As the founder and now social media manager for Portland’s Fertile Ground Festival, I have recently had the delightful and curious experience of being able to dip my finger daily into the stream of material our 100 plus world premiere projects have created to promote their shows. I asked myself, how can I harness this wealth of creative promotion in ways that can be of value to our national new play community? With that in mind, welcome to Post One of a multi-post series called “STEAL THIS IDEA.”

First, some quick background:

The Fertile Ground Festival attracts projects from literally all walks of life and all levels of professionalism- from a writer who successfully overcame homelessness and the sex trade to a writer whose last piece was for NPR and whose next piece might well be for film or television. It also attracts all scales of producing partners- Portland Center Stage and Whitebird Dance both have fully staged world premieres in the festival, while the PDX Playwrights collective has probably 20 plays that will receive bare bones staged readings over the course of the festival. The common link amongst all the projects is that they are all Portland generated, and they are all world premieres.

Every project is tackling the same problem that all new work faces: How do I overcome the “never heard of it” barrier?

Audiences want to get a sense of what the experience will be like before they take a risk on a new work. The challenge is that it is nearly impossible to have real performance footage of a new work before it premieres. So how do you help a prospective audience member glimpse the future of a work that is still in the process of creation?

Here are five incredibly different, very intriguing ways this year’s festival participants are using video to address that challenge:

Variation One: Go Graphic

Festival Project Waxwing, from tiny and brand new theater collective String House Theatre employed the talents of an illustrator to take audio recordings from their new work and create a whole world of atmosphere. Check it out:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Variation Two: Showcase the Artists

The NW Children’s Theatre and School has participated in the festival three years in a row, contributing world premiere work for young audiences that often attracts some of the festival’s largest audiences. For this year’s project, Rapunzel- Uncut! created by local playwright James W. Moore, they focused their video efforts on a behind the scenes peek at the young rockers who create the ‘house band’ for this hip update on the Rapunzel story.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Variation Three: Direct Address + F word = WIN

Portland’s LORT theater Portland Center Stage, brings a main stage world premiere of Jason Wells’ The North Plan to the festival, creating a video that feels like a direct address confessional from the character’s foul mouthed and hilarious lead character. None of the language in the trailer is directly from the show, but the result is a pretty good snapshot of the show’s key ideas.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Variation Four: Inspire with the Mission

Playwrite, Inc. is a social service organization that utilizes playwrighting as a tool to help transform the lives of “youth on the edge” in Portland. Their project trailer takes a totally different tack, inspiring the viewer with the effect of the work on the young writers themselves rather than focusing on the pieces being performed (which are probably not even written yet!)

Click here to view the embedded video.

Variation Five: Fake it… Artfully

Portland Playhouse, a mid-sized theater company that’s had three very successful festival projects, uses the real actors from their performance to create a trailer that feels like an artful fake of the real show. Particularly effective are the intercuts of slightly disgusting food closeups that create the same unsettling sense of everyday foods that feel suddenly, subtly WRONG that Dexter uses to great effect in their intro sequence.

Click here to view the embedded video.

One of the things I find fascinating about these examples is that, with the new technology available for video creation, it is nearly impossible to identify these projects by budget size simply on the basis of their video trailers. Each is creative, each is polished and feels professionally produced, and each creates a very different set of expectations for the show being promoted.

What can you steal from this? And which approach works best with your mission and aesthetics? I invite you to share your own samples of newplay video in the comments below.

A few weeks ago, during the TCG Fall Forum, I saw an interesting Twitter conversation and felt compelled to wade in. Kristoffer Diaz had written:

Disappointed at the lack of response to question about non-financial contributions of potential board members. #tcgff

My response was that every board member should give, though the amount might vary. That started what was for me, anyway, an interesting conversation.

Though we were focused on questions of financial contributions from staff – particularly artistic staff – I think the issue is really a bit larger. I think the underlying issue is about the tension between artist and organization.

I believe every board member of a nonprofit organization should make a financial contribution. Though artists will often say that they contribute their skills and, well, their art, I think that explanation opens a door that’s better left closed. How long before a board member with other applicable skills – say public relations – wants to contribute those in lieu of an outright financial gift?

In such a situation, it would be proper to ask whether that board member is really looking for a board position, or ought to apply for a position on the staff.

That’s also the difficulty of staff serving on the board. The purpose of that service needs to be very clear.

Is it a sense that a board position is prestigious? A way to be seen as an “equal” socially?

Is it a fear of losing control of the vision?

A board of directors has clear duties that are largely fiduciary and financial. The board is entrusted with safeguarding the organization’s mission, its integrity, its connection to the community – and its financial security. Every board member should be a fundraiser. (That doesn’t necessarily mean making direct solicitations. There are many ways board members can help – from signing letters, to bringing friends, to opening doors to connections). As fundraisers, board members ought to be donors first.

That’s not to say that giving and raising money is the whole job description. On a good board, it’s not. Board members ought to have many different skills put to use for the organization. In fact, for board members themselves, this is the joy of the job. The opportunity to contribute – both financially and with talents they already have or can learn as board members – is what drives good people to accept an invitation to serve.

Those talents, however, shouldn’t be allowed to supersede or conflict with professional staff. When those lines get blurry, chaos ensues.

In my experience, artistic staff are often treated either as celebrity guests or… “the staff”. (And yes, that comes with the faintest whiff of condescension). I don’t think either is good for the artist or the organization.

When staff – particularly artistic staff – are part of the board, it’s important that they are accepted as peers. Respected for their talents and knowledge, but on an equal footing. Making a contribution is part of that. It’s important that the artistic leader be seen as sharing in the financial commitment.

The much bigger question is one of control.

Is the artist part of the board to keep an eye on things? To be sure that a group of people who necessarily have less invested artistically don’t drive the organization in a new direction?

Those concerns are valid. Boards have certainly made choices – in leadership, in mission – that have veered from the leading artist’s vision. Better, certainly, to be part of the conversation as a peer than to become a supplicant for your own leadership.

So I think it’s good for the artist to be involved. But it’s especially important that involvement be not as a staff person (hired and fired by the board, after all), but as a full-fledged board member in his or her own right.

You want nothing ambiguous about your position and your voice.

There’s an innate tension between an artist and the organization. It’s creative chaos versus stability, art versus budget. When balanced properly, it’s a dynamo that drives everyone involved to do better. It keeps things zinging. It keeps things existing, too.

Taking a seat on the board means the artist has to balance those forces.

So do serve on your board. But serve as a real board member, not an artistic figurehead. Make a gift.

(By the way, I’ve seen this done – and you can call it either clever or cynical – by insisting on a salary increased enough to cover the size of a significant gift. Just saying…)

What can we learn from the birth of the regional theatre movement? Which arts administrator has reached a mass-critical critical mass? Where did Verdi and Shakespeare work to support their writing habits? How many theatres are we going to have to occupy? Why do we call it play?

These are the stories we’ve been following at 2amt this week. This is Follow Friday.

Michael Kaiser criticizes the blogosphere
Mr. Kaiser is afraid of the rise of the citizen critic. As Adam Thurman points out , his fear is justified, even if we disagree with his conclusions. Goodness knows Travis Bedard, Jeremy Barker and Isaac Butler did. That’s why I’m reaching out to Mr. Kaiser while in DC this weekend.

Simone Scully on the vox populi
Of course, citizen criticism might be even more widespread than Mr. Kaiser thought. At the TCG website, a profile of Barrington Stage and their iCritic project. Walk out of the show, step into the booth & record your reactions to share with the world. What’s next for iCritic? What if it could travel from theatre to theatre? What if it were mobile?

Howard Sherman & Peter Marks, together again for the first time
Conveniently enough, all this talk of criticism in the age of Twitter comes to a head the week Arena Stage hosts Howard & Peter in the Kogod Cradle, talking about the role of critics, the use of Twitter and the brave new world of interaction & engagement. The event will also be streamed live at NewPlayTV and archived for later viewing. Right before the event, we’ll be hosting a 2amt meetup at Arena from 3pm until 5pm, so if you’re in the DC area, come on down and say hi. Stay for the event, maybe we’ll all critique it afterwards.

Diane Ragsdale on making a living
Another theme emerged this week, from Zelda Fichandler’s speech on the history of the regional theatre movement while giving an award to Blanka Zizka of the Wilma Theater, from Michael Dove of the Forum Theatre’s meditation on their words and his call to change “non-profit” into “social profit” to my own post on the idea of staff playwrights as opposed to resident playwrights. Naturally, Diane is right there with a few more “outlandish suggestions” on making a living as an artist in the regional theatres.

Ben Brantley occupies theatre
As the Occupy __________ (choose your nearest protest) movement grows and gathers support, Ben Brantley takes a look at the 99% in the world of theatre, from Willy Loman to Mike Daisey, all the way up to the Civilians’ latest production, inspired by interviews conducted at the Occupy Wall Street protest in Zuccotti Park.

Scott Stratten on being awesome
Archived video of the Livestream of Scott’s keynote address at the National Arts Marketing Project Conference this past weekend in Louisville, Kentucky. The main takeaway? People follow awesome. Be awesome. Stop marketing and start engaging. Is it really as simple as that? Watch and find out. Hint. There’s a reason his website is called UnMarketing.

Garry Wills sings of Verdi & Shakespeare
You might be surprised by some of the similarities between the two. “Both were supplying performances on a heavy schedule, to audiences with a voracious appetite for what they wrote. In a career of little over twenty years, Shakespeare turned out thirty-eight plays…Verdi had a longer career of fifty-four years…in which he created twenty-seven operas…” Wonder if being core members of their own companies had anything to with that. Makes you think.

Katherine Catmull on the uses of joy
There is a reason what we do is called “play.” The women of Conspire Theatre remind us of this in the amazing work they’re doing with the women of the Travis County Correctional Complex in Del Valle, Texas.

