Real Theatre History

This has been a trying week. I’m neck deep in production and the schedule of things feels off. Visually, the progress of the elements of the show are coming together nicely. Something still feels off though. In the midst of production a pressing need inspired a massive purging of the scene shop. It had literally been packed with old scenery and items that hadn’t been used in years. I spent most of Wednesday helping disassemble odds and ends and hauling things to the dumpster.

Late that afternoon, in the twilight time between the college clearing out and the actors showing up for rehearsal, I moved slowly through the scene shop, wiping counters, tidying, removing years of dust and sawdust, and finally, sweeping the floor. There is a ritual to this sort of cleaning. I often think of the way that a religious figure prepares a holy space. This is a place for creation. This cleaning marks the transition between one existence and another.

It was a strange moment for me because generally, I perform this particular ritual on the stage floor before we move in the scenery. It is quiet, methodical, purposeful and respectful. Once the floor was swept I sat down on it and rested in the light that poured in from the two large windows up near the ceiling. My eyes wandered across the floor at the layers of paint that had been hidden under all that scenery.

The green at my feet was from the first play I ever directed here. A nearby line of brighter green was from the Godspell dumpster. It was framed on one side the overspray from the night I had the cast each take a turn writing graffiti on the fake dumpster. I remember how difficult it had been to stencil the iconic face on the side of the dumpster with the wheels of my chair pressed firmly against the wood.

But there was so much more. Browns, whites, blues, strips of black and spattered red and yellow. They did not belong to me. I ran my fingers across them slowly. Was this from The Wiz? Mother Hicks? Rimers of Edridge? Were they painted late at night with deadlines approaching? Were people laughing or was it with grim determination.

I was proud of that paint and of the theatre that I am so fortunate to call my own. A history that I did not make but that I now am the steward of. An entity perpetually in its childhood with an endless supply of magic.

But like all things, change happens. Someday someone else will come across the paint that I helped lay down and wonder, or maybe they never will. But I will know and remember a collection of shows and students and memories that shaped me, them, and the institution. As important as the commemorative plaques on the wall. This is my Richland.

Tags: education, paint, scene shop, Teaching, theatre