smith, who left us recently. When she passed, I looked up her entry on the IMDB website and found some quotes credited to her. Here are a few that I found especially interesting.
In talking about acting, she said: “I love it, I'm privileged to do it and I don't know where I'd be without it.” I understand that, I think. I suspect that many of us don’t/didn’t work in the theatre just because we wanted to, but because we were, somehow, compelled to do so. The only thing I can compare it to would be to suggest that it’s a bit like “having a calling,” like a minister is supposed to have. WE may well love it, but it’s also something which is NECESSARY to us.
That doesn’t mean that it always makes us satisfied, however. As Maggie said, “The performances you have in your head are always much better than the performances on stage.” And, I think that’s not just true of actors! It can be frustrating when you always want to do your best work and you realize that actually doing it is, usually, the exception, not the rule.
There IS a sort of redemption available, however, as she pointed out: “I like the ephemeral thing about theatre, every performance is like a ghost - it's there and then it's gone.” I think that’s one of the beauties of the theatre. It’s ALWAYS opening night because this audience has (obviously) never seen this performance of this play in this particular production, and once the curtain comes down, all of it will be gone forever, except in memory!
Following up a bit on Smith’s comment on the ephemeral nature of theatre, in The Work of Art by Adam Moss, Stephen Sondheim is quoted as having noted that “What keeps theater alive is that it can be reinterpreted. I've often said the problem with movies is the performances are perfect, but always the same.” This leads us toward one of the fairly frequent points of discussion related to differences between stage and screen work.
Ian McKellen touches on this, especially in relation to the premiere of a movie, in the book, Ian McKellen: The Biography by Garry O’Connor, when he said: “It’s the oddest thing in the world, a film premiere. I mean it’s a total non-event. A man just shines a light through some celluloid and casts a shadow on a wall. And you’re sitting among an audience you can’t talk to and who can’t respond. It isn’t happening. It’s happened.” Personally, I think this just might be the most accurate description of the fundamental difference between movies and live theatre that I’ve ever encountered!
This speaks to a point which most “civilians,” I suspect, don’t ever consider regarding acting, especially. It’s a totally different creature for the screen from what it is for the stage. Movies are “performed” to suit the needs of the camera, so they are shot completely out of sequence and as separate scenes. Generally, all of the scenes in a single setup are shot before moving on to a different camera setup. That means that the actor does NOT have the benefit of “developing” his/her character over a continued sequence, but must be prepared to play any moment of the story at any time with no development as one would have in a theatre performance. In a theatre performance, the actor has to portray the entirety of the character’s existence, in sequence, every time the play is performed. Never having worked on a movie, I won’t try to guess which is more difficult, but I am quite sure that it’s not the same. But that isn’t the focus of this post.
In 2009, I was privileged to be able to see the London production of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart, with Simon Callow as Pozzo. Now this was a production of a play of which I am very fond, performed by a magnificent cast. When I directed a production of it at WCU in the Spring of 1978, I was criticized because the reviewer said that I didn’t have the two major characters express the appropriate amount of “existential anguish.” As it happens, neither my cast, nor I, felt that those two characters were supposed to actually have such feelings — they are too passive. I was pleased to discover that McKellen and Stewart seemed to feel much the same way, as was discussed by Stewart in his autobiography, Making It So.
There's a common misperception that Godot, like the rest of Samuel Beckett's plays, is hard, challenging, complicated, and obscure. Well, it can be, in the wrong hands, but it needn't be. Vladimir and Estragon are poor, homeless characters who meet every evening in the hope that Godot will keep his appointment with them and take them under his wing. Their counterparts Pozzo and Lucky are also homeless, but while Vladimir and Estragon are passively waiting for life to happen to them, Pozzo and Lucky are, in their own dysfunctional way, actively searching.