Thanks to Travis Bedard, I don’t need to say anything about Michael Kaiser’s latest post. And if that weren’t enough, you could read more from Jeremy Barker and Isaac Butler in reaction.

I will say this. The irony of complaining about citizen bloggers in a post at the Huffington Post is a beautiful thing.

This wave of participation isn’t going to roll back. As came up at the National Arts Marketing Project Conference in Louisville several times this week, you can opine all you want, but it’s not going to change. The way we engage and interact–as artists, as audiences, as critics professional or not–is evolving. If you want to move forward, you need to adapt. Embrace the change and work with it. Are you going to help lead the way or bitch and moan about being dragged along behind? Or are you just going to tell everyone to get off your lawn?

Here’s the thing. This weekend, Howard Sherman and Peter Marks will be talking about this very subject at an event at Arena Stage. Twitter and theatre, critics and laymen, audiences and engagement. The event will be streamed live and later archived at the NewPlayTV site. I will be in D.C. for this as well–we’re going to have a 2amt meetup at Arena from 3:00 pm until the talk begins at 5:00 pm. If you’re in town and free, come on by.

I’d like to invite Mr. Kaiser to join us, but I’ll understand if he can’t make it. 2amt meetups are usually a healthy blend of actors, playwrights, designers, journalists, directors, audience members, you name it. In many cases, when we have these meetups, we’re meeting in person for the first time. We’ve been brought together via Twitter and the 2amt conversations there, or through hearing about this website at conferences like NAMPC. I know this particular event will have a few people coming from out of town just to get together before and after the talk itself. And, as always happens at these meetups, I know everyone will talk not like strangers just meeting but like old friends who haven’t seen each other in years.

That kind of instant engagement can be daunting. I know, I’m still getting used to it myself. So I completely understand if he doesn’t want to come to the 2amt meetup or the talk.

But. As long as I’m in town, I’d be happy to come down to Foggy Bottom and have a drink with Mr. Kaiser. Heck, I’ll buy. Coffee, tea, something stronger, doesn’t matter to me. I’d just like to take a few minutes to introduce him to what’s happening on the ground, what’s truly possible now and what we can do moving forward.

If nothing else, they do have a nice lawn…

…and what it means for our future.

I was a lucky audience member for the Oct 26th SDC Zelda Fichandler Award presentation at Arena Stage (which was given, this year, to Blanka Zizka of Wilma Theater). I wanted to attend, in part, because I had just joined the stage directors and choreographers union a few weeks prior and, in part, to support Howard Shalwitz who was being recognized as the Distinguished Finalist. What I didn’t expect was an education in the significance of the early regional theatre movement and how its principals can guide the theatre of today in becoming a true force in our cultural landscape, once again.

As a DC theatre maker, Zelda’s influence on our local community certainly looms large. We know of her as the founder of Arena Stage. We think of her when we sit in the beautiful in-the-round space that bears her name. But for me, a 30 year old who only moved to DC in 2003, started a small theatre company, and has decided to make artistic direction my career, I now realize how little I appreciated the significance of that exodus out of New York and into the regions, over 60 years ago.

I am a member of a generation who have, perhaps, taken for granted the efforts of Zelda, Margo Jones, Tyrone Guthrie, and the countless others who blazed those first trails into the wilderness and forged the community that I so gratefully make a living in, today. For us, there has always been an Arena Stage. For us, Margo’s prophesy of “40 of these theatres all around America, that’s what we need to have” has not only been surpassed long before we were born, but has been met and exceeded in our very own geographic region. Professional theatres under the non-profit banner have always been a part of our lives.

Obviously, this has not always been the case. An argument had to be made to even allow theatres to be invited to the 501(c)(3) party “because [theatre] made a profit” (that comment nearly brought down the house at the event and reminded me of the joke “How do you make a small fortune as a theatrical producer? Well, you start with a large fortune…”). A case had to made that theatre could and should mean more than just financially profitable entertainment. The regional theatre movement had to reach back to the very foundations of our art and rediscover the community building, political-minded, and educational roots that our form of artistic expression is not only well suited for, but possibly best suited for bringing a populace together in public discourse.

Oskar Eustis points out that theatre has always been a social tool for practicing empathy and a forum for challenging perspectives. Starting with the earliest known work in our Western cannon, The Persians, theatre has always been intrinsically married to democracy and the effort of putting ourselves in someone else’s shoes to learn how to live better with one another. It’s apt that Oskar looks back to these early theatrical gods for inspiration for it’s important for today’s practitioners to look to our American Theatrical Founding Fathers and Mothers for guidance in how we move theatre forward for our contemporary audience and the generations to come.

We have lost sight of the founding traditions of our theatrical revolution. We see our non-profit statuses as means to an end. They allow us to solicit tax-deductable donations because this is how our government has decided to support the arts. And while we bemoan the always-shrinking amount of public funds available to our organizations, it’s important to realize how much freedom our United States not-for-profit system truly allots us. On a trip to Toronto a few years back, I found myself full of jealousy for the famous Canadian government funding support and enjoyed telling every theatre artist I met there about “how hard it was” for us, in America and how their government clearly valued the arts more than ours. I pulled out this attitude time and time again until one producer came back with “yes, but the projects we pursue funding for must go though a bureaucratic process that sometimes dilutes and censors the work because it has to go through a series of gateways.” As American non-profits, we have more freedom to do what we want so long as we find the support to make it happen.

Listening to Zelda, I thought about my own theatre, Forum Theatre, and wondered if we were living up to the service organization label we purport to be known by. Are we doing enough to justify our not-for-profit status?

Perhaps the name of our system is partially at fault. Have we unknowingly bought into the negative, profit-less connotation of the term “non-profit.” a term that inspires (if that’s the right word) low expectations with its very word ingredients. If our titled goal is to not make a financial profit, then what are we trying to achieve?

A campaign to replace the term “non-profit” with “social profit” has arisen over the past few years and I wonder if it’s a cause that theatres should take up as a galvanizing force for our industry. A stated intention of exactly what our organizations hope to return to our investors could refocus our missions beyond the needed language to gain 501(c)(3) status and towards a greater good. A social-profit would yield not financial profit but benefits to society. South Africa even has a “Social Investment Exchange” for tracking such organizations.

I firmly believe that a renewed focus on the core values devised by those early pioneers at Arena, the Guthrie, Theatre ’47, and others, is a key component to how we can not only strengthen our field but grow our industry in terms of higher risk and therefore higher investment return. As Zelda said in her speech when talking about dwindling audience numbers, “If that is so, I ask this question: could it be, in part, that the imaginative scale of our work is bowing to meet the budget’s needs?”

As my generation and the one coming up just behind us look to build the theatrical landscape of tomorrow, we would do well to learn from those who waged so many battles before us and forge onwards to a theatre of even greater value.

Over the weekend, @NewPlayTV streamed three interesting, presumably unrelated talks. The first was from Steppenwolf’s First Look Festival, titled How to engage 21st Century Audiences for New Plays, followed an hour later by one from the PlayFest at Orlando Shakespeare Theater on How to Make a Living as a Playwright? Monday night’s was from New Dramatists in NYC, titled Beyond the Culture Wars: Arts Funding in America. (The links lead to the archived videos of the talks; some of them are in multiple parts, just so’s you know.)

On the surface, there are connections–they’re all about theatre and they all feature playwrights as panelists. But one common thread leapt out at me and reminded me of conversations we’ve had on the #2amt stream on Twitter. It began with Robert O’Hara and Marisa Wegrzyn on the Steppenwolf panel talking about how they as playwrights had been welcomed into the marketing process at various theatres and, in Marisa’s case, more deeply involved as a partner and co-founder of Theatre Seven. I’ve done much the same for Riverrun Theatre as a founder and co-producer, largely for the same reasons–we enjoy it.

The next panel, from PlayFest, began with the question, “What’s a playwright got to do to make a living?” Panelist Charlie Bethel answered first. “Everything but playwriting.” He was only half-joking–he went on to list all the occupations he’s had in order to support his writing. Gloria Bond Clunie noted that “Not sleeping is really essential in holding two jobs…” And, “if you identify yourself as a writer, then you have to decide what else has to fall away so you can focus on that.”

Minutes later, Jason Loewith, executive director of the National New Play Network, asked a question we’ve been asking for a while now.

“Why don’t theatre companies with budgets of more than $2.5 million have a playwright on staff?”

Steve Yockey countered with, “Why not $1 million?”

Finally, Monday’s wish-list post by Gwydion Suilebhan and that night’s debate from New Dramatists echoed and continued these thoughts. Gwydion offered the wish that more playwrights should be on staff. At the debate, economist Eric Helland asked, “Why is the Playwright the only person in the production not on salary?” (I know several designers who’d argue with that. But let’s stick with the seven-figure-budget theatres for now.)

Several months ago, Kristoffer Diaz and I went back and forth on Twitter (both on and off #2amt) about the idea of a staff playwright and what that would entail. We agreed that it meant more than a residency or a commission, more than the ability to use office equipment and have steady health insurance. It meant more than simply putting words on paper for people to speak aloud on stage. It means, first and foremost, being there, being part of the heart of the company.

Fine. But what would a staff playwright do?

What if you had someone who could shape your social media experiences, someone trained in the art of dialogue, the craft of story? We all agree that social media works best as interaction and engagement, not as a one-way broadcast for ticket info. We’ve seen several variations on storytelling-via-Twitter–I did it in 2008 tied to an original show, Such Tweet Sorrow did it last year, Bill Corbett’s presenting a novel one tweet at a time as we speak, the list goes on.

