Life and safety are most important. A place to live comes next. Then jobs, business, livelihoods. In the wake of the storm that just slammed New Jersey and New York, these are the priorities, first and foremost.

But it’s my nature to turn to thoughts theatrical, and there’s no question that every manner of live performance in the affected areas will feel a strong and lingering impact in the days and weeks, perhaps months, to come. Even venues that were spared any direct damage from the storm will have to grapple with having artists, staffs and audiences cut off from theatres for days or even weeks; the minds of ticketholders and potential ticket buyers are not focused on their next evening out, but instead on the priorities of my first paragraph.

Yes, we all heard that Broadway was shut down on Sunday night and has yet to announce the reopening of shows as I write. But Broadway is just the tip of the iceberg, the headline that efficiently communicated, pre-storm, that New York was hunkering down. Off and Off-Off Broadway, theatres outside of Manhattan, and outside of New York all shut down as well. Rehearsals, tech, workshops, showcases, readings – all were hit, from Virginia northward, and westward too.

On the internet, snide remarks on Sunday and even Monday played off of “The show must go on,” as if heeding safety alerts and protecting patrons were somehow a dereliction of duty, instead of a prudent decision to insure that no one took undue risks. These are the same people who are probably complaining about lack of mail service today.

The immediate suspension of productions will no doubt have a financial impact on every venue, commercial or not-for-profit. Movies may get more attention, but they are fixed art; perhaps their theatrical runs may be curtailed by loss of marketing momentum, but they won’t cease to be. TV ratings may take a hit because of major markets without power, but reruns, Netflix, Hulu and the like will make certain that programs don’t go unseen.

In theatres throughout the region, shows that were already at financial risk may see their demise hastened; shows in previews or rehearsal may see their production schedules altered and face challenges in luring audiences, even after transportation returns to normal, because focus and priority won’t be on entertainment. Even successfully running shows will take a sustained hit.

This is a natural disaster, not terrorism. But as the ripple effects of 9/11 went far from ground zero, for an extended period of time, this storm will pass but its memory and its impact will linger. Theatres in the mid-Atlantic and northeast will have to convince audiences to return once again, and it won’t be about conquering justified fears, but conquering physical and financial realities which will impede that process. It will take a long time to get past this.

As a final word, precisely because the relighting of Broadway, when it occurs, will again capture headlines, I’d like to remind everyone who cares about live performance that the performances and companies at greatest risk are those that are not as high profile, those without extensive financial resources, those that operate from small venues in locations somewhat less traveled. Yes, the relighting of Broadway houses has an impact on the many industries that benefit from the influx of audience members to those shows, but that same situation is played out in microcosm at every performance venue, in every neighborhood affected.

Let’s do all we can to help our families, our neighbors and those we don’t even know heal and rebuild. But when each of us is able, let’s also look to the arts, so often an afterthought in the minds of so many, and make sure that we can gather together in theatres large and small very soon, and support with our labor, our money and our presence this area of endeavor, at once an artistic pursuit and a vital industry.

Oh, it won’t be so bad!

At Christmas time last year I found, a poem doth make a pleasing sound

Among tweeps with whom I chat all year, and kindhearted kudos did appear.

But lest I fall back and just repeat, I set myself a different feat

So without much sense or reason, I celebrate many in a diff’rent season.

If your name’s not here, please don’t feel snubbed, I forgot, or simply flubbed;

I ran out of time, or rhyme — imagine I’ve rendered you in mime.

As you read, remember that, this symbol is silent, it’s called @.

Last but not least I must admit, the meter’s not perfect, though I worked to fit.

So I say to those who would note a wrong, “Hey dude, it’s for fun, and it’s not a song.”

*    *    *

As the leaves begin to fall, and shortened days do cast their pall,

Many frightening sights are seen as we prepare for Halloween.

You drift asleep and start to snore, then glimpse e’er-present tweep @DLoehr,

And as your thoughts begin to rage, from the dark leaps @ShentonStage.

While you descend through levels quartzy, you wonder whether good @BenSchwartzy

Will stop your fall, but then there’s pains. Some voodoo plot from that @MattCaines?

Your plunge unchecked, you’re moved to fret, as you drop faster than @Hudsonette.

Plummeting past other friends too, you wonder, “What offense did @JoesView do?

Am I nuts, an addle-pated boobie?” “You’re not,” you’re told by @CassandraKubi,

“And if you complain a bit too hard? Well here’s what we did to @TravisBedard.”

“This is the price I pay?,” you ask of @Beebea. “No, it’s on us. Call it a freebie.”

Aghast you turn to spooky @SimsJames, to see him burst into blazing flames,

No sight of heaven, you head below, to the wails of @JakeyOh;

The temperature enflames your hair, to naught but laughs from @LindsayAbaire.

The heat doth rise, you start to burn, under baleful gaze of @JennaStern;

Who’s laughing all the way to Hell? That rhyming imp, once called @HuntBell.

And who awaits on Satan’s veranda? Hip-hopping @Lin_Manuel Miranda,

Beside him, reduced to quivering wreck? The snarky wit @DavidYazbek.

@WarrenLeightTV waves hi to you, inured to shock by SVU;

And who’s espied in that spectral lobby? The damned-by-Mormon @LopezBobby.

Seated hard by to record this tale, there’s Ph.dead @DERagsdale;

Also chronicling profound trauma, is chuckling critic @PeterMarksDrama.

Avoid fiery spheres, skillfully flung, by eagle-eyed targeter, quick @LFung.

For help, you rightly try to reach out, but there’s no assist from @TerryTeachout.

In one corner, don’t you scoff, or you’ll be singed by @DItzkoff,

With him, singing “Helter Skelter,” media maven @BrianStelter;

Viewing this, you start to swoon, discovering that it’s no @Carr2n.

Used to cold, so sheer out of luck, is Torontonian Kelly @Nestruck.

Iniquities first are small you see, explained by @NPRMonkeySee

“There’s no cable”; you grumble “ick,” but learn of dispatches from @Poniewozik

Nor @Netflix either, that’s upon us, but still: reports from @Slate‘s @JuneThomas.

