Thursday, June 25

Good evening. When Blickers asked me to give one of the keynotes for this year's LMDA conference, she said two things: Be reckless and be brief. I hope I am at least one of those two...These are my musings.

I have – I suspect we all have -- been thinking a lot about community and what that means, really deeply and truly means, to me. I teach at Washington College, a small, residential liberal arts college. Community is a word that is bandied around a great deal there; it becomes quite meaningful in moments that I will talk about in a minute. I also live in Philadelphia, a city whose very name, "city of brotherly love," implies the relationship of one to the other. As part of my city, there is also "the theater community." Like many other theater communities, this one is strong and nurturing and rigorous and, on a personal note, saved my life this year. And if I am honest with myself, that salvation didn't have anything to do with a play.

If my high school Latin is correct, the word itself is comprised of three elements, "Com-" - a Latin prefix meaning with or together, "-Munis-" - "the changes or exchanges that link" and "-tatus" a Latin suffix suggesting diminutive, small, intimate or local. So, a strong small link. I like that. But where do we see that? What are the examples that resonate in our lives?

As I said, Washington College uses the word a lot. However, I don't think that my students really got what that meant until last spring, when one of their own hung himself in his dorm room. Our community was rattled and rocked. We adopted the hashtag #shoremanstrong to help express our need for one another. In my department, one that was deeply impacted by this death, our own adage, "We are family," became our calling card for each other. "Why am I hugging you right now?" "Because we are family."

I watched The Kilroys announcement last week -- and was delighted to see so many of my friends and colleagues cheering and celebrating one another and the work itself. Watching Gubbins work her magic made me appreciate my old community of Chicago theater, which also had its own share of grief and pain in the past year.

There was also the amazing effort of the hardest-working man in show business, sound designer Lindsay Jones, who found a stellar way of celebrating the design (and, by extension, the writing and directing) communities through The Collaborator Party, an event that coincided with the Tony Awards. Should I talk about the Tony Awards? Probably not...I mean, I am very happy that the people who won won -- I'm seeing FUN HOME tomorrow night and gosh, I love Jeanine Tesori and Lisa Kron. Some of my best friends have won Tony Awards.

But it did get me thinking. And here is the question that I will pose to you: are we talking to ourselves? Both about the work and then the work -- the "play" itself? Are our celebrations of our work, which, don't get me wrong, I don't think they are the issue, actually serving a community besides ourselves? And if so, do we have a responsibility to say so? Who is listening? Who is watching? Who is responding? Or are we chasing our own tails?

Are we really and truly exploring ALL facets of the communities in which we live? We spend a lot of time explaining how we are "serving our community." Foundations, donors and other gate

keepers give a lot of money to hear us talk about how we are exploring the communities where we live. But let's be honest: are we really? Is the work that we are making really impacting the greater world outside the walls -- real or imagined -- of our theaters? Is the answer to bring theater to the community...or is it to bring the community to the theater...or is there something completely different? And if so, who is doing it? Why aren't we?

There is also something else: what's the role of art in a community whose primary function ISN'T art...but is simply survival? Or a roof over a head? Or a meal? Or health care? Who cares about the work we do, other than us? And if we are doing it for ourselves, whoever "we" are, let's at least be honest about it. My partner in PlayPenn, Paul Meshejian, resident grump (sorry Paul) noted that "visual artists are unabashed narcissists about their own work. They make it for themselves. They don't care what you think about it." Hmmmm....is this us? Do we care? Do we actually care, not just about our audiences (who are a VERY rarified community) and our articulated, mission-statement communities, but about the people with whom we share air on a daily basis, who have no idea what a play is. Or a dramaturg....

My students told me something very compelling this semester. They told me that the ONLY time they turn OFF their cell phones is when they come into the theater. I'm kind of certain that it is because they are afraid of me and how batshit crazy I will go on them...but...I think it is something else, something related to community, something much more basic.

There is a deep need in us as humans to connect with each other. To sit in stillness and listen to each other breathe. How often do we do this? Think about it. Do you make eye contact with people you don't know? Do you smile at the person who gets behind you while waiting on line? Do you listen, really listen, when someone tells you their pain? If I acknowledge someone, even through eye contact, is that an invitation to engage? Or is it just an acknowledgment of humanity? And isn't that the first step towards feeling a sense of community?

Be honest. I think that diversity and gender parity and all our panel discussions about them are good and necessary. But what happens beyond that? How many different ways can we say it to each other? Here's the challenge I put before you: please let us emerge from this conference with some honest statements -- that don't have to be shared -- about how we define community -- and I'm not talking about friends. What are the biggest concerns in our community/ies? What can we do to help? On a concrete level. Dramaturgs can be not just the center of the theatrical universe, but instead, agents of empathy and compassion and honesty in a world that wants, needs, yearns for it. Maybe it's not about a play. Maybe it is about breathing the same air. Just for a minute.

Thank you.