How would this work? Let’s take a real life example. The Goodman did something like this last winter, letting Ebenezer Scrooge hijack their Twitter feed. Did it work? The idea was cute, but the execution left me cold. For one thing, the character was a little too quippy and playful, which didn’t gibe with the character in the play or the book. There was no guarantee anyone would interact or engage with him. Beyond that, because the production ran beyond Christmas Day, the character had to “go back to normal” for a few days past Christmas, which contradicted the story. Worst of all, by hijacking the primary Twitter feed, it blocked out people genuinely looking for information about the theatre. After a week of watching, I used Muuter.com to hide the Goodman account in my regular day-in, day-out Twitter stream until after the show closed. I visited their page to see keep tabs on how it was going, but avoided it otherwise.

If I’d been planning that, I would have created a second, specialized Twitter account, perhaps GoodmanScrooge–that’s funny right there. I would have pointed people to that account and given them the option of following it instead of forcing it on them. And I would have had the two accounts interact with each other, effectively doubling the amount of attention paid to the theatre and the show. This would also allow each account to pull others into the conversation, whether staff or patrons, by showing that it was okay to play. But that’s because I see these things through the prism of storytelling, crafting a narrative, even if only something as silly and ephemeral as a box office and a classic fictional character bantering for a couple of weeks.

So okay, you’ve got your playwright tap-dancing on Twitter. What else?

What if you could create games and events themed to your productions? Online, mobile games using nothing more complicated than SCVNGR and Foursquare and other mobile apps? A good game needs a good storyline, and it needs possibilities. It’s got to be more than “check in here, get 3 points.” We know story.

What if you wanted to host 360 Storytelling events throughout your season? Your playwright could act as host and occasional storyteller. Strawdog Theatre in Chicago has been trying weekly 360 events of late, hosted by–you guessed it–a playwright. (Full disclosure, I would go just about anywhere to listen to Hank Boland tell stories. And if you don’t know him or his stories, you should fix that.)

In both cases, your playwright becomes another face for the theatre, another contact point for your community. And your playwright could–and should–be out in the community as well, doing outreach and educational programs as well. They would also become a liaison between visiting playwrights and the local community. At the same time, you’re not just cultivating an audience for your theatre, you’re cultivating an audience for your playwright. You’re giving the audience a stake in the work, a deeper sense of connection. It’s not just a visiting artist visiting a neighborhood, this is someone who’s part of the warp and weft of the community.

What if you wanted to design season brochures and media with a message beyond, “Hey, these are the plays we’re doing! Buy a subscription!”? There are too many theatres I could call out for awful, easy-to-ignore season brochures. The worst I’ve seen try to create a mood or theme that has no connection to the plays in the season. Maybe worse is the generic, static brochure that barely changes from year to year, changing only the photos and the blurbs. By contrast, Steppenwolf has been finding themes among their plays each season and working from there. Woolly Mammoth has been doing a great job of connecting the shows to a theme that lends itself to a clever design. Just look at Woolly’s season brochure this year–it’s eye-catching, it’s engaging, and best of all, it makes sense. Best of all, such creativity–and thematic integration–fits with Woolly’s mission. Win-win.

A great many playwrights work by day in marketing and communications already. On the PlayFest panel, Tim Bauer pointed out how that training had helped him, and how being freelance allowed him to travel as needed for productions of his plays. Marisa Wegrzyn talked about creating Theatre Seven marketing materials as well as videos for other companies that produce her plays. I work in advertising by day and naturally applied that experience to my own small theatre company. Then there’s the lovely team at Marshall Creative in Chicago, an advertising firm riddled with Neo-Futurists, New Leaf Theatre people Improvised Shakespeare and probably carny folk, for all I know. Their mission?

We believe in building brands and connecting people through storytelling and technology.

Unquote. Still, much of our work is outside theatre, and I don’t just mean the client list itself–it’s also about hustling for clients, finding people and businesses looking for that kind of creativity. What if we were all working in-house for theatre companies?

Oh yeah, we could write plays, too.

Let’s work off the template presented by the New Play Institute at Arena Stage. Maybe you commit to producing 1 play by the staff playwright every two years, for instance. At the same time, you help to workshop whatever else the playwright might be working on. Not full workshops per se, but maybe some table reads with acting apprentices or company members, a lighter version of the traditional development process to get plays on their feet. If the script winds up being produced in-house, great. If it’s produced elsewhere, that elsewhere knows the script’s already been put through its paces to an extent. Maybe you take a smaller percentage in subsidiary rights to plays developed in-house, because you’re not committing to a full-scale development process, and you’re not commissioning a one-time event from a short-term visitor–you’re supporting a staff member and getting their creativity in other departments in return. That’s just one way to do this, we’ve got more…

Can every playwright do this? No. But there are plenty who could. Look around, we’re out here.

Can every theatre do this? It depends on your budget, your mission, your willingness to change the formula. I do think every theatre whose mission goes beyond remounting classics should have a playwright-in-residence, even if it’s an unpaid position outside of actual productions. Even then, I think classics-based theatres could benefit from having staff playwrights for all of the above reasons, right down to helping the playwright develop scripts. You may not produce them, but there’s no reason why you can’t read them aloud a few times. And if you’re a company whose budget is seven figures or more, then you really have no excuse not to try this. The larger the institution, the more important the need for faces, consistent personalities and contact points within your community.

Woolly Mammoth is already doing this, expanding their definition of company members beyond actors to include playwrights and designers. As if that weren’t enough, they provide a home base for the National New Play Network. They’re well established in both their local community and in the national scheme of new play development, and yet they’re willing to shake things up.

Why do we want be on staff? Morgan Allen from New Dramatists asked yesterday, “Is it the idea of a living wage/benefits with no expectations you seek or connection to an institution?” Kristoffer Diaz replied, “I’m looking for a connection. I want to play a role in the artistic life of a company.” I’m looking for both, somewhat. I’d like enough of a wage that I wouldn’t have to worry about outside work–which is not necessarily the same as a living wage, mind you–but what interests me most is the thought of helping to shape the narrative of a company, to tell the stories of a community, or even multiple communities within a given region. I’d like the security and freedom to focus all my creativity on the world of theatre.

In short, I’d like to drop the “Everything but” in exchange for the “playwriting.”

Other people’s money is not just the name of a play by Jerry Sterner. It is the temptation put before an “agent” when working on behalf of a “principal” that gives rise to “moral hazard.” Other people’s money is also what nonprofit organizations – like theatre companies – use to produce work. There is a lot of business literature, organizational behavior literature, and economics literature that address the relationship between agents and principals and the moral hazard inherent to the task of using other people’s money. There’s even some scholarly literature on principal agent relationship in the nonprofit sector, but nothing specific to the arts. As my colleague Andrew Taylor said, “the nonprofit arts are dripping with principal-agent problems. Just ask any governing board who they work for.” Seeing this question as part of a public conversation on twitter spurred #2amt editor David J. Loehr to ask me to explain moral hazard and principal agent theory as it relates to theatre.

Here’s one example of how the principal-agent problem plays out:

A visionary director, let’s call her Jane Doe, decides to start a theatre company in a mid-size city and, against the advice of her friend the arts administrator, incorporates in her state as a 501c3 with a mission “to enrich the cultural life of the region by presenting new plays generated from interaction with the regional community.” She has three years to get a board in place. She quickly recruits people she trusts, people who buy into her vision and the mission of the organization. Her college roommate is now a lawyer – score! Her neighbor is an accountant – score again! And, her best friend does PR for a health group to round out the functional board trifecta: legal, financial, and marketing. Fundraising begins and private gifts come in. Grant applications go out and grant money comes in. Plays get written and produced. Sometimes, people even buy tickets, but not too many.

Jane’s artistic vision evolves and she wants to direct more classics. Her board of three friends goes along with her programming. Oops…the board now appears to be reporting to Jane rather than the other way around. In a nonprofit organization, the board -– the governing body — is the principal, the steward of the mission and all of its funds, and the artistic director is the agent. Here the moral hazard results from stewardship of mission rather than money, but whenever the goals of the principal and the agent fall out of alignment, you got yourself a principal-agent problem. There are myriad examples of this situation, the unintentional (or intentional) mission drift that happens over time, mission drift that goes uncorrected because of principal-agent reversal. I’m too polite to name names.

This situation begs the question: “Why did Jane bother with a board at all?” Law require it of a tax-exempt organization. If she had developed a more flexible organizational structure instead of a 501c3, she likely could have recruited the assistance of her three friends while maintaining her artistic autonomy. Poor Jane.

To be continued…

Read Linda’s blog, Creative Infrastructure.

Previously in this column: The members of Bright Alchemy Theatre, a very young devised theatre company based in Washington, DC, have spent the last nine months working on its new project which began with the question: Why do we as a species feel the need to tell stories about our own destruction? This weekend, for three PWYC performances, the company will test-drive its new play in front of an audience.

The beginning of production is when devised theatre starts to get weird. For me, at least. It’s like changing gears. In different cars. While juggling. A group of theatre artists who had, until now, simply been friends chatting in somebody’s living room congeal into more traditional roles. Actors are learning lines for roles they helped create. One deviser who has been with us from the start of the conversation takes on the role as director. Another becomes assistant director/stage manager. And the playwright starts letting the text go and takes on the role of producer. There is a brief amount of awkward negotiation that ensues as we all settle into the mechanics of rehearsal.

There are also the usual roadbumps. One actor has an unavoidable conflict arise and has to drop out, and we have to bring in someone who wasn’t there for the devising process, but who is enthusiastic and a great fit. The composer who has worked with us since the first show we did gets a job in Austin, but leaves us in the hands of another composer who is doing incredible work. We have to scramble to find a lighting designer, but acquire a fantastic one, who happens to have a day job at NASA (really appropriate considering the content of the play).