Then passing by, pushing bloody gurney, now-soulless songstress @JuliaMurney

Carting bodies to the devil’s bower, attended to by dark @DDower

Surrounded by assaulting sound, the banshee voice long named @HowlRound.

Controlled only by @PollyKCarl, cruel Cerberus does start to growl

He’s agitated in these parts by optimism from @NancyArts,

Who’ll soon learn she is no longer human like fellow journo, fierce @matttrueman.

Now you’re ferried cross flaming lake, by sepulchral @PlaybillBlake

Who’s aided by a skeletal fella, her friend in life: that’s @FDilella.

“That scent in the air, perhaps its cinnamon?” “No, it’s brimstone,” says J. @Zinoman.

Despair creeps in, you start to cry, “No sympathy!” shouts @BarbaraChai

“You should have known you’d take this fall,” hisses visionary @KatoriHall;

“But all I did was make fun of a witch.” That’s your mistake,” declares @ClydeFitch.

“You never should have been so glib,” adds shape-shifting @ChrisJonesTrib.

“Indeed,” whispers @GeorgeHunka, “That’s something that you shoulda thunk-a.”

“Enough!,” you cry, “I’m already spent!” “You’ve seen nothing yet,” intones @RobKendt

“I was good,” you plead, “That’s what I thought.” “Not good enough,” chirps @DiepThought.”

@_PlainKate_ directs this fiendish din, while dramturged by @AnikaChapin

Who thought this up? It’s hardly a shocker, it sprang from the brain of @Kockenlocker.

@Ouijum stokes the intense fire, aided by evil @KrisVire;

Can terror be @reduced by @AustinTichenor, presiding o’er this ghoulish kitchen, or

Will the pain simply go on? “’Fraid so,” confides @MCahalane.

Perhaps you’ll rise from ash, like @LindaInPhoenix? “Nope,” bellows @LynnBrooklyn, “So get your kicks.

There’s those who party before turned to jelly, like astute @EVincentelli,

@TheCraptacular found ways to have their fun, by ranking trolls before they’re done;

Directors @LloydJamie and @JerHerrin, chose to enhance this massive scare-in

By throwing an electric heater, into the bath of @NewYorkTheater;

And @MarthaPlimpton got all culty, she sacrificed @CharlesMcNulty.

@KwameKweiArmah and @DavidHenryHwang, boy did they like doing wrong,

Gave @MrJasonRBrown a fit, by dangling his bride @GeorgiaStitt

Over our giant sulfurous lake, tended by @ElissaBlake.”

“Is there no appeal? You have a quorum?” “What, is this @TheShakesForum?

You seek judgment wondrous fair? This ain’t no democracy,” sneered @JimHebert.

“In any event, you’re a total loss, you’ll not be saved by @TylerJMoss

And though compassionate once was she, there’s no reprieve from @WhitneyJE.”

“Now, on one foot, begin to hop,” says beetle-browed @ArtDecoStop,

“Perhaps 100 years of that, and you’ll be joined by @ProductionKat,

As well as @Tim_Mik and fair @NoPlain, they all will share that constant pain

And if you dare to stop for breath, I’ll give you to @KChenoweth,

For though she may be small in size, she likes to sup on juicy eyes.”

Is that another tormentor coming on? Yes! You quake, seeing @MooreJohn

Joined in his perpetual torture biz, by that dastardly @ShowRiz,

They’re jokesters, see, they’re tying a frog on to the face of @AlisonCroggon

And they’ve transformed to a flamingo, the good-hearted @ColmanDomingo.

Another subject of their clever fun is @RobertFalls201

Who’s joined to Ireland’s @GarryHynes by pricking quills of porcupines.

As your body wracks with sobs, do you spy good friend @BackstageJobs

Why yes, look, there’s a hellish theatre, with @TeresaEyring as its greeter

The show, you hear, has good report, from vigilant @KenDavenport,

You buy a ticket from @GoldstarJim, who proffers discounts by his whim.

Dead-tweeting snarky japes and snipes, former good gal one @Spinstripes;

The space is narrow but your starved body fits, right next to critic @KennedyTwits.

It must be press night, for you see @PatrickHealyNYT,

@TheJoeDShow and @FeldmanAdam, all waiting for actors, to get at ‘em.

Will a comedy deflect their scorn? No, it’s a dark play by A. @Ayckbourn.

There’s also a musical by @ValerieVigoda and @BrendanMilburn, they wrote a

Paean to the fiend who’d serve us, on a platter (he’s played by @Cerveris).

If actors exhibit any sloth, they’re poked with a trident by @Jordan_Roth;

Aiding in prompting all to play, is multi-faceted @Kimberly_Kaye.

While chastising late-comers, those foolish slink-ins, is the not-to-be messed-with @TonyaPinkins.

It’s a remarkable cast. Did you suppose you’d see @AnikaNoniRose?

Or that from runic texts, you’d hear a lick, sung by @AudraEqualityMc?

@SFosterNYC shred buns, of her fellow castmates, the young ‘uns,

You find that in life @JeremyShamos had sold his soul to get real famous,

And @JimmyJindo, @MJMcKean, they play out a zombie see-in

Of graphic horror, things filled with pus. You whisper to @JulieHennrikus,

“I just can’t bear this, can you, pardner?” “Well, “she says, “If @LynGardner

Manages to keep her seat, I’ll have to watch them turn to meat

@Dramagirl and @GBenAharon, without revealing I’ve got my scare on.”

What would @nymag make of this culture, subject it to some scorn from @vulture?

Even when you were alive, you could be flayed by @scottstagedive.

The bodies rendered, @NPRScottSimon, digs some graves and then pours lime on

@KristofferDiaz and @MRBplus, as the crowd round you murmurs, “One of us.”

You flee the theatre and in heat feel hail, a favorite prank of @YouveCottMail.

@BroadwayGirlNYC, delighted, tweets joy in a place so cruelly blighted,

You wonder if there is a fix in, some bribe all give to @AndyDickson?

