Ask not what the DC theatre community can do for you; ask what you can do for the DC theatre community.
Let me explain.
In recent months, I’ve found myself part of an ongoing conversation. Sometimes that conversation is framed around the question “How do small theatre companies find and afford space?” Sometimes it’s framed around “How do we get larger theatres to share resources?” And sometimes it’s framed around “How do DC playwrights get produced in their own city?”
The latter was one of the questions asked at yesterday’s State of the DC Playwright panel hosted by Theater J as part of their Locally Grown initiative. I was a member of the panel for all of a hot minute before rushing off to rehearsal for Bright Alchemy (another blog post for another day).
Other questions were asked, but they all added up to the same thing: How do we turn the DC theatre community into an actual community (rather than, say, a “scene”), where the theatre artists that live here can work here. And can do so without busking on the corner.
Currently I’m in the process of scheduling a meeting of smaller DC theatre artists and companies to discuss ways we can organize, communicate, and help each other. There have been, I’m told, similar meetings in the past—meetings that, in many cases, came to naught. And one of the reasons for this (also told second-hand) is that these artists couldn’t agree on initiatives that benefited everyone.
Something similar came up in yesterday’s Theater J panel. Right before I had to dash, Inkwell producing manager Lee Liebeskind brought up the point that different playwrights need different support—some could benefit from writer’s groups, some could benefit from self-production, some from forming a company of their own.
And at the same time these conversations have been going on there have been other blog posts and articles about theatrical mentorship, about service and internships (see the latest issue of American Theater), about who has helped and inspired you in your career (one of the questions asked by Theater J of their Locally Grown playwrights).
All of this has swirled together in my head to form one derivative, possibly obvious, but still easily forgotten credo: Ask not what the DC theatre community can do for you, etc.
That means when another artist is looking for assistance, and you can provide it or know someone who can, do so or pass on some contact info.
When a producer has an actress drop out and finds herself in dire straights, comb through your Facebook friends to see who you might know that can fit the role.
When a playwright is looking to start a writer’s group, pass on the names of writers you know, even if you have no interest in joining.
If some student fresh out of undergrad asks you out for coffee to pick your brain about what it means to be a working theatre artist, you make it happen.
Because when people talk about their theatrical mentors, or the people who have influenced and helped them the most, there’s usually one thing in common: Those people didn’t have to help. Helping didn’t benefit them professionally whatsoever.
They did it because someone helped and supported them. They did it because that’s how you make new theatre artists. They did it because they knew that’s how you build a community. At least that’s why I like to think they did it.
A few years back I was privileged to spend two weeks at the Sundance Theatre Lab sitting in and observing the workshops, one of which was for Taylor Mac’s The Lily’s Revenge. One day in the meal tent, he mentioned that he was helping fund the initial production of the play (a glorious behemoth with 5 acts and 30+ actors and if you get a chance to see it, you absolutely should), and I asked him how he managed to do that.
And he sat and talked to me about how he went about applying for grant after grant and his successes and failures and basically opened my eyes to whole new possibilities of self-production. He did this even though he was in the middle of revising a 5-act play on the fly and I was, at any given moment during those two weeks, the least influential person in the room.
That little exchange sits in a place somewhere in my head or heart along with a hundred other similar moments and together they give me the inspiration and energy to get up in the morning and write (or devise or produce or blog).
So, this post is less for you than for me. More of a resolution for myself than any kind of doctrine for others.
Because I know how tunnel-visioned I can get. How narrow my focus can become, especially when I’m working on three projects at once and a day job besides. It’s easy to just think about my work and how I can get it finished and whose hands I can get it into and who will be most likely to produce it. And if someone sends me an e-mail asking for advice or asking if I know someone who can do X or asking me to take part in a symposium, it can be really easy to say no.
And sometimes I should say no. For my own mental health if for nothing else. But my goal for the coming year is that if I am able and capable, I will try my best to help.
Because I keep having this conversation about how big theatres need to be less insular, less tunnel-visioned in their own work, and more open to sharing. This idea that a rising tide lifts all boats. And how can I get big theatres to listen to that message if I don’t do my best to take it to heart myself.
Same thing with small companies and solo artists. There will never be a single initiative that benefits everyone. There is no silver bullet. There will be a thousand little things that we can do to help each other. And maybe five of them will impact me directly, but I resolve to do my best to help the other 995 happen.
a world premiere