And a reading at the Kennedy Center’s Page to Stage Festival goes over great and a review of it sparks a debate about the role of critics in developing work.

All this in preparation for a three-performance workshop production. Think of it as a rough-draft production of the play. We test drive it (fully teched, everyone off-book), and elicit frank, honest feedback from the audience. That feedback will be taken into account, along with everything else we learned in the production process, when revising the show for a full run next year.

Yes, it’s a lot of work. And, yes, it is worth it. In my experience, having time in the space to experiment with design elements, and then seeing those elements in production can add whole new layers of understanding. Also, audiences can see things in your play that not only didn’t you see, but are incapable of seeing, with the entire company being close to the material.

It helps that this time we have funding and a really wonderful space. Around this time last year, I applied for a residency at the Mead Theatre Lab at Flashpoint and an attached grant from the Cultural Development Corporation’s Creative Communities Fund, both of which I was awarded. Basically, we get two weeks in a small but well-stocked black box near Chinatown in DC and a healthy chunk of change that will allow us to pay all the artists involved.

This was back when we were calling it “The Apocalypse Project” and all we had was a central question: Why do we as a species feel compelled to tell stories of our own annihilation?

That question is still somewhere at the heart of this play, now titled When The Stars Go Out. But it’s a much different piece than what I expected—more intimate, more about one woman’s anxiety than about the collective conscious of the human race.  Oh, we’ve still got some big bad weird. Like zombies and the afterlife and a giant wolf eating the stars. But the horror of all that seems to pale in comparison to one character’s battle with cancer and another who doesn’t know if she’s ready for motherhood.

One of the joys of devised theatre is that, even though I’m in the room from day one, and I’m the one creating most of the written text, the heart of the story is never what I think it’s going to be.

A side note: Sometime early in rehearsal, an actress who is new(ish) to Bright Alchemy tells me how she was explaining our process to another actress who works in devised theatre. The other actress was surprised that there was a playwright attached to this project and asked if that didn’t cause problems as the piece evolved. Our actress said that it wasn’t a problem at all, and that the playwright (me) seemed more than able to get his ego out of the way of the art. This makes me happy and suggests that I’m doing something right. Even if that something right is totally faking being ego-free.

Because this surely isn’t an entirely ego-free process. I mean, come on—it’s theatre. Everyone’s worked hard on this and, in a few day’s time, we’ll get to show it off. So, if you’re in the DC area and want to help shape a new work in process, consider yourself invited. You can find all the info here.

And, if you’re looking for a teaser, here’s the first minute and a half of the play.

Alright, I’ve had it and I’m not keeping it to myself anymore.

It seems that not a day goes by that a news item appears one place or another announcing that someone famous is considering/acquiring rights/contemplating/dreaming about creating a Broadway show or being on Broadway. Yesterday it was Kara DioGuardi saying she was thinking about writing a musical. Today it’s the manager of The Eagles saying that they’re exploring creating a musical out of the band’s catalogue. I have little doubt that you can supply your own example of this type of evanescent project with about five seconds of not-so-deep thought.

Perhaps I should be happy about this development. After all, it suggests that well known figures in the entertainment industry see a connection to Broadway as something valuable, a charm they can embrace to legitimize their efforts in other fields. I mention Broadway specifically in this case because I do not hear people saying that they dream of writing a show for their local regional theatre.

Ironically, there are famous people who have done or are doing just that, modestly and earnestly. Jeff Daniels founded his own theatre, The Purple Rose in Michigan, and regularly writes plays for production there, despite his Hollywood fame. Bruce Hornsby wrote a musical called SCKBSTD that premiered at Virginia Stage. The estimable team of Stephen King and John Mellencamp will see their musical Ghost Brothers of Darkland County materialize at The Alliance Theatre this spring. I’m excited about these.

But it’s the unfounded announcements that worry me. Someone goes on a TV show to promote some project or product and suddenly they’re accumulating theatre cred merely for thinking about joining our community. As if that’s not bad enough, their utterance is amplified by the media, who already think putting on a show is about as tough as mounting the high school musical (abetted by Glee, where every rehearsal is pretty  much a polished performance).

There used to be a corollary to this, which a former boss of mine referred to as “producing in the column.” This referred to the practice of less-than-top-line producers announcing projects in hope of making it into the once essential, now long-gone, Friday New York Times theatre column. But many of these productions didn’t yet exist; the producer planted the item to see if people would call expressing interest, and only go forward if their call sheet was sufficiently filled. Back then, the item appeared for a day, and sank out of sight. Today, these items are endlessly repeated, and archived, via the Internet. They spread like a hardy weed, even after they’re abandoned.

I’d like to issue a simple challenge to the media, both theatre-oriented and mass appeal: every time you feel compelled to elevate a musing into a production, you must take the responsibility of checking up on that show at six month intervals. If it comes to pass, terrific, keep on covering it. But when it fades into the woodwork, write something equally as prominent as that very first mention making clear that the project is off, and in many cases, never really was. I’d also add a penance for falling for these largely transparent p.r. stunts: each time you’re gulled, write about a show by a playwright or composer you’ve never written about before, or a theatre company that has never been able to get space from you. And I’m including every outlet that simply regurgitates wire service copy.

You see, there are countless theatres and writers who are actually working at the task of making theatre every day, and they can’t get any attention for their efforts – which exist in the corporeal world. A friend just told me the tale of working at a theatre where the artistic director was nearly in tears of joy over the appearance of a local news crew, for the very first time in memory. But why were they there? Because in the recent storm Irene, a large tree had fallen and blocked entrance to the venue.

I don’t wish to seem harsh to my journalist friends, who likely resent those occasions when they are thusly ill-used. I understand that celebrity sells and that you’re often being pushed, against your own wishes, to report on those who have achieved fame, be it through talent or outrageousness. All I’m asking is that you don’t play into their p.r. machines just because they utter the words “Broadway,” “theatre,” “musical” or “play.” Wait until they write one or are cast in one. Then I don’t really begrudge them the attention. I know what sells. But don’t let these Harold Hills sell you instruments and lessons until they know how to play theselves. Write about the people who are serious about making theatre.

Trust me, there are so many stories to tell.

The non-profit model is living on borrowed time. The current model is dying. Even still, I think we spend more time trying to figure out how to fund a show than actually making the show. Read: The way we make money to make art is not sustainable.

Insanity: Doing the same thing again and again expecting different results. Non-profit arts orgs seem to be doing this. Ask for money, produce a show, make no money, gain no audience and ask for money again – all the while, expecting to exist and support its artist’s livelihoods.

The Dream: to make a living as an ARTIST.

Creative fundraising for non-profs is important, no doubt about it. But at some point, if you’re creativity only reaches the boundaries of a bubble that never pops – you have to question the effectiveness of the method. You can call pink – brown if you want but the color will still be pink. New ways of doing the same damn thing – I’m sorry – but that is no paradigm shift.

Remember, the goal is to sustain our lives by making ART. As such, it follows we must be equally invested in the long-term sustainability of our organizations. The things we do in order to sustain our organizations, no matter how much we spin it, is not making art. Grant writing is not making theatre – it’s grant writing. Selling beer in the lobby, also, not making theatre.

But it seems in order for the theatre organization to be sustainable it becomes true that our ability to write grants and get sponsors and throw parties MUST be more sustainable. This is backwards.

Look at Apple. Apple doesn’t sell beer behind the Genius Bar to offset costs because their product isn’t cutting it. No, they just make great, user-friendly electronics. Apple folks don’t make money writing grants, they make money selling and servicing great stuff to people who want it. That’s all they do. Great product and great demand.

I know I’ve mixed the profit/non-profit models – but that doesn’t change the fact that artists have to do more to make less. And it doesn’t mean non-profs shouldn’t work like for profit businesses.

But the goal remains the same (make a living making art). And so does the obstacle. We still need money.

In order get what you’ve never had you have to try something different.

If you’re going to do something to offset the costs of making theatre, it makes sense that activity shouldn’t include doing more work. All your work should be focused on making art – nothing else.

But that’s impossible. Even so, there is a difference between getting grants just to stay afloat and getting grants to pay artists a fair living wage or being able to drop the price of tickets for a few nights or weeks so more people can afford to see your work. And let’s face it – the long-term sustainability of an arts organization depends on good people being paid to make good work and people filling the seats. Great product and great demand.

So what’s the solution? I’ll get to that – but for now – just think about how much you do that isn’t making art so that you can make art.

It’s been a month since the first Dramatists Guild National Conference. In that month, three things have stayed with me: Mame Hunt’s declaration to playwrights to stop writing realism, Julia Jordan’s keynote speech on gender parity, and Marsha Norman’s comment that we need to hear everyone’s stories at the gender parity panel discussion. All three have been wrapping themselves around in my mind as a part of larger conversation about theatre and dominant culture.

While I was earning my BFA in playwriting at DePaul University, we had a class that was guest taught by Robert O’Hara. Sometime during that class, I said that I wished that I was a part of ethnic community. I wanted to feel a connection to some cultural heritage. O’Hara eviscerated me. He told me that I WAS a part of a cultural heritage: that I had Shakespeare and Wilde and Shaw. And he was right. I had assumed that since my culture was the dominant culture, it wasn’t mine at all.

And that’s the issue with dominant culture; because it is dominant, we often forget its context and assume that it is the voice of everyone.

Realism is a part of dominant culture.

The majority of those who post at 2amt are also a part of dominant culture. We’re a rabble rousing, invested part of dominant culture, but we are mostly a part of dominant culture.

When we support a specific style of storytelling, realism or non-realism, we need to realize that it comes from a specific context and be aware of our own biases as artists, particularly those in positions of power, such as artistic directors.