“Is there some favor he can do me?,” you inquire of @GlennSumi.

“No,” he sighs, “Not on heaven or earth, even commended by @AlliHouseworth

Will not make torment remotely fair, just suffer like @TheStage’s @SmithAlistair.”

At long last you come to learn, there’s no escape. Says @SherryStern:

“Your soul has long been placed in hock, with @NPRMelissaBlock,

Be very careful, don’t abandon your wits, or you’ll end up like @AdamSymkowicz

He thought he could be one of hell’s comedians, but that berth’s been given to scribe @Gwydions.”

Then @Antoni_ssf bursts in, joined by @WTFest’s @JGersten

Shouting, “Go! It’s your time now, man, you have to see the cruel @ChadBauman.”

This gives you such a chilling start, you cry to be saved by @TheatreSmart

Or @DevonVSmith, digital maven, can she construct some private haven?

Anything to block this world so harrowing, perhaps @markcaro

Or @PiaCatton, she can be tough, and fight for succor, just enough

So that brutish @HellerNYT won’t assail you, and if not free

Some music might be heard all over, a bit perhaps from @RyanScottOliver.

Then all at once, in this damned place, clouds of smoke obscure your face,

You drop to the ground, start to scuttle, defying this ruse by wily @AShuttl,

Or perhaps it’s more cruel games, devised by @BrianDarcyJames.

The ground it continues hard to shake – and with that, you bolt awake.

You are no Scrooge, what you’ve just seen, is merely brought by Halloween.

So go and give to children candy, and everything will be just dandy.

What if there were more commandments, but only beyond a paywall?

I have lost the Globe and Mail, and it hasn’t simply been buried under a stack of old magazines. Next week, I lose The Chicago Tribune. I have already begun to mourn.

My losses are not because these newspapers are going out of business. It is because they are moving behind paywalls, as many other papers have done to insure their online content isn’t being read for free, as these companies struggle to remain solvent. Having spent a certain amount of time every morning for the past few years seeking out theatre and arts stories to share on Twitter, I know that the loss of these two outlets will shrink the pool of intelligent coverage from which I can draw. Still, I am sympathetic to the papers, because as I have said before, if we want quality journalism – and I believe we need it – we have to be prepared to pay for it.

But…

Over the past 20 years, long before my Twitter curation, I’ve found the online access to arts coverage from around the country, and the world, to be an enormous asset in my continuing professional education. Indeed, where my only sources for arts news outside of my local paper (wherever I was living) were The New York Times and USA Today (and occasionally The Wall Street Journal), the advent of online newspapers and magazines enabled me to read features and reviews as never before. Yes, Variety had reviews from around the country and a handful of weekly feature stories, the accelerating decline of that publication sapped it of its once essential nature. I suspect I am hardly alone.

Arts coverage on the web eliminated the inefficient need to ask for, or send, coverage around by fax, a highly inefficient samizdat network of like-minded individuals who already knew one another. More importantly, with the rise of social media, it enabled the broad-based sharing of coverage, helping to bring arts aficionados closer with the opportunity to discover and discuss subjects raised in the press regardless of geography and without skipping from website to website in hope of finding worthwhile material.

So how do I reconcile this cognitive dissonance, this belief in paying for good journalism and a passion for access to arts coverage from wherever it may be found?

I’d like to suggest that arts coverage remain free online, unlike the rest of a newspaper’s content. Even as such coverage has diminished and remains under threat (one of the country’s largest cities, Philadelphia, no longer has a full-time theatre critic at any daily paper in the market), newspapers are the last bastion of mainstream arts coverage, long ignored by television locally or nationally.

Precisely because the media has demonstrated or declared time and again that arts coverage does not drive their revenues, I think it should remain free for all, whether to support the groups in its local market or facilitate a national conversation. The Wall Street Journal, despite its trendsetting paywall success, maintains its arts blog, “Speakeasy,” outside of access restrictions, and while I would like more of its arts content readily accessible, they’ve at least set a precedent, with no apparent financial harm.

Even as a die-hard consumer of arts coverage, I’m not about to pay $10 or $15 per month to read about what’s happening in Chicago or Toronto in these paywalled publications, especially if I can’t share it. I’ll find at least some of that news through other sites. But as someone living hundreds of miles from these cities, if outlets are fundamentally opposed to any free access, I can’t help but wonder whether something equivalent to sports broadcast blackouts could apply; you pay if your IP address is located within 90 miles of the publication’s base, but those outside that circle have vastly less expensive access.

There’s a double-edged sword to hiding arts coverage behind paywalls. On the one hand, the publication may be securing its revenue base (although it may be forcing people to unprotected news resources elsewhere in the market). But in the case of arts coverage, it may well drive the growth of new online-only resources, creating a viable market for arts-specific sites – thereby advancing the irrelevancy of what the paper is providing for a steadily diminishing audience. That will then serve as the excuse to further cut arts coverage.

Am I anti-blog or online magazine? Hardly. But outside of a handful of online publications that do include arts and culture coverage (Slate, Salon and Grantland come first to mind), the majority of what is out there isn’t economically viable, and therefore relies on unpaid (read volunteer or self-produced) coverage, limiting its long-term prospects. Are there superb blogs? Absolutely. But when they write about anything beyond their own immediate vicinity, they’re predominantly relying on other outlets for the news upon which they then re-report or opine.

It’s ironic that I write this while living in New York City, which offers more variety of daily and weekly arts coverage than most cities. But as I hope I’ve shown in my writing, I don’t consider New York as the be-all and end-all of the arts; there’s superb work worth seeing, or at least knowing about, everywhere. Yet with each paywall announcement, I feel my world narrowing, headed backwards to the pre-internet era, and it troubles me greatly.

I urge those who have or would have paywalls to continue to treat the arts as a loss leader and maintain that coverage online for free or almost free, outside of local and national news, business coverage and sports. You’ll keep America’s arts healthy by providing the raw material of national conversation and you’ll make sure that we’re talking about you, too. Because you want to remain part of the conversation too, don’t you?

