For the love of an empty stage

When I talk to people about the Free Theatre, I am most often sharing my thoughts about making theatre that’s less costly, more environmentally friendly, more immediate, and more accessible to more people. These are, I believe, good reasons to start a theatre, but they aren’t the only reasons. There is an artistic case to be made here, and perhaps, with the start of our Pilot Week just a few days away, I should sit down and make it.

If you have ever been in a play, you might be familiar with a feeling that I get during the final performance. You can feel the show and the story and the world you have taken such pains to build slipping away. You have a heightened awareness of this specific moment in time. We made something, it was there, and now it isn’t.

It’s also possible to have this feeling while watching a play. I saw a production in Japan twenty-five years ago in which every single moment felt both transitory and indelible. It was gone as soon as it happened, but it’s never left me.

I saw a show here in Winnipeg a couple of seasons ago which was also very moving. I liked the story and the characters a lot. The set looked like a real house. I mean, that thing was BUILT. It would probably have met local building codes, but it didn’t have anything to tell me. One thing I have always loved about theatre is that you can walk on to the stage and say “come on into the kitchen” and that’s all you need. The audience will come with you. I love that about this work, and to me, that’s why it’s better than film. What’s the quote? “Film is art, theatre is life, and television is furniture.” Many of the best plays that have ever been done were performed entirely without benefit of couches. That show I saw in Japan was performed on a nearly empty stage.

With the Free Theatre I want to make a place where artists can start from an empty space and make something magical, without any extra bits we don’t need. That way we can afford to give it away for free. But even more importantly, I want to lean into the fleeting moment; what we might call the ephemeral-ness. Or is it the ephemerality? The ephemeritudinosity? Can you lean into something that’s not really there? I think we should try. We will never pass this way again, so let’s lean into the pleasure (and that strange elusive almost-pain) of an indelible moment that disappears the instant it happens. This is a flash in the pan. This is life on earth. Come on into the kitchen.

See you soon, (May 31 at 7:00PM at the Gargoyle Theatre)

Ellen