At the gender parity panel, Marsha Norman said that everyone’s stories need to be told. This was tweeted and re-tweeted liberally – but I wonder, as theatre artists, how willing are we to uphold that as our ideal? Are we really prepared to tell everyone’s stories? More importantly, are we really prepared to LISTEN to everyone’s stories?

Because if we really prepared to listen to everyone’s stories; then we need to let go of our personal preferences for storytelling. It means that we see realism as one specific style of storytelling that is rooted in a specific cultural tradition and that it might not resonate with people from different cultural traditions. It means being open to theatre that doesn’t speak to you. It means not engaging in cultural misappropriation, something that I see dominant culture theatre artists do again and again. It means letting go of idea of being able to speak to everyone or for everyone.

It would require a radical shift.

It would require self-awareness. It would require learning how to read plays in new ways. One of the things that resonated with me from Outrageous Fortune was the comment that many artistic directors don’t know how to read Sarah Ruhl’s stage directions. It would require us checking in with our assumptions of audience. It means that when we use phrases such as voice of the people; we consider which people we’re talking about. It would require us to acknowledge our own biases.

I have plenty of personal storytelling biases. I write realism about half the time and I always write for female protagonists. I have no personal desire to tell a male story, but that doesn’t mean I am not moved by male stories. If I looked at it from a limited perspective, I would start writing realistic stories with male protagonists so that I could become a part of the 17% of female playwrights who get produced. Or we could collectively work to embrace a paradigm shift and see everyone’s stories, as they want to tell them.  Think how many stories that are out there waiting to be experienced. There could be a style of theatre or specific story that thrills me that I have no conception of yet.

We’ve already challenging assumptions about dominant culture when it comes to discussions about younger audiences.  Why can’t we broaden this conversation from there to explore the intersection of culture and narrative? Or race and narrative? Or gender and narrative? Or class and narrative? What can we do to make sure that everyone’s stories are told?

This afternoon, Florida Stage announced that it was filling for chapter 7 bankruptcy and closing its doors forever.

Florida Stage was the largest theatre company producing only new work in the United States. They were also the largest theatre company in the South Florida Theatre Region. Unfortunately, they had 1.5 million dollars in debt and could not sustain operations.

The South Florida Theatre Community is grieving right now. All day I’ve been having phone calls where with clipped conversations and long periods of silence, reminding me of the awkward conversations at a funeral. After any major arts organization fails, you need to have difficult conversations  – but right now we need to grieve.

And a part of grieving is celebration – and there is so much to celebrate in the twenty four year history of Florida Stage.

I first worked at Florida Stage in 2006. I had just moved from Chicago, and I went very quickly to feeling at home at the theatre near the beach in Manalapan. I went from being a box office employee to being a box office employee/dramaturg/lighting technician.

From the beginning, I was welcomed into a larger family. Family was always at the heart of Florida Stage; they opened up their hearts right away. If you didn’t have a place for Thanksgiving, you were always welcome to the Florida Stage Thanksgiving at Nan’s house. Birthdays were a big deal, even for part time box office employees. While there were the normal politics that can happen in any workplace, employees were treated like family. On facebook, it feels like most status updates are about mourning that loss that sense of community.

But Florida Stage was also very mission driven. They only produced new work, and instead of allowing plays to live in development hell; they were focused on production. Florida Stage was a founding member of the National New Play Network, and dedicated to not only first, but second and third productions of work that had not been seen in New York. They developed an audience that thirsted for unknown plays by unknown playwrights. South Florida still has some theatres dedicated to new work, but will no longer have any theatres solely dedicated to that purpose.

And what I will miss the most about Florida Stage is their 1^st Stage New Play Festival. I’ve dramaturged all five of the Festivals, and it was one of the two things I looked forward to the most every year. It was always a liminal experience – Florida Stage brought down six playwrights each year to workshop and read a new piece. The first 1^st Stage was a bacchanalia of new ideas and excitement about the field of new play development. I met some wonderful playwrights from that Festival, and some wonderful work first was read there. The exchange of ideas at the constant flow of parties caused Steven Dietz to quip, “Florida Stage, more parties than plays” – but it was the equivalent what 2amt has become for me off the internet. A bunch of smart, dedicated people in a room, talking about what’s next for new plays, over wine and delicious food. It pains me that there won’t be another 1^st Stage.

This loss is really weighing heavily on me and my community. I know that we need to band together and work to ensure that the rest of the community won’t suffer. As the executive director of the South Florida Theatre League, I’m going to do what I can to maintain that sense of family in this community. But for now we need to grieve and share our stories and love for this theatre company that has played such a large role in the South Florida Theatre community.

Previously in this column:

Bright Alchemy Theatre, a very young company devoted to the creation of devised work, decides to begin work on a narrative and thematic sequel to A Cre@tion Story for Naomi, which explored the world’s creation myths. We began this new process with a question: Why do we feel the need to tell stories of our own destruction? Over the last few months we have explored various apocalypse stories, blue skied ways to create zombies, and planned our own funeral. And I’ve blogged the whole process here on 2amtheatre.

So by now some of you might be thinking, “Yes, this devising process is all well and good, but when do we get around to the theatre part?”

Soon. Much sooner than I thought, actually. And if that sentence sounds ominous, I don’t really mean it to be so. It’s my deadline-fear showing. Back in October, before we had meeting one on this project—before we’d even begun rehearsals for our previous production—I applied for Bright Alchemy to be a participant in the Mead Theatre Lab Program. The program provides four or five residencies per year to theatre artists, providing access to artistic advisors and two-to-five weeks in their small black box theatre near Washington, DC’s Chinatown. Along with that program, I also submitted an application for an attached Creative Communities Fund Grant.

I was told last month that we had been accepted for both. I think I actually did a two-arms-in-the-air-for-victory move in the middle of 14^th Street when I got the call.

And so Bright Alchemy will present the workshop production—the rough, fully staged, PWYC, soliciting input from the audience production—of its newest piece at the Mead Theatre at Flashpoint Sept 23-25. And we’ll have the two weeks prior to rehearse in the space. And we’ll have the funding to bring in the designers we want to work with and ensure that we can pay all our artists.

That the committee chose this project over several dozen others, makes me a little giddy. I had never written a grant before (and now that I’m batting a thousand, I may never again). And it was a proposal for a piece that, at the time, consisted only of a process and a question “Why do we as a species feel the need to tell stories of our own destruction?” But they must have seen something worth investing in, which means I feel just a smidge of pressure to live up to that expectation. Thus the deadline anxiety.

Our latest meeting is filled with practicalities. We discuss a timeline: when rehearsals would probably start, the likelihood of a reading at the Kennedy Center’s Page to Stage Festival, etc.

I try to pin down artists. While we’ve had about a dozen regular collaborators, not all of them will be available come September. However, many are able and willing, and having a budget means being able to successfully compete for their time.

And I introduce text. The first four pages of…something. How did I get these pages? There’s an article in the latest issue of Theatre Forum that profiles DAH, an experimental Serbian theatre group. DAH takes pieces of existing text and turns them into heavily movement based, abstract narratives. The article talks about how, after the group has created all of this material, one of the directors in the group will take it and arrange it into a finished composition. Like a piece of music, but with movement and a story, though not always one that resembles the original source material.

I guess my role has been to do the same. I take what we’ve been talking about: the themes, the stories, the topics that have provoked interest, even the mood of the conversation, and translate it into a theatrical text. That text may tell a wholly new and original story, but hopefully it does so in a way that incorporates many of the ideas we’ve been discussing.

Also, hopefully, it will not suck.

As a playwright, I hate showing unfinished rough drafts. Hate it. Working with Bright Alchemy, I have had to get over that. Or at least hide the anxiety manageably well. So, in the spirit of transparency, and with the idea that as soon as people began providing feedback online about the process they became collaborators themselves, I’ve posted those pages online…here. If you have questions, thoughts, creative expletives–please spew them below.

Supply, Demand, and Quality in the American Theater
Or, Just What Are We Supplying?

NEA chair Rocco Landesman’s comments at the recent Arena Stage New Works convening – that we have a supply and demand issue in the American Theater, and that we should consider decreasing supply – has started a welcome controversy in the field. Thanks to Mr. Landesman for pissing people off, and sparking a much needed conversation.

I think that labeling the current crisis a supply and demand problem is slightly off target, but perhaps close enough to get out some more critical, considered ideas about the state of the field in the midst of this current economic climate. The biggest danger with this reductionist label is that it simplifies the situation, and perhaps guides us astray us in our response. But it’s not a bad place to start.

So, supply. There are two areas where I agree with the notion that there may be too much supply in the American Theater – or at least that we are in danger of supplying too much of something. I expect my comments will piss off some of my colleagues and perhaps even close friends, but I write these things in the interest of the health of the field – because I feel that live theater is critical to a healthy culture in many ways (articulated ad naseum elsewhere…).

First, what is the goal of your theater work? What is its raison d’etre? If the principal reason for your company’s existence is that you like to make theater, that you enjoy the adrenaline of the creative experience as a performer, designer, director, etc., then please stop. Please close up shop. Or at least, don’t expect larger audiences, more critical response, and greater funding than you are already receiving. You may be enjoying yourself very much, but you aren’t offering something critical to the culture at large. For the field to flourish, we must offer something essential. And we have so much to offer.

Second is quality. Where are you setting the bar for your work? If the bar is low, and yet you argue that your work is just as deserving of audience, of attention, of funding as other companies who are doing rigorous, top quality work, then you are weakening the field, and lessening the argument that can be made for the value of theater in our society. It is astoundingly hard to defend things such as the NEA budget, or the place of arts in education, in our market-driven culture with its very short-term outlook. As a field we can’t afford to present a bowl of lumpy oatmeal and argue that it is a five course Michelin-rated meal.