As I sat at last week’s session of The Shakespeare Forum, watching performers present monologues that led to highly supportive critiques from some 50 gathered peers, I was bombarded by thoughts.

Most immediate, of course, were my reactions to the presentations. While the format was for everyone present to feel free to ask questions and make observations, I spoke only once in the two hours, a single query limited to seven words. I might have engaged more, but as a newcomer, I was uncertain as to how to best frame my comments in this protective environment. Consequently, I became contemplative.

I had, needless to say, my own responses both to what was performed and the recommendations that followed. While I am no critic, I can be highly critical, but this was no place for the snap reactions that come upon seeing a finished show. I was watching people test their talents, as others sought to teach and learn from the conversations that ensued. Yes, I wanted to tell one woman that in an audition, it was highly unlikely that she could clutch the wall as she did; I wanted to share with one man that by his posture and position, I had guessed he was about to perform something from Hamlet even before he spoke; I wanted to debate some of the suggestions as wrong-headed. But that was what I wanted to say in the moment, out of habit, not necessarily what anyone in that room needed.

My thoughts turned to my unfortunate tendency to verbalize perceived flaws first; then I began to worry whether I was watching too intently. I have an unconquerable tendency to furrow my brows when I concentrate, which I have often been told makes me look angry when I am anything but. The last thing this room needed was negative expression of any kind.

As suggestions and admiration flowed, I wandered back to my two collegiate efforts at directing, which no doubt had all the finesse that an untrained, unschooled 19-year-old (who looked angry when thinking) brought to the table, which is to say almost none. Yes, at that age we’re all learning, but how brusque I must have been, how unsupportive, in pursuit of the production I saw in my head.

When the Forum group, as advised, snapped their fingers in support of statements they heard to express concurrence without interrupting to verbalize agreement, I realized that I had no idea whether this was a common practice in theatre courses and workshops, or whether this was something unique to The Shakespeare Forum. What else do I not know about performers’ education? This was simple; surely there were processes more profound.

I even was thrown back to the extreme awkwardness of my high school years as I realized how many in this group came regularly, and knew each other well, fostering safety. I was once again the awkward outsider, unsure of how to act except when with my own friends. Yet my discomfort was surely nothing compared to those who came to give voice to monologues, perhaps for the first time in front of others. Did I have that courage, as I did, irrepressibly, in my high school performing days?

Finally and most importantly, I realized how long it had been since I was “in the room,” that is to say, an actual rehearsal. As someone who chose theatre as a profession based on my love of the form, and my deep desire to play some constructive role in it, I was reminded as I sat on a folding chair in a basement room south of Canal Street that as my career advanced, I had extraordinary opportunities to see productions, but that the actual process of making theatre had become distant. I was reminded that for as much as I may know about the business and even perhaps the art, I’ve never been schooled in nor benefited from the practical experience of speaking the language of the classroom, rehearsal room, the audition, the performance.  I was a stranger in my own land.

This week, Michael Kaiser of The Kennedy Center wrote of his belief that arts managers are frequently too content in their jobs to be creative, and I challenge that assertion on the grounds of sweeping generalization. While I have no doubt that, as in any profession, there are those who are always growing and learning and those who find comfort in the status quo, arts administrators are always grounded in creativity, namely the work they support. Do some grow too complacent? Perhaps. But the ever-changing financial and entertainment environments virtually dictate that creativity is at the forefront of administrators’ and producers’ thoughts, as they struggle the sustain the frameworks that allow for production.

But rather than sweepingly and publicly castigating an entire class of arts professionals, I find it more constructive to offer a suggestion to ward against any potential stagnation, because of last week’s experience: namely that arts administrators must find the time, on a regular basis to get back “in the room,” namely the rehearsal room. It’s thrilling to work on behalf of great productions, but the core of what we are a part of is there within the drab beige walls, the mocked up scenery, the conversation, the camaraderie, the repetition and the revision. That is one essential part of the administrator’s continuing education, sustenance and success.

Even within a construct aimed at developing actors’ skills, not leading to any particular production or even necessarily to a better audition piece, my visit to The Shakespeare Forum, unexpectedly, unintentionally even, showed me some fundamentals of theatre, my chosen profession. I have no doubt that this would hold true in music, in dance, in opera, and so on. As administrators, we try to create simulacrums of this integral work – the master class, the open rehearsal, the invited tech – for our audiences, for our donors, for the media, to stimulate their knowledge, their loyalty, their generosity. But as insiders, we have access to the real thing. I urge everyone to use it.

I, for one, can’t wait to get back in the room again. I look forward to seeing you there.

Pervasive in commentary on every major political campaign is the use of the word “theatre” to describe acts made for show rather than substance, and it perennially has those who love and respect theatre a bit riled. Meanwhile, I read and watch political coverage and have come to think that instead of resembling objective news, campaign reportage takes on the trappings of sports. As a result, in this election season, politics, sports and the arts have bled into each other in my mind, as follows.

“That’s it for the weather, and it sounds like it’s going to be a great weekend. Now it’s time for our nightly arts report, with everyone’s favorite cultural chronicler, Biff Lefkowitz. Biff?”

“Thanks, Elise.

It’s been a crazy 24 hours in local arts, especially on the theatre scene. The Springfield Stage Company, riding high on the success of their Shakespeare series, stumbled today when it was revealed that their Prospero and their Miranda were heating up the Equity cot between shows. We all know that one has to suspend the imagination when we go into the theatre, but now that nobody can picture them as father and daughter, there’s lots of inappropriate laughter on the line, ‘The isle is full of noises’.”

“Sounds a bit too close for comfort, Biff.”

“Apparently not for the enthusiastic couple, Elise, but for everyone else. The front office is going to have to get control of this before it damages the rest of the season, because all of this publicity is going to give Shakespeare a bad name, and turn off the essential soccer mom audience. It’s going to be tough, because there’s some compromising footage making the rounds on YouTube. Steamy stuff.