I understand that what Stewart was saying was to suggest that ALL of these characters are seeking something (Godot) who/which will answer their questions, provide some meaning for their lives, etc. But none of them are truly “suffering.” They just, quite optimistically, believe that if they can survive (and seek) long enough, Godot will arrive (or be found) and the answers they seek will be provided. Stewart goes on: “At first glance, the script of Waiting for Godot is a wild jumble, a lake of language. But as you read it closely, you discern a pattern of ripples and bubbles in this lake, the words taking on meanings and intentions that clue you in to Vladimir and Estragon's objectives. In preparation for doing the show, which had its London premiere in 2009 at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, I spent every day with my head in the script, trying to absorb this material into my brain and body so I could bring it to life on the stage. Only with Shakespeare and Dickens had I experienced such a complete union with a writer's words — and, in Beckett's case, stage directions. Look at this dialogue:”
Estragon: (Anxious) And we?
Vladimir: I beg your pardon?
Estragon: I said, And we?
Vladimir: I don't understand.
Estragon: Where do we come in?
Vladimir: Come in?
Estragon: Take your time.
Vladimir: Come in? On our hands and knees.
Estragon: As bad as that?
Vladimir: Your worship wishes to assert his prerogatives?
Estragon: We've no rights anymore?
Laugh of Vladimir, stifled as before, less the smile.
Vladimir: You'd make me laugh if it wasn't prohibited.
Estragon: We've no rights anymore?
Vladimir: (Distinctly) We got rid of them.
Silence. They remain motionless, arms dangling, heads sunk, sagging at the knees.
“On a first reading, this back-and-forth might come off as gibberish. But as you familiarize yourself with its peculiar rhythms and subtle courtesies ("your worship," "take your time"), you discover a tenderness in the two men's shared desperation. All the more so if your sparring partner happens to be Ian McKellen.”
I believe, and I tried to guide my production to try to express the futility of their passive waiting. I believe that Pozzo and Lucky, for all their dysfunctional failures, are shown to at least be making some efforts towards finding some sort of solution to their questions, where Vladimir and Estragon, like so many of us, are merely passing time, waiting for answers to be provided by someone/thing else without realizing how fruitless that is.
Go ahead, reread the play, see if the interpretation I propose (with what I believe is support from Patrick Stewart) doesn’t make a good deal of sense. Or, come up with a better one.
In her recent book, Shakespeare: The Man Who Pays the Rent, Judi Dench, (interviewed by Brendan O’Hea), makes some interesting comments about how the theatre has changed during her, lengthy, career which I think are worth noting.
While discussing the idea that The Merchant of Venice has become somewhat controversial, due to its perceived anti-semitism, Dench was asked whether the play should be banned, to which she replied: “Not at all. You stand there, say the lines and let the audience make up their own minds. They’ll be divided. Some will feel very sorry for Shylock and some will think he’s got his comeuppance. But that’s for them to decide. Our job as actors is to tell the story and fill in as much of the characters’ intentions as we possibly can. But there has to be room for the audience to ask questions. Otherwise they’re just coming, watching something with all the answers on a plate, and going away again.
“And also, our job as actors is never to judge the characters. Because then the audience are denied the chance to interpret the play themselves. The audience need to understand every choice that the characters make. They may not like or agree with those choices, but they need to understand where they come from.”
I take this to suggest that Dench does not believe that the theatre’s job is, necessarily, to provide the answers, but simply to ask the questions, and let the audience seek their own resolution to them. I confess that I agree with this notion.
I was quite intrigued by some of Dench’s comments regarding the use of Stanislavski’s ideas as actors, which I am unconvinced is a reliable approach to actually performing a role. I was especially fond of her response to O’Hea’s comment regarding a previous discussion, when he commented that: “That sounds like a very Stanislavski approach. So would you, for instance, think about what Ophelia had for breakfast?” To which she responded: “No, probably not. Stanislavski is very useful for grounding you in the character, but, in any case, that’s homework. Of course you have to know what the castle’s like, when your mother died, why you put on those particular clothes that day – and yes, perhaps what you had had for breakfast – but that’s just for you, not for the rehearsal room. By all means go into the detail and explore the hinterland of your character, but do it on the tube going home.” For what it's worth, I agree!