To be clear, I am not holding myself up as the judge of what good work is. I am not arguing for a specific aesthetic. Nor am I suggesting that Broadway or large regional theaters make better work because they have greater resources and “higher production values.” I am certainly not attacking your work, dear reader. All I know is that I see a lot of sloppy work out there, which turns off audience members not only to one company’s work, but to the theater in general. We can’t afford, as a field, to coddle ourselves and feel self-satisfied because we have done something creative. Whatever the size of our theaters, whatever the type of work we create, we must hold ourselves accountable to a high standard of effort, rigor, and quality.

If nothing else, as a field we need to get better at discussing quality. Because we simply don’t do it very well. In fact, we rarely do it at all. Just passing these pages around the office of my own theater company has caused some uproar — and if within the walls of a close-knit group of committed artists we have trouble telling each other when we aren’t doing our best work, I tremble for the field. Because I can think of no other serious field of endeavor that is less self-critical, that is more wary of feedback and the opportunity for improvement it provides, than ours.

* * *

As for demand, the idea that demand is static is self-defeating, and stupor-inducing. There is no doubt in my mind that audiences can grow. Many things have impact on this, from what we choose to make, how well we make it, and the way we market it, to the way we interact with and educate potential new audiences, young and old alike.

My most gratifying experiences over the years have been impacting those who are not theater aficionados, those who write to me that they’d never thought they liked theater before, but who are now avid fans. But this kind of response doesn’t come simply because a company has good marketing savvy. Much more than that, it is a question of supply. Not only the amount of supply, as Landesman’s remarks, and Econ 101, imply – but what it is that we are supplying. Because to talk about the field in such reductionist terms makes it seem that we are selling one particular product, “Theater.” As if we were all making the same thing. And we are certainly not all making the same thing. But from the audience perspective I suspect we need to do a much better job differentiating the various experiences they are likely to have when they go to a particular show.

We need to think long and hard about the question of whether what we are offering our audiences is of deep, irreplaceable value. What is it about the experience we are creating that absolutely must take place within this medium of live performance? Is it something about the show that occurs on-stage? Is in the framing of the way the audience interacts? The amazing location of a site-specific performance? The post show discussion? Because however we do it, we must create an experience that cannot be easily replicated in another, recorded medium. If we don’t, the vast majority of our potential audience will, quite rightly, stay in and watch something comparable on Hulu or Netflix, on their own schedule, in the warmth and privacy of their own homes.

We also, as theater practitioners spread across the country, need to be more responsive to our audience. This does not mean selecting a season of “crowd-pleasers” or “giving them what they want.” It means finding a way to be in dialogue with our audiences, giving them things that are relevant to them, helping create a space for discourse around topics which are importantly for your locale, your demographic, etc.

This is an on-going process; the needs and interests of the community change constantly, as do theaters capacities and ways of engaging those needs. Many theaters are already doing a wonderful job of this. But many, many more of us need to get better, and there is continued learning to be done for all.

If, through all of this, we can make what we supply better, I believe demand will increase. If we cannot, perhaps we deserve shrinking demand.

One of the great conversations that has arisen from Arena Stage’s New Play Convening is this discussion about devised theatre: what is it; who does it; why do they bother? As people started trying to answer these questions, there were a lot of passionate responses—some of them knee-jerk, some of them well-reasoned.

“Devised theatre is sexier than regular playwriting and that’s why it’s so in right now.”

“The product that comes out of devised theatre is usually inferior.”

“Devised theatre does not result in ‘plays’.”

“There’s always a random dance number.”

There was an especially large number of reactions from playwrights. Many were genuinely curious. Others reacted viscerally, defensively. The idea of devised theatre—the creation of a play where the text (words or otherwise) is not solely in the playwright’s hands—makes a lot of writers cringe.

I am a playwright. I understand this reaction. I empathize with this reaction. We don’t just tell stories, we create structure. We craft; we shape; we help make sure everything on stage is there with a purpose. This is a bitch to do by committee. If there’s not someone specific in this role, it can result in a lot of muddy, unfocused theatre. And random dance numbers.

As a playwright with a very strong artistic vision, I understand the cringing. But I also understand there are a host of devised theatre companies producing one strong, solid, sharp piece of theatre after another. You know who they are. And if you’ve been lucky enough to see their work, you know that devised theatre can result in wonderful plays.

So, how do they do it?

The problem with trying to describe a devised theatre process is that no two are ever alike. No two companies work alike; and frequently no two projects created by the same company come about in the same manner. So, how do you describe what devised theatre is in a way that is actually informative and useful?

The segue: A few years ago, I helped start a devised theatre company. It was an accident.

I was in the middle of getting my MFA from Catholic University when Ryan Whinnem, an MFA directing student and now-good friend, announced he was interested in creating a theatrical adaptation of the epic of Gilgamesh. He extended an open invitation to actors, directors, writers, and designers to meet weekly and create the adaptation together.

I had no interest in Gilgamesh, but I was working on another project involving Middle Eastern mythology, so I went to the first meeting. I did not plan to go to the second. Which proves I should not try to plan things.

Three months later, Ryan, myself, and a collection of 15 or so actors and designers had our first draft of Gilgamesh, who saw the deep. I’ve written more extensively about its creation at www.brightalchemy.com, but for the sake of this post, all you need to know is that we produced Gilgamesh at the Capital Fringe in 2008. Audiences loved it; reviewers loved it; and we loved doing it.

That fall, we started working on our next project, which would eventually become the play, A Cre@tion Story for Naomi. We spent the next two and a half years on it. Ensemble members came, ensemble members went, and somewhere during the process, Ryan said something like, “We should really give ourselves a name.”

Somebody mentioned the word “Alchemy.” I suggested adding “Bright.” Voila.

Total fucking accident.

And this past January, we produced A Cre@tion Story for Naomi at the DC Arts Center. Again, audiences loved it; reviewers loved it; and we loved doing it.

So we’re doing it again.

We do not have a dedicated space. We do not have non-profit status. We don’t even have a mission statement yet. But we have a collection of passionate theatre-makers and a process that’s worked for us twice before. And I’ve put out an open call to everyone we’ve ever worked with or has ever expressed interesting in working with us to meet and discuss our next project.

And I’m going to blog our process here at 2amtheatre. I’m going to do it for three reasons. One: it will allow artists who may not be able to make all of our workshops to follow along. Two: it will allow our audience to follow along. As I’ll explain later, or you can read about at www.brightalchemy.com, we are very much into audience inclusion. Three: it will provide a detailed, concrete example of one company’s devising process, for which I’m hoping there’s interest.

And so next time someone asks, “What the f@#ck is devised theatre?”, I’ll have an answer.

Up here in the Northwest, the crisis du jour has been all about Intiman Theatre’s recent public cry for help… they need about $1 mil by summertime or they are going to need to close their doors.

Suddenly, Rocco Landesman’s provocative statements about the American theater being oversupplied had a poster child/test case. Was Intiman, in fact, one of the companies that should be allowed to fail in order to re-allocate their artistic and audience assets to other, suddenly better-resourced arts organizations? What was lost if Intiman were to fail? And what, exactly were the replacement costs?

Provocative questions. Particularly considering that there’s nothing hypothetical about it. Real, living, breathing artists and administrators would lose their livelihoods. A real living, breathing audience would lose its artistic home. But in theory the audience would relocate; the donors would give the same amount, just to another organization; and funders would be able to allocate their resources in larger (or at least different) chunks to other Seattle area organizations. The best of the administrators would land on their feet at other organizations that could use their skills. Some might decide to pursue other lines of work.

Plus, there is a strong economic argument to be made that the dot com boom of the nineties encouraged a non-profit bubble in Seattle… all that new Microsoft money looking for tax shelters and a place to do something meaningful with their wealth pushed all sorts of nascent arts organizations from hungry to huge, practically overnight. Back then there was a sense that there was just money, you know, lying around.

A lot of that money evaporated when the boom went bust. The young rich microsofties who remained started having kids, changing hometowns and generally using their wealth in different ways and in different geographic regions. When bubbles burst in any market there are casualties. Perhaps Intiman was just a decade late in feeling the effects of that *pop*.

Then there’s the issue of reputation. As someone who lives in the NW but not in Seattle, my knowledge of Intiman as a theater company is as much a function of the industry rumour mill as it is their official communications (or even the analysis of the official press). And through that rumour mill, I must admit, I had gotten the impression that Intiman has been helmed, for some time, by Artistic Directors of high quality who were, perhaps, a little cavalier in their relationship with their own Seattle-based audience. The story went that their eyes were on tonier climes, and Intiman was simply a wet mossy stepping stone on the march to Broadway, or at least Steppenwolf. I have no idea how accurate this last assessment is, and I feel absolutely un-qualified to assess its accuracy myself. But the fact remains that this has been said about Intiman. Many times. By many people. Of varying levels of credibility . In marketing terms, what many people “know” about your company is part of your brand, whether it is actually accurate or not. And this notion, that Intiman has not connected with Seattle well because of too much focus on the national scene, has been bandied as a key reason for its current troubles and a chief justification for allowing it to fail.

The argument from some Seattle artists circles has been, “They don’t care about us. Why should we care about them?”

So should they be allowed to fail? What (if anything) is ultimately lost if they do? Perhaps a Seattle without Intiman would have the space to organically grow a better arts institution that was more responsive to its own audience?

In search of my answer to that question, I find myself stepping away from the facts and figures of institutional economics and instead recalling a conversation I had with David Loehr on #2amt a year or so ago. We were discussing the barriers that new plays have to overcome in order to be read, produced, and ultimately shared with the world. Set aside quality, for a moment, which every play needs. Let’s assume we have two plays of equal quality. What factors determine whether a play gets produced and has a life in the American Theater?