Meanwhile, Springfield Theatre Works is jumping on that gaffe as an opportunity to poke a sharp stick at their cross-town rivals, hustling their production of Oedipus as the steady, reliable and proven option for explorations of intra-family affections.”

“Biff, isn’t that an underhanded campaign on the part of Theatre Works?”

“You know what they say, Elise, in art and politics, what’s fair is foul and foul is fair. But there’s no question that the Stage Company folks are tearing their eyes out right now over this Oedipus thing.

When it comes to momentum, you’ve really got to hand it to the upstart Little Theatre of Springfield, with their rotating rep of Yasmina Reza plays. Though leavened with laughter, her bleak view of human relations is resonating surprisingly well across almost every demographic during this time of economic uncertainty.”

“But I hear the pundits have mostly given the shows a thumbs down, Biff.”

“You’re right Elise, but while the professional naysayers have been trotting out their usual canards about the absurdity of French female playwrights being translated by an Englishman for American consumption, exit polls are showing that for all the carping in the press, audiences see that commentary as nothing more than a plain white canvas, devoid of any real meaning for Joe the Certified Public Accountant and Jane the Corporate Lawyer. And that’s who comes out in force for the arts.

The Little Theatre is also benefiting from a comparative wave of support from outside interest groups, like the Springfield Arts Council and the National Endowment for the Arts. This kind of extra-community money can really tilt the playing field, giving this tiny company a louder voice than ever before.”

“Let me jump in here for a moment, Biff. I’m hearing rumors that The Little Theatre is benefiting disproportionally from  their robo-telemarketing calls, funded by a private foundation that isn’t required to disclose the size of their gift.”

“Yes, Chuck, I’ve heard that as well, and it seems like the phone rings 12 times every night at my house touting this play or that. We won’t know the actual amount of money being expended until it’s time for the company’s tax filing, and that comes long after the season is over. But there’s no denying that private money is now the name of the game in the arts, and it’s starting to look like whoever gets the most these days wins.

Elsewhere, the post-performance discussion at the Springfield Theatre Lab got a little heated when an audience member accused the company’s artistic director of regularly trotting out too many canned talking points each season and not allowing for enough spontaneity. But this outburst won’t even last one news cycle, after the Lab’s dramaturg explained that all theatre is scripted. You really have to wonder what that person was doing in the audience in the first place.

Finally tonight, it looks like the expected Broadway transfer of the Springfield Players’ terrific production of author John Q. Populist’s comedy A Little Something For Everyone isn’t going to happen. Like so many shows that have a common-sense message that rings true for so many, it’s being crowded out of the field by productions with big names and songs to sing. The Players team has waged a scrappy campaign that resonated with lots of folks, but they just can’t get past the entrenched wisdom which says that without a sharply defined target audience of die-hards, you just can’t break through in the big leagues.”

“Thanks for that report, Biff. Are you seeing anything tonight?”

“Well, Elise, I’m going to go home for a bit, just so I can hang up on some telemarketers. Then I’ll be heading to the Springfield Cinema to see the NT Live screening of This House, their new drama about British politics in the 70s. I doubt I’ll understand much of what’s going on, since I can barely follow our own elections, but ya gotta love those accents.”

“And that’s it for us here tonight. As we leave you, enjoy this clip from the Luxembourg Zoo of three newly hatched penguins. Because, after all, while we may not agree on politics or theatre, we always have time for adorable animals. Good night.”

The programme/script of Caryl Churchill’s new play

Like most American theatergoers, I’m always startled when I get to England and I’m expected to shell out £4 (about $6.40) if I want a theatre programme. This flies against the American tradition of free programs, regardless of whether you’re attending commercial or not for profit theatre; don’t confuse a program or Playbill with souvenir programs, those $20 photo galleries found on Broadway, at ice shows and circuses, and their like. When you calculate the cost of a theatre ticket in England against what’s charged here, there remains a significant savings, so I and other Americans should really keep our mouths shut about the extra tariff. Comparatively, we’re still getting a bargain.

That said, the experience reminds me once again about the nature of theatre programs, their purpose and their often unrealized value. That’s something that transcends price and international boundaries. At its simplest, the program gives us the basic info about the show we’re seeing: who did what and what they’ve done before. It’s a tool for telling us about the artists, and a great way of insuring that you’re not distracted by thoughts like, “Wait, is that the woman who was in…” while you should be focused on the story unfolding, not the identity of a performer.

Beyond that, programs can tell us more about the show we’re seeing, in the manner of a study guide for adults, with everything from impressionistic pages replicating art works and corollary quotes worth contemplating in relation to the show, to explicit essays which seek to tell us things we might not know, but should (at least in the eyes of the producer or artists). They can also tell us more, in the case of work produced by ongoing companies, about the people and organization responsible for the show; while this is often boilerplate, it’s institutionally necessary, just like those pages of donor acknowledgements.

In our media suffused era, programs have become tablet friendly; I’m seeing theatres making their entire program available on iPads in advance of the show, or downloadable as PDF files for those without the newest technology (he said, pointing to himself). I think that’s a terrific asset, especially if there’s something in the program that might prove particularly valuable to one’s appreciation of the work. Very often people read their programs after a show is over, so advance access is a great step forward – provided theatres make a distinction between programs and newsletters, and define a clear purpose and corresponding type of content for each.

I could ramble on all day about the nature and benefits of theatre programs, but let me cut to the chase with a particular and perhaps unique example. For many years, London’s Royal Court Theatre’s programmes have been copies of the play you’re seeing, an exceptional asset and value, especially at a venue dedicated to new plays. I know of many American companies that have long envied the Court, yet few have managed this feat of offering new scripts to their audiences; in this age of instant publishing and tablets, perhaps it’s time to look at it once again.

Last week, seeing Caryl Churchill’s new play Love and Information, which is comprised of dozens of vignettes that go far beyond the title topics while always managing to encompass one or the other (or both), I bought my Royal Court programme/script. When I got home that evening, I wasn’t about to immediately re-read the play, but I did decide to glance through it, foolishly thinking that the ever-enigmatic Ms. Churchill might offer some additional insight in the text. What I found profoundly changed my view of the play.

