Why do we go to the theater?

A personal essay for the New Year by Lookingglass Executive Director Rachel Kraft

From The Wooden Breeks Issue of ArtAntica
Mentioned in this entry: Andy White, David Catlin and Mary Zimmerman

For me, it was always about theater. I would memorize and recite Shakespeare and make my mother listen to the balcony scene of ROMEO AND JULIET that I recited earnestly in my pajamas. It was telling my folks, the doctor and nurse, that I was going to pursue “oral interpretation” instead of “pre-med” during my sophomore year in college. It was finally graduating with a degree in Psychology and 1000 hours of supervised field work and quitting my job on a mental health unit after six months to create my own grad school for a year by interning for a summer at Steppenwolf and a season at the Goodman (who knew, I certainly didn’t, that I would return to the latter for 12 glorious seasons).

When I interviewed for my current position at Lookingglass, Andy White’s adaptation of 1984 was on stage. This chilling story, so politically charged, left me rushing from the theater to track down George Orwell’s novel of the same name. When I was offered the job, I took my family to see David Catlin’s adaptation of LOOKINGGLASS ALICE to help them understand why I wanted, felt I needed, to take this position with this particular company. After that performance, again I hurried home and searched my shelves until I found a copy of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.

Chicago’s winter holiday wonderland is the scene when on December 23rd, I walk against the wind to cross Michigan Avenue for the final performance of Mary Zimmerman’s ARGONAUTIKA. In my 16 months at Lookingglass, I often feel like the proverbial “kid in the candy store.” I enter the little castle at Pearson that we call home and find myself surrounded by other “kids” just like me. There is a sense of anticipation before the production begins, wonder at intermission, and joy and sadness when the company takes its final curtain call. In the lobby afterwards, friends and new faces pull me aside to tell me how much the story moves them and how grateful they are to be at the theater before the show closes.

After the audience trickles out, we toast the cast and crew with pizza and beer to mark the close of this gem (a future life seems certain based on the number of theater representatives who have seen the show multiple times, considering it for a future season). Then we gather around the stage where the understudies and crew, under the inspired leadership of the stage manager, put on the traditional pageant that is a gentle “send up” of the making of the show and its company. The actors roar as they see themselves through the eyes of their collaborators and there is a rush of warmth for what we can do together.

Finally, there are some good-humored speeches and the cast shares handmade gifts with all the people who helped make the production possible. There is one more toast, good-byes and hugs, and the artists and staff leave the small castle to return to their families and the “real world.”

Why do you join us at the theater? Is it for the communal experience, to be transported to another world, or to see a favorite actor? At first I was puzzled by the questions themselves as the need for theater seemed as natural as why we eat breakfast each morning. But, the longer my career in the theater, the more I hear endless variations on the following themes:

“Why give to theater? Social services need our help more.”
“Why attend theater? It’s not telling my story.”
“Why participate in theater? It’s fleeting and can’t make a difference.”

“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast”. – Lewis Carroll

Making theater feels to me like one of those “impossible” and essential things. Mary Zimmerman recently said in a radio interview that flowers are the perfect gift on an opening night, because at the height of their beauty they are also speeding towards death. The curtain rises, and a play is on a similar course towards its own final conclusion. There are no ways to keep that experience alive apart from our memories and a tattered program.
A writer can spend years, putting pen to paper. There are months of consulting with designers. Four weeks is often what most companies have to take something from page to stage. But until you join us in the theater, the work is not complete. Whether it is your attendance as a theatergoer, your time as a volunteer and/or your support as a donor, we cannot create new work without your involvement.

To have the privilege to “make” theater is only possible because of YOU. As a mid-size organization with a 240-seat theater and a budget over $3 million, Lookingglass depends on your partnership to make magic. Our wonderfully flexible and intimate theater means there is a limit to how much we can earn. We must count on contributed income (up to 50% of our budget) to balance what we can bring in at the box office.

Over the holidays, a friend remarked that in theater, the whole is always more important than the individual parts. You are part of our “whole” and we need to be in meaningful communication with you as we create and share our work. We want and must continue to earn your trust as we pursue our goals to Invent, Collaborate and Transform!

In return, please accept our invitation to let us know what is (or isn’t) working for you. You can reach me directly at RKraft@LookingglassTheatre.org.

In the meantime, please accept our warm wishes for a very happy and healthy new year!