These three came to the top in our reckoning:

1. Visibility (people had to have heard of it)
2. Recommendation (it needed to be recommended by someone of trusted reputation)
3. Relationship (a personal relationship the playwright has with the institution)

All three fell under the umbrella idea of “legitimacy.” A new theatrical work must be in some way legitimized if it has a chance to make it to first production and beyond. It’s an absolutely critical resource, and the trajectory of any new work can be measured by the legitimizing influences that speed it along its path. Have I heard of it? Do I know someone who recommends it? Do I know the creator him or herself? What other orgs have done the piece? Are they of the same quality as us?

Perhaps you can see where I am going with this.

Intiman, the Tony -Award winning regional theater with artistic directors who went on to direct on Broadway and a stellar reputation for stewarding plays and productions that have gone on to national prominence, is a hugely legitimizing force in the Northwest theatrical scene. It has arguably been a legitimizing force for the national scene, when you look at the plays (like Lynn Nottage’s Ruined) that have started there and gone on to national prominence. The relationships its artistic directors have cultivated, and the brand it has built for successful new work development are a critical resource for both the regional and national arts ecology.

And the tricky part about legitimacy as a resource is that it is not tranferrable like other organizational assets. Once a company is dissolved, the value of its advocacy on behalf of the art it champions can’t be passed down to new, smaller organizations (although any individual organization might ultimately claw its way up to the level of legitimizing influence that Intiman enjoyed). That lost legitimacy could take decades to recoup. In the mean time, both regional and national artists lose the visibility, resources, and access to national relationships that the Intiman has historically provided.

Plus, the failure of one legitimizer has unintended consequences for the whole field.  Intiman’s reputation helped burnish the reputation of the entire arts community in Seattle. It helped make the Pacific Northwest a more viable place to make a living in the arts. And its loss would potentially shake the confidence of the entire Seattle arts community; and the artists, funders and audiences it serves.

Let me tell you from personal experience what happens when an organization like Intiman reaches the brink of failure: the press and the public go digging under the floorboards of every other arts non-profit in the area, looking for bodies. If a Tony Award winning theater can fail, the thinking goes, then perhaps all of our arts organizations are more vulnerable than we imagined.

So quibble all you want over the hows and whys of the Intiman’s current precarious situation. But when you ask whether or not an organization like Intiman should be saved, be sure you are looking at the whole costs.

Ironically, the complaint that makes some resistant to assisting the Intiman in its time of need (that it has been more focused on national relationships and reputations than on cultivating its relationship with its own community) is paradoxically the exact reason it should ultimately be saved. Those national connections, that stellar reputation, are priceless intangible resources that Seattle can ill afford to lose.

Could those resources be put to better use in service of the community it calls home? Absolutely.

But you have to conserve those resources to be able to re-direct them effectively.

Don’t worry though: Any company that goes through a “dark night of the soul” like the Intiman is currently experiencing (and lives to tell the tale) steps into the future keenly aware of the deep debt it owes to audiences and community that helped to save it.

Please Don’t Start a Theater Company, I Say Again…

In 2009, I read with interest a call from Edward Clapp, a graduate student at Harvard, for essays on the future of the arts by arts workers under 40.  Thinking about what to write, I recalled a conversation I’d had just before that with a young director who was considering starting a theater company.  Surprisingly given that I had just stepped down after ten years as the artistic director of a company I’d founded, I heard myself urging him “Please, don’t start a theater company!”  This ended up being the burden of the proposal I sent Edward, then eventually the title of the chapter that I was honored to have selected for his book.

Reading the complex responses to Rocco Landesman’s remarks at Arena about the possible need to reduce the supply of non-profit theater companies, made me think all over again about why I wrote the chapter.  I believe very strongly that there is little need and nearly no space for more and more companies founded in imitation of the large regionals.  But that doesn’t means I think there is no future in the theater.  It means instead that we should build something different.

Here’s how I began my chapter (I’m going to quote liberally here, you can read the whole thing by buying the book):

I was twenty-three when I arrived in San Francisco, fresh from assistant-directing at the Royal Court in London and eager to start my theater career. I was brimming over with enthusiasm, and maybe just a little hubris. Shortly thereafter, I founded Crowded Fire Theater Company, full of plans for it to quickly become the next major regional theater. My generation of theater artists grew up on the stories of how our current crop of institutions were founded—Sam Shepard and his collaborators starting the Magic Theater in a Berkeley bar, Tony Kushner premiering Angels in America at the Eureka, Bill Ball asking cities to compete to house A.C.T.—why shouldn’t my company be the next success story?  I had no question about what that success would look like—it would look like a building with staff and a season, with subscribers and youth programs, and a healthy mix of earned and contributed income.

It turns out I wasn’t alone in my ambition. In the past fifteen years, the number of non-profit theater companies in the U.S. has doubled while audiences and funding have shrunk. Neither the field nor the next generation of artists is served by this unexamined multiplication of companies based on the same old model. The NEA’s statistics on non-profit growth, set against their sobering reports on declining arts participation, illuminate a crucial nexus for the field, a location of both profound failure and potential transformation. The proliferation of small theater companies sits at the intersection between the necessity to imagine different structures for making theater and our field’s failure to provide career paths for the next generation of artists. Since the Ford Foundation’s investments kicked off the regional theater movement fifty years ago, there has been tremendous collective buy-in to what has now become a fossilized model of a particular type of non-profit theater. Within this structure, there is now a critical lack of opportunity for emerging artists and leaders, leaving the next generation of artists no alternative but to start companies of their own, companies that often replicate the problems of established theaters on a smaller scale.

So, are we as a sector overbuilt? I would say yes, if we’re talking about the percentage of dollars that go to administrators versus artists.  I would say, yes, if we’re talking about the number of institutions that have outlived their creative prime and go on receiving foundation support out of habit and sense of legacy.  I would say, yes, when you think about endowments that have sewn up in perpetuity funds that are no longer available for any other creative enterprise in a particular city.  My colleague David McGraw, who writes in 20under40 about the possibility of creating a theater company with a built in expiration date, uses the metaphor of an old-growth forest where the large trees are choking off oxygen to the understory.  That’s a serious problem

But are we overbuilt when it comes to artists?  Here’s where I say resoundingly no. Here’s a bit more from my chapter:

Is there a “glut” of new artists entering the field? Theater internship programs are besieged by applicants, new play festivals have to bring on extra staff to read all the incoming scripts, and BFA and MFA programs now graduate hundreds of new artists each year. Established theater professionals, entrenched in long-term scarcity, deplore the naiveté of the “wannabe” artists flooding the field and are quick to insist that there is no possible way to provide employment for all of them. But in a time of shrinking audiences, how can we reject the one group of people who are excited about the theater? These are people who want to participate in the essential project of telling the stories of our culture. They’re going to find the means for creative expression, if not in the theater then in other more accessible media. Moira Brennan at the MAP Fund comments, “There’s an increased sense among individual makers that you can be an artist if you want to be. We don’t want to discourage this self-expression.” Marc Vogl at the Hewlett Foundation agrees: “Who are the villains in this story? Not the artists and people who want to do new things. We can’t wish for people to stop making things, that’s not the problem.”

Of course, not everyone who wants to be an actor or a playwright or a director has an equal amount of talent and many will never develop into mature artists working on a professional level. No one is suggesting that all of these aspiring artists are owed equal success. But it’s a mistake to pretend that our current system selects only for talent. Rather, gate-keeping as it currently operates in the field selects for economic privilege (like family support that can subsidize an unpaid internship or pay for an MFA program), for lucky choice of life partner (a higher-earning partner’s income often subsidizes low arts wages), and for lack of dependents (advancement often demands many weeks on the road, a challenge for parents of young children or those with other family responsibilities). These factors work against diversity in the upper ranks of the field and discourage participation by many people who might otherwise help revitalize the theater.

It should be a source of pride and joy to theater professionals that there are so many people who want to join this field and make this their life’s work.  But if we want to discover which aspiring artists will turn into the architects of tomorrow’s theater, then we have to give them opportunities to learn their craft, and we have to provide a career path that sustains them as they grow.  So many beginning artists find that the only way to get their work into the world is to start a theater company, and almost as many mid-career artists continue to run their own companies because there’s no other way to have the artistic freedom they want.  But in many if not most cases, these companies struggle financially, don’t pay living wages to artists or the founders, and divert energy from the true project of making the most extraordinary art you can.  If it turns out that you really shouldn’t begin your career by starting a theater company, then what can we offer artists instead?

If you’re at an established company, then look around and see what aspiring artist, what maverick playwright, what hungry ensemble you can welcome into your space, your season, or the structure of your organization.  At the very least, make sure that you’re offering real artistic opportunities to your junior artistic staff and take a hard look at your hiring practices to see if you’re succeeding at bringing in the next generation of artists.

If you’re a funder, then wake up to the fact that it is the long-held practices of foundations that are deeply implicated in the over-proliferation of non-profits.  Start funding projects with fiscal sponsors and try your best to get money directly in the hands of artists.  Stop advising every arts organization to meet some cookie-cutter set of best practices before they have enough “organizational capacity” to receive funding.  And please stop demanding that every organization have a plan to exist in perpetuity.

If you’re a theater artist thinking of starting a company, or taking your project down the 501 (c) (3) path then I urge you to stop and consider alternatives.  Ask yourself whether this is primarily a way to meet your own artistic or career needs. If so, then give yourself a time period in which you will devote at least at much energy to advancing your career in other ways as you were going to spend reading that Nolo Press book on how to incorporate.  Make meetings with larger theaters to see if you can join forces, try to see if you can connect with someone else with a space, an audience, some kind of demand that you can supply.  Think hard about whether running an organization will give you more or less time to pursue your art.