While there was no treatise on the piece, by the author or anyone else, there was a brief production note on the text that made the experience, in retrospect, even more fascinating. It reads:

The sections should be played in the order given but the scenes can be played in any order within each section.

There are random scenes, see at the end, which can happen at any time.

So what Ms. Churchill informed me, and anyone who bothered to read that text note, is that Love and Information is a theatrical erector set. While there are certain rules that must be followed (as in, say, architecture), there’s also a freedom to reimagine the work with every staging. Indeed, the optional scenes were not in the premiere production that I saw, but they’re still available for a director, leaving (or perhaps mandating) that the text be approached as malleable with every new iteration.

I don’t recall that reviews of Love and Information noted the unfixed nature of the play’s vignettes, suggesting that it wasn’t called out in the press materials or that some critics may have missed this note, which to me is vital. As part of a play which offers no conventional narrative and a highly fractured structure, it’s sure to set off lots of conversations. In her taciturn way, Ms. Churchill appears to be telling us that there’s no singular answer because there’s no singular version of the play. Mind blown.

Some will argue that what’s on stage should be all there is, and one can make a case for that. But I see nothing wrong in reaching out to audiences with some useful, and at times vital, information.  In print or online, free or paid, programs can profoundly effect our understanding of what we see. The challenge that remains, no matter the price or the format, is how do we get people to take advantage of the information on offer, not because it’s “good for them,” but because it may open their minds to even greater insights and possibilities?

He clasps his hands together and bows, low. When he lifts his head again, his arms now at his sides,  his eyes glisten, moist perhaps, but not teary. He lifts his gaze to the balcony, scans it, then looks to those seated closest to him. As he glances across the front rows, there is the very slightest hint of a warm smile, perhaps conspiratorial. Then he joins hands with the rest of the company.

“Look, he’s so moved,” I’ll overhear a nearby lady remark. “Oh, but now he’s smiling,” says another, relived and happy, bonding with him in the very final moments of several hours in the theatre. They feel more connected because he’s shown them all that he feels so deeply, sad, elated, a bit tired, by all that’s come before.

I have seen this particular bow more than once, and it never fails to move audiences to comment, no matter what has come before. Because it is the bow of a friend who typically plays leading roles, I have seen it at the end of classics and new plays, of comedies and dramas.  It is a performance unto itself, but no less genuine for being one. And while the play that preceded it may be flawed, this particular, brief display of emotion and thanks always delivers.

We say so much about the theatre we see that we often don’t take into account the curtain call itself, the bows, the epilogue to the performance that allows us to join with the company one last time. Indeed it is not uncommon at the end of a curtain call for the actors, before they depart the stage, to reach out their hands, stretching towards us, to applaud us, in mutual admiration, cementing a bond. Nowadays, when the curtain call is discussed at all, it is to decry the falseness of Broadway’s seemingly de rigueur standing ovations, an honor once reserved for performances of extraordinary merit, now the inexplicable and meaningless standard.

Let’s not engage in yet another debate about the devalued ovation, but consider instead the act of the bows. Even at their simplest, different stages dictate different patterns; while a proscenium allows for a straightforward, straight-across line of actors entering and bowing successively, in the order of the size of their role or, in some cases, their personal fame, looking out, looking up (if there is one or more balcony) joining hands and bowing en masse. If the stage is a thrust, or perhaps in the round, the company is usually arrayed separately, and they turn together to each side of the audience as they bow, keying off of some unseen signal in a final bit of subtle choreography.

Subtlety is not always required; the curtain call can be an extension of the performance that enhances it. As if we had not had enough fun at Matthew Warchus’s Boeing-Boeing, he enlisted Kathleen Marshall to choreograph a final burst of motion and mirth, insuring that even the bows failed to begin to distance us from the show we had enjoyed; it sent us bouncing out of the theatre, not merely collecting our things after dutiful or enthusiastic clapping. A number of English musicals offer the mega-mix finale which, after we’ve already begun clapping and perhaps taken to our feet, recaps what’s come before with a medley of the show’s best tunes;  it is designed to get us on our feet, often against our better judgment, lest we be seen as spoilsports. In the case of Mamma Mia!, the curtain calls are topped with the song “Waterloo,” a big Abba hit that couldn’t be shoehorned into the plot, and its last minute deployment takes the entire show the one final joyous, rhapsodic plane.

Productions of the vintage Arsenic and Old Lace are known to have a series of complete strangers emerge from the set’s supposed basement; they are nightly-rotated strangers who are recognized as some of the heretofore unseen corpses sent off by the sweet old ladies’ wine. At Bring It On, the curtain calls are accompanied by videos of the cast in rehearsals, as well as the creative team; while it mirrors the videos that pervade our internet lives, or the bloopers that run alongside credits in some movies, it shows that the cast is “just like us.” It also allows brief glimpses of the creative team as we applaud and while they may not be known to all, I could smile as I applauded, at Amanda, at Lin-Manuel, at Tom and so on; I have always been of the belief that authors, directors and designers should be brought to the stage for bows whenever they are in the house, not only on opening nights, and this is a compromise solution.

These examples among the most creative I’ve seen, and perhaps far too rare. They don’t belong in serious drama, of course; they’d be ridiculous at Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? or The Normal Heart, but something special is certainly appropriate for vintage musicals and for comedies, even classic ones. Sadly, bows are too often an afterthought, roughly staged if at all at the first previews, given order as the production comes closer to an opening night. That is why I always marvel at my friend’s self-contained bow; no matter what the circumstance of a given production, he is complete unto himself at the denouement, with unwavering results.

Of course even the most perfunctory bow is better than none at all. Some directors, typically on dark works with many deaths, will argue that to bring the actors back to the stage is to deny what has come before; to brings back corpses (apparently having never seen Arsenic and Old Lace) makes no sense. In two productions that I have seen – the most recent Broadway revival of Journey’s End and, years earlier, Mark Lamos’ Julius Caesar at Hartford Stage – the bodies strewn about the stage rose before our eyes, not under cover of darkness, and we applauded as were slightly chilled, never knowing whether we’d just applauded performance, staging or resurrection, not that it matters.