I was also especially taken with the discussion they had regarding the playing of Ophelia’s “Mad Scene,” when Dame Judi said: “The audience know that she’s not too tightly wrapped because other characters talk about it before she enters. We hear that she’s been chatting endlessly about her father, spouting gibberish, thumping her chest, coughing, twitching. And because we’ve already heard all that, you, as the actor, don’t have to bring it on with you. When you’re young you try every which way to make her mad. I realize now, of course, that you only need to choose one thing. For instance, she could come in, look at Gertrude, walk past her, and kneel or curtsey to somebody else and say, 'Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?’ You don’t need to do generalized mad acting. Much more unnerving just to convey it in one moment like that.
“But when you start out, you don’t trust yourself to do less. Or at least I didn’t. But that thing 'less is more’ should be written up in letters fifteen feet high.”
O’Hea then asked: “And who taught you 'less is more’? Who did you observe?” To which Dench responded: “Oh, I learnt from standing in the wings at the Vic every night and watching what was happening onstage – I never used to go to my dressing room. And then later in my career, working with the likes of John [Gielgud] and Peggy [Ashcroft] taught me about economy. And reminding myself that the audience are very, very clever. We are inclined to underestimate an audience’s intelligence.
“It also helps to have been doing it for the last sixty-whatever years. When you’re young, you don’t dare to do less. Just because you can twitch and slide on the floor doesn’t mean you should. Acting is learning how to edit. It’s not just about what you put in, but probably more importantly what you choose to chuck out. Much better to do one thing than five. It’s all a question of balance – how much madness, how much passion. Learning how to convey just enough. It’s hard, but that’s what our job is, isn’t it? Finding the minimum we have to do to create the maximum effect – and all in service of the story.”
I willingly admit that I am something of a “Shakespeare NUT,” and am very much a “Stratfordian,” because I have never encountered what I consider to be credible evidence that the “guy from Stratford” couldn’t have written the works he is credited with and what “evidence” I have encountered disputing that idea all seems to be suspiciously prejudiced, and likely quite prejudicial. I recently was thinking about such matters, and was reminded of one of a scene in the 2018 movie, All Is True, which I quite enjoy. This scene takes place between a young student named Henry and Will while the now-retired Will is working in his garden at New Place in Stratford. Henry expresses his surprise at how Will’s plays have moved him and wants to know how Will could have created them. The scene goes like this:
HENRY: There is no corner of this world which you have not explored. No geography of the soul you cannot navigate. How? How do you know?
WILL: What I know. If I know it. And I don’t say that I do. I have - (a moment to consider) Imagined.
HENRY: But they say you left school at fourteen... You’ve never travelled. Imagined? From what?
WILL: From my self!
HENRY: Your self?
WILL: Yes! Everything I’ve ever done. Everything I’ve ever seen, every book I’ve ever read, and every conversation I have ever had, including, God help me, this one. You will find the whole of me in every word I ever wrote. My thoughts, my feelings, my dreams. If you would be a playwright and speak for others then speak first for yourself. Search within. Consider the contents of your own soul. Your humanity. For that is the business of the theatre. Everything else is just stage directions.
Write what you are, what you know, what you feel and what you can imagine my friend. And if you are honest then whatever you write all is true.
I think this may be the key to understanding ALL work in the theatre, not just playwrighting, but every aspect. This work is, all-encompassing. It can drain you and leave you shattered. It requires everything you’ve ever done, been, felt, thought, believed. It doesn’t promise to give you fame and fortune, but, on those occasions (rare as they usually are) when the entire production comes together, there is NOTHING I can think of which is like the sheer joy of being a part of that experience.
I probably have not done a truly adequate job with this post. This stuff isn’t easy to explain, but, if you’ve ever been a part of the sort of experiences I have been talking about, I suspect that you understand….
If you haven’t yet had such an experience, I hope you do someday. I think it’s transformative.
I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, rambling on about something else. Maybe I’ll actually write about something which non-theatre folks can understand.
🖖🏼 LLAP,
Dr. B
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