If the organization you want to found is truly about meeting a community need (the real basis of the tax status after all) then get clear about defining that need and making sure that no one else is already taking care of it. Maybe you’re in a rural area where there are no other theaters, maybe there is a population in your city whose stories are not being told, maybe you truly have a new artistic approach. In that case, get as creative with your structure as you plan to be with your art and make a new kind of organization.

These are some of my thoughts about what we might build instead. I hope we’ll all keep thinking about this question, and I applaud Rocco for getting the conversation rolling as provocatively as he did.  I’ll leave you with the conclusion from my 20under40 chapter, which asks us to think about how to sustain artists rather than continually focusing on sustaining institutions:

Every artist I spoke to told me that it doesn’t take much to sustain a life in the theater. No one got into this trying to be rich. But you don’t stay twenty forever and after that you do occasionally need to buy shoes, or go to the doctor, or send your children to preschool. And one day you might like to send them to college, or buy a house, or even retire. The middle-class dream shouldn’t be out of reach for theater artists, especially when every city now includes several hundred theater administrators who receive the benefits of permanent employment while the artists by and large are still camping outside the gates.

With increased competition for audiences and many easier ways for people to tell and share stories, theater is facing threats from many directions.  The future of the field depends on making the work on our stages as visionary, as creative, as compelling, and as diverse as it can be. We can’t reach this goal unless a wide range of the most creative artists and the most ingenious producers are allowed to develop their skills and are then supported over the long haul so their art can mature. The field must re-focus resources on the challenge of sustaining artists rather than sustaining particular institutions. Brilliant early work is a wonderful thing, but where would we be without Shakespeare’s last plays, or the end of August Wilson’s great cycle? Artists need support not just in starting out, but in carrying on, not just as apprentices, but as journeymen and master craftsmen as well.

This is an extension of last year’s post, What’s in Your Lobby?

Whether your theater company is itinerant or in a permanent space, and whether you are an arts administrator, an artistic director, or a fan, ask yourself: what is your lobby?

Is it a living room?  Is it a waiting room?  Is it the work of individuals or the reflection of an institution?

Does it reflect the values and aesthetics of the company?

If the space features headshots, banners, and tacked-up reviews, are you bringing the audience into a living room that is decorated with nothing but your framed diplomas and family portraits?

Are you reaching for awe?  For comfort?  For institutional practicality?

Is there a place for the audience to leave their mark, for an audience member to contribute to the space?

Is the lobby primarily a place of commerce? If a bag of M&Ms costs $3, are you reflecting the same values as an airport or a ballpark, where a premium is charged once the visitors have passed through a point of entry?  Does this reflect your values?

What is the experience for your audience outside of the play itself?

Do you corral your audience? 

Do you welcome your audience?  With all five senses?

Flowers? Legos? Water with slices of cucumber? A complimentary can of PBR?

How does it smell? How does it look? How does it taste? (Does it taste like cucumber water or PBR, or is your audience already parched unless they pay a supplement? Does this reflect your company’s values?)

Do you offer locally roasted coffee? Locally made beer?

Does your lobby reflect the aesthetic allies in your town or city? Does it display their work and offer their goods?  Do you have partnerships with any companies or organizations in other cities or countries?  Do they, or could they, have a presence in your lobby?  At the concession stand?

A movie multiplex offers the same high-quality films available worldwide, and their concessions–the Dots, the Sno-Caps–are likewise consistently available everywhere. Does your lobby reflect your specific neighborhood and your specific tribe in the way that those multiplexes reflect dependable homogeneity?

What would your lobby be if you discarded the need to impress?  Or even inform?

Does your lobby resemble the DMV? Does your audience wait, ticket in hand, for their appointment?

Is your lobby deliberately lit?

Is anything handmade?

Is anything alive?

Are you hiding?

The main thrust that came out of the #NewPlay Los Angeles (#LAThtr) watch party was that the issues we were hearing during part one of the action steps portion were not the same issues expressed from the Los Angeles theater practitioners in the room.

Photo taken by Cindy Marie Jenkins

We started the meetup discussing the bullet points Trisha Mead provided from Rocco Landesman’s opening speech. We began discussing the fifth point, that regional theaters should be doing work based within the community. The recent news that Alabama Shakespeare Festival is producing plays about local communities and attendee Tracy Elliot confirmed that New Orleans is a community that likes to see itself on stage were two examples. This led to the question, would Los Angeles go see plays about Los Angeles citizens? Soon it was determined that a theater’s geographical community may be different than its audience. Mark Petrie, of Knightsbridge Theatre, said they do not look at physical location for a source of audience, but their audience comes from connections and friends from people in the show, hence why musicals always puts more buts in seats. Rachel Stoll raised the issue of how nomadic theater companies can engage in geographic community as they have less time to build physical relationships. The idea of geography-based community was still considered an important issue with the agreement that sometimes the biggest prevention to connecting different geographies was the traffic.

Los Angeles Productions Touring Los Angeles
How can a new play connect to different communities in Los Angeles, which is so vast and traffic so bad, that someone who is driving 30-45 miles to see a show could spend up to an hour and half in traffic? Los Angeles is so wide/vast/diverse, a lot of small theaters are needed to tell community stories. With an estimate of only .5% of Los Angeles residents seeing theater, could the model of co-productions work for these small theaters? Could a small theater in Pasadena co-produce a new play with a small theater in Long Beach? This idea led to the notion that Los Angeles theater functions more like profit theater, though they have non-profit status. The tickets sales, and for some companies membership dues, is what sustains the small theaters, not grants. It was brought up that Los Angeles theater survives on thirty percent of the house.

Is Los Angeles to Theater What Vancouver is to Film?
If theaters could help each other take new works to different communities in the Los Angeles basin, the group agreed that Los Angeles could be where the nation brings new work to find its legs. Chil Kong, director/actor and founder of Lodestone Theater Ensemble, said he is working with producers in New York to bring new plays to Los Angeles for their first production. Due to the Actors Equity 99-seat contract, plays can be produced cheaper in Los Angeles, than in New York or other locations. Due to the high supply of Equity actors, not able to work in theater before the AEA 99-seat plan was created in the ’80s, it has created a system that might be ripe for new play development. While it was agreed that the little-to-no pay for artists in Los Angeles is a systematic problem, and King is the first one to fight for Los Angeles artists to get first right refusal for future productions, he also said it can help the new play sector. It was agreed that theater in Los Angeles is improving and quality is increasing, compared to when the AEA 99-Seat plan was first created and theater in Los Angeles was mainly used as a way for actors to showcase their work to the film industry. LA Weekly’s Stephen Leigh Morris, writes about how Los Angeles can seize a national leadership role through producing new works.

Action Steps
To work together we need to talk more to each other. We use the excuse (because it is usually true) that we are too busy creating our own work to meet one another and see each others work. The people at the meetup committed to see each other’s work and meet on a monthly basis. Many people at this meetup met for the very first time, and learned in depth, what each other was working on. We wanted to provide this opportunity for other Los Angeles theater artists by meeting on a monthly basis. Maybe a co-production will happen because one producer is sharing about their project and a theater producer, who works on the other side of the Los Angeles basin, will know that their community will connect to the same story. In light of the TCG National Conference being located in Los Angeles this summer, there is no better time for us to continue to ask and explore how Los Angeles theater can be a part of the national new play conversation.

Dennis Baker lives the ultimate freelance life as an actor, teaching artist, fight director and also working in web design, web development and search engine optimization. You can follow him at @dennisbaker

Some days the internet seems like nothing more than a jargon factory. It pops out new words, phrases and memes that we are somehow supposed to instinctively know moments after coinage and knowledge of the day’s watchword becomes a hard demarcation of inclusion or exclusion.

It is imperative for those pockets of the internet that intend on being community to erase those lines whenever possible, to create shared vocabulary and eliminate shibboleths. During periods of heavy influx into the #2amt community we see a lot of repeated information as folks try to stake out territory for themselves, and we see a lot of confusion as concepts that the community has bashed around for a long time come across as jargon to new eyes. As I believe that unpacked jargon becomes vocabulary let’s unpack one of my frequent battle cries: Never be dark.

Never be dark (hashtagged #Neverbedark) is a two pronged concept depending on the space you’re running. Both are predicated on the idea that the hardest commodity to come by is space and that once you have it it shouldn’t be wasted.

The first prong is something that some companies are already doing, I call it “deputize and fill”. If you are running a space, curate your second stage (or heck your mainstage) and lend your credibility and space to a group whose art you want to support. Not as a rental. Be their producer and use your pulpit to to give others a voice. It deepens the field of artists that your patrons trust and creates relationship, both company to company and person to person, that our field could desperately use. There are also good business reasons to do it, but honestly you don’t need them.

The second prong is something that we started batting around in response to Eric Ziegenhagen’s drum beat for a theatrical counterpart to evenings out at a fine dining restaurant and to 2amtheatre.com’s own 360 Storytelling: Using the space in your theatre to host readings, and storytellings and other sorts of community nights, formal and in. Not as Mr. Walters cautions against “sit down and shut up” events but events that take advantage of our current participatory culture. If instead of focusing on the monolithic cultural center we create neighborhood playhouses that include spaces for both the specialized and the community artist. It would foster ownership in the communities’ arts and in the community hub as Shishur Kurup referred to it at the most recent #Newplay convening.

“But Travis, none of this is new,
none of this is anything like a fresh idea,
why should we care?”

Because it isn’t a new idea, because it isn’t fresh and it isn’t happening. Artists keep trying to build temples to their craft and people keep staying away.

#Neverbedark isn’t a call to think about community inclusion it’s a call to act on community inclusion.  You can start with whichever community you choose, the field or the neighborhood, but closed doors and dark nights are blown opportunities for both.

—

What are you doing to include your community?
What would you like to be doing to include your community?
How can the #2amt community help you do that?