I take issue with directors who eschew curtain calls on artistic grounds, because, along with everyone else in the audience, I am denied the opportunity to express my appreciation to the cast, and we leave the theatre dissatisfied and puzzled by the absence of convention, surely not what any director really seeks. Applauding is a theatrical social contract of many, many years’ practice, and appreciation denied is appreciation diminished.

I’m not suggesting that every production should contrive a unique curtain call; to do so would then make them as boring as standing ovations have largely become. But as we parse every aspect of theatre making and theatre marketing to insure that we are attracting and sustaining audiences, we mustn’t forget the impact of that last minute – after the show itself has ended but before the audience is released to back into the real world – and its ability to enhance what has come before and to make audiences truly a part of it, achieving community not just within the audience but throughout the theatre.

I don’t know that I saw Kilty during the last 20 years of his life. Perhaps we ran into one another in a few theatre lobbies, I would occasionally hear a little something about his health, but he was long out of my mind and, I fear, the minds of many others who knew him during his lengthy theatrical career. So when I first saw a news story from a small Connecticut publication reporting that he had died, at age 90, in a car crash, I surprised myself with the depth of my feeling.

I had met Jerome Kilty immediately upon my college graduation, when I went to work as a press assistant at the Westport Country Playhouse. Kilty (as many called him when speaking of, not to, him) was part of the Westport theatre crowd, a fairly tight-knit group of theatre pros who had moved to the Connecticut countryside in the 50s and 60s, long before its main street became lined and littered with chain stores, before big box stores cropped up along once bucolic Route 1. He only performed at Westport once during my two summers there – a benefit reading of his own Dear Liar, playing the role of George Bernard Shaw – but he seemed to be around so often, an impression helped, no doubt, by the schedule of 11 shows in 11 weeks, meaning opening nights every Monday between June and August, the central event of Westport’s theatrical social circle. Then, magically, when I went to Hartford Stage, there was Kilty again, acting in the first show of the season and acting and directing in the third, the former a Shakespeare play, the latter a Shaw.

Kilty was a character from another era – actor, director, playwright; a man who had worked with the stage greats of the 50s, who had founded theatres and, with Dear Liar, written theatre’s most successful epistolary two-hander (until Pete Gurney overtook him with Love Letters). I remember sitting in my little office as he told me the story of his army leave in England, when he trekked to George Bernard Shaw’s home and, denied an audience with the great man, how he scooped some pebbles from Shaw’s driveway as keepsakes and how they still sat on his mantel as we spoke. The people we meet at this age make such an outsized impression when they deign to give us their attention, their time, their interest. Kilty embodied the perfect English gentleman – which is ironic since, as I would learn, he had been born on a California Indian reservation.

When I read of Kilty’s death, I knew that he left no survivors and I feared that his passing would go largely unnoticed, which struck me as profoundly sad, for a man of accomplishment. Having been raised in the climate of old media, I felt that he was deserving of a New York Times obituary, an honor he would have appreciated. So I forwarded to news story to the theatre editor, commenting that this was a man worthy of a final recognition. I made a few calls, I wracked my own memories, and provided what little material I could when called by the reporter working on the piece, all the while feeling inadequate to the task, regretful that I had not seen this lovely man in so very long, and determined that he have this one last moment in the spotlight.

The Times did well by Kilty, and I think that the reporter, Dennis Hevesi, was as charmed by Jerry, even in death, as I was in my youth several decades ago. I was so pleased to see this final remembrance, and both pleased and surprised when, on a Sunday morning in southern New Jersey, I saw it as well in the pages of The Philadelphia Inquirer, via the Times news wire. Perhaps it appeared in many other papers and websites (previously, Robert Simonson had written an even more thorough article for Playbill); perhaps it reached others long out of touch but who took a moment to commemorate Kilty privately when they learned of his passing.

I write this not out of pride in my role in this obituary, or to demonstrate that I can contact the right people at the Times. I know that the decision to write about Kilty was ultimately theirs, based on the merits of his life, his achievements. I write because I am lucky to have known Kilty, and never let him know I felt that. I write because I wonder how many theatre artists are forgotten – even before they pass away – and how many may never be given a final bow when they leave us? I am thinking, even now, of others who were kind and generous to me as I began my career, and how I don’t wish to only do them honor when they pass, but to reconnect with them while I, and they, are still able. I think about how, as I grow older, these opportunities will become fewer with every passing year, until I find myself hoping that I am, in some small way, remembered.

We know that theatre is an impermanent art form, as closed productions linger only in the pages and digital memories of journalism, and in the minds of those who saw them. The lives of theatre artists are fleeting as well, and we must honor not only the perpetually famous, but those who have committed their lives to this life, with dedication and talent but perhaps without fame, while they live, so their deaths don’t come as a surprise that triggers reveries and regrets, but as the finales of friends, remembered not from years past, but from our own recent present.

If you wanted to vote in Chase Community Giving, this shows what you had to give them for the privilege (click to enlarge).

This morning, my Twitter feed was filled with a series of almost repetitive messages from New York Theatre Workshop, the excellent Off-Broadway company that was the starting point for Rent, Once and Peter and the Starcatcher, to name but three. The messages were directed tweets to a number of people that they, and I, follow on Twitter, and the message was to ask for support through re-tweeting in NYTW’s quest for funding from the Chase Community Giving program on Facebook. The program deadline is today.

For those unfamiliar with the program, it is one of several corporate initiatives which enables the general public to vote for their favorite organizations, in this case a quest for a total of $5 million in funding. Populist? Sure. Using social media creatively? Yes. A terrific step in grant-making? Absolutely not.

This sort of funding mechanism forces companies to compete in the ugliest way; a couple of years ago, one NYC not-for-profit (which I won’t name, since they publicly apologized) actually tweeted about needing help to “beat” other organizations to the money. It also requires everyone who wishes to vote to “like” the sponsoring corporation, allowing them access to one’s Facebook timeline before one can express support. In the case of Chase, it gives a voting advantage to their own customers, so the process is already rigged, laying bare that this sort of funding is marketing in sheep’s clothing.

