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.

“Can’t believe that a MAJOR theater is producing [play title redacted]. Crazy talk. Does its “non-profit” mission mandate producing community theatre?”

I know. It’s just a tweet. Let it go. But it’s emblematic of bias I read and hear constantly. It’s about time I said something.

I would like everyone to stop using “community theatre” as a punch line or punching bag.

As people with a vested interest in building and sustaining interest in theatre, pretty much everyone in the business is supportive of and in many cases evangelical for arts education. We applaud academic drama programs and productions from kindergarten to graduate school, recognizing that such programs can give voice to the next generation of artists as well as the next generation of audiences. We decry funding cuts to such programs for their impact on creative as well as intellectual development. Of late, there is also recognition that these programs may offer refuge to those who seem “different” from student bodies at large, safe havens from predatory classmates (“bully” seems a bit tame these days) among those similarly inclined, close-knit teams for those who shy away from sports.

But once school is over, those whose lives and careers take them away from the arts, but whose love of performing doesn’t abate, become part of a maligned yet integral part of the theatrical ecosystem which, when spoken of by most professionals and media voices, is summarily disparaged. Why on earth does this happen, and why is it allowed to propagate?

While I’m quite certain there are some fairly sophisticated community theatre groups, I’ll cede the point that a great deal of the work done in community theatre likely doesn’t measure up to professional, or perhaps even collegiate, standards. But that’s not the point of it. If the participants wanted to be professionals, they might be pursuing those goals; perhaps some of them did, and didn’t succeed. But I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that the majority of the participants in community theatre never sought a professional theatre career, and are happy to be teachers, dentists, attorneys, mechanics, stay-at-home parents or what have you. The fact is, community theatre is a hobby, a passion and an outlet for people who truly love theatre; it’s the bowling league, the weekly pick-up basketball game, the book group for the performance minded. The participants are, I’m willing to bet, ticket buyers at local theatres, tourists who flock to Broadway or national tours, parents who encourage creativity in their own children. In some cases they may even provide the only theatre their community gets to see. They are the people we need.

Drawing on data from the American Association of Community Theatres website, which surely doesn’t include every community group out there, we know that AACT itself “represents the interests of more than 7,000 theatres across the United States and its territories, as well as theatre companies with the armed forces overseas.” They claim more than 1.5 million volunteers [participants], over 46,000 annual productions per year, an audience of 86 million and a combined annual budget of well over $980 million. That’s a lot of theatrical activity.

Before you accuse me of being a hypocrite, I will admit to enjoying Waiting for Guffman, an at times cringe-worthy satire of community theatre and a touchstone for many in the business now for a number of years. But like other Christopher Guest films, particularly Best in Show and A Mighty Wind, Guffman is an affectionate and at times absurdist view, which celebrates the passions of its offbeat thespians just as it lampoons them. There is no such affection in the tweet quoted above, or in the often-used critical riposte that labels sub-standard professional work as approximate to that seen in community theatre.

A couple of years ago, when I worked on the American Theatre Wing’s book The Play That Changed My Life, I was struck by the fact that this collection of independently written essays ended up including several paeans to community theatre, with both Beth Henley and Sarah Ruhl writing about how their parents’ community theatre experiences informed their own theatrical lives; Chris Durang wrote of play readings held in his living room which transformed his mother and the local newspaper editor into the elegant personages of a Noel Coward play one afternoon. Surely these are not unique stories. I even had my own experience with community theatre, when at age 16 I successfully landed the role of Motel in Fiddler on the Roof (playing opposite a 27-year-old school teacher); to be a high schooler cast amongst adults was my own moment of breaking into the big leagues at that stage in my life. Community theater can matter.

Let me swerve to a corollary issue, also invoked by the opening tweet, which is the suggestion that certain plays belong solely to the community theatre repertoire (I redacted the play named in the tweet because I don’t care to debate its relative merits, but rather address the broader issue). “Community theatre plays” share a common trait with many “high school plays,” in that both often feature large casts, casts that most professional theatres would happily employ if they could afford it.  But because for these groups, inclusion is essential, both in a desire to be welcoming and because inclusion can drive ticket sales, the large-scale plays common to the mainstream theatre in the 1920s, 30s and 40s, and the larger scaled musicals from across the past 100 years are staples. The value of the pieces should not be diminished because they flourish in these non-professional settings; they may not always be the most current work (though, again, I know many community groups do recent, smaller plays too), but their only opportunity to be seen may be in the community theatre arena.

Size isn’t the only issue; current tastes dismissively relegate shows to “community theatre” status as well. You Can’t Take It With You stumbled on a recent effort at Broadway, but surely Kaufman and Hart, staples in community and school theatre, are no less important because of it. Neil Simon is not in critical or commercial favor right now, so his work can be tarred with the “community” slander, but if the upcoming West End production of The Sunshine Boys, with no less than Richard Griffiths in the cast, proves revelatory, a shroud may yet be lifted from Simon’s bust in the theatrical pantheon. We’ve seen somewhat of the same thing happen recently in England with the long out-of-favor Terence Rattigan; the acclaimed David Cromer attempted Simon’s resuscitation on Broadway a couple of years ago but was undone by finances. The non-profit theatre producing a “community theatre” play should be applauded for reexamining a work not often professionally staged — at least until it opens; then judge it on its own merits, not on a collective and peremptory assumption about its worth. There’s a corollary in “family” or “children’s” theatre, where You’re A Good Man Charlie Brown and Annie are seen as staples, yet those shows weren’t written for or sold to children in their original runs any more than Wicked is subsisting solely on sales to 14-year-old girls today, as some would ignorantly suggest. This reductive labeling is detrimental on so many levels.

We are part of an industry that constantly worries about its future, but can be our own worst enemy. By slagging community theatre, we’re undercutting our own best interests and evidencing our own cultural elitism; by allowing others to do so we join the juvenile yet dangerous bullies who taunted us in high school — by doing the same to adults whose only wrong is to enjoy doing that which we’ve made our careers. Even if you’ve never uttered a word against community theatre, but merely have never given it a moment’s thought, you are doing it disservice. Is theatre so healthy that we can afford to be so blithely arrogant?