Last week I wrote about artistic directors who abdicate their responsibility when they allow audiences to vote on their program, and this mechanism shows how corporations are comparably willing to abdicate their responsibility for adjudicating and weighing where their philanthropic dollars can do the most good. Oh, wait, I’ve misspoken, since this isn’t philanthropy at all, it’s a contest, run by marketing. I keep forgetting. I bet most people do, in this era where we vote for idols on our cell phones.

No not-for-profit can afford to look a prize horse in the mouth, and so countless organizations do their best to rally their constituency in these Darwinian survivals of the fittest (or, really, most popular). But I worry that they cheapen themselves in their efforts to enrich themselves. And so many worthy causes have a truly uphill struggle: could the presence of The Ian Somerholder Foundation’s at Number 4 on the Chase “leaderboard” at the moment be due more to its founder’s youthful celebrity than its excellent focus?

Facebook giving contests have a strange corollary to politics, where so often people vote for the lesser of two evils, not someone they’re truly excited about. But here, most every candidate is probably worthy of our respect. It’s the process that is un-“like”-able.

Update, May 16, 2014: I read a blog post today from CreateEquity entitled, “Crowdsourced corporate philanthropy died a year and a half ago, and no one seems to have noticed.” It should surprise no one who read my post that I am delighted at the news. Whether this is a hiatus or true end remains to be seen.

“Broadway” is an industry that not only produces theatre events in mid-town New York City, but it’s also the primary engine and idea factory of American theatre, and arguably, theatre worldwide.”

I’m sorry, but I can’t read a statement like that and keep silent.

The above quote is taken from a blog by Jim McCarthy, CEO of Goldstar and one of three organizers of TEDx Broadway, which will take place this January for the second year. Jim organizes the event along with producer Ken Davenport and Damian Bazadona of Situation Interactive. I attended last year’s event and furiously live-blogged it; there was some very interesting conversation that day and what struck me about it was how little it spoke specifically to Broadway and how much of the content spoke to issues of theatre as a whole.  But as much as I’ve enjoyed meeting Jim and communicating with him subsequent to last year’s event, my response to his premise is at least dismay, if not outright offense.

I have spent my career in not-for-profit theatre organizations, the last of which, the American Theatre Wing, is inextricably linked with The Tony Awards, an honor for work in the Broadway theatre, clearly defined as 40 theatres on the island of Manhattan. The Wing gave me a ringside seat at the workings of Broadway, but never for a moment did I forget that I was running a not-for-profit organization, nor did I ever declare or think myself to have “gone Broadway,” despite the jokes of my friends and the assumptions of many in the broader theatre community. My love and dedication is to theatre, all of it, and Broadway is only one segment of a very wide-ranging art form. It is predominantly, but not exclusively, commercial. While its individual productions, running for years, playing in other countries and across the U.S. on tours and licensed productions, may reach the widest audience for individual shows, there are literally countless theatrical productions in this country every year far beyond Broadway’s annual average of perhaps 38.

That is why I take exception to falsely subsuming American Theatre under the banner of Broadway: because Jim has it backwards. Broadway is part of The American Theatre, but the majority of American Theatre is not Broadway.

There’s a second misleading statement in the quote from Jim, because Broadway simply is not “the idea factory of American theatre.” Very few productions reach Broadway without having first been developed and produced in not-for-profit theatre. This even holds true for British and Irish imports, which emerge from the subsidized sectors there onto platforms of ever-greater success. I’m not saying that Broadway never originates valuable new work, but I’d lay odds that more than half of the productions each year have achieved success after benefiting at some point from the efforts of not-for-profit companies.

Because I view Broadway as a part of the American Theatre, I neither love nor hate it as an entity; frankly, it’s a collection of theatres and productions, not a singular body. I have seen great work on Broadway, just as I have in small resident companies. Broadway is one model of producing, one that can yield great rewards for its investors and artists, but one which also benefits from the vestigial patina that remains from the days when it was indeed the primary source of theatre in America. Yet the coalescing and expansion of the resident theatre movement in the 1960s (there were regional theatres decades before that) fundamentally altered the balance of American theatre. While every aspect of theatre is perpetually challenged by economics, it is the not-for-profits, here and abroad, that now lead artistically; Broadway benefits from scale, from history and from its proximity to the majority of the country’s cultural media being so close by.

I don’t think I’m saying anything radical here, but it’s a message that bumps up against the tide of immutable conventional wisdom, because the mystique of Broadway is so powerful. Having worked alongside the Broadway League on The Tony Awards, in a mutually beneficial partnership, I have watched their increasingly strong efforts to brand Broadway, to make audiences internationally ever more aware of it, to unify its constituents, and to hone its image. They face a challenge, because “Broadway” is not a trademark, it cannot be controlled the way a corporate brand can, so they fight an uphill battle at times, while at others they reap the rewards of being the theatrical equivalent of Hollywood’s “dream factory.”

I learned last year that only official TED events can cover “topics,” while the offshoot TEDx conferences must be “geographic.” Indeed, the TEDx Broadway organizers told me of their challenges convincing the TED organization that Broadway is a locale, not a discipline, so they could hold their event; “TEDx Theatre” would not have passed muster. In that usage, I understand their rationale.

But they mislead their potential audience by using Broadway as a catch-all phrase; some of the NFP folks might stay away thinking it’s not for them, which is actually a shame. I support what Jim, Ken and Damian are doing with TEDx Broadway and if I haven’t made myself persona non grata with this piece, I hope to attend again this year. But let’s not confuse positioning and marketing with facts, especially since we’ve long been told how essential truth in marketing is to success. Let’s remember that Broadway actually prides itself on its exclusivity and grant them that, without judgment or rancor. But as for The American Theatre, there’s vastly more to it than just Broadway, and the theatrical idea factory is not restricted to 40 theatres in Manhattan by any stretch of the imagination. Period.