Eulogizing a Broken Set Piece
Footsteps smacked on the hardwood floors, approaching at a speed one would register as “alarming.” I paused, the wine bottle in my hand interrupted mid-pour over Rachel’s cup. Allison turned sharply from the door handle she’d been bathing in Lysol. The footsteps revealed their owner: Ethan, our set designer/carpenter, rounding the corner and miraculously managing to stay upright.
“What is it?” Rachel whispered.
“One of the chairs broke!” Ethan hissed back, still in motion and disappearing around the next corner, ostensibly headed to fix the problem.
We were sitting in the lobby area of COLLABORACTION in the Flat Iron Arts Building. Opening night of our production of Summer & Smoke stunned us by selling out; the following evening’s show was making its way to a full house, too, and the Sunday matinee was on its heels. Rachel and I had booked seats for the opening run, but we gleefully sacrificed them to people in the rush queue. We joined Allison at her shift behind the box office, content to sit this one out in favor of new audience members and a celebratory glass or two of wine.
Now the three of us looked at each other, wide-eyed—oh no! A broken chair on opening night. Of course. The chairs—upon which the actors not only sat but at times stood—were key set pieces. We winced, laughed a little, and picked up where we left off with somewhat of a shrug. Hopefully Ethan had it under control! And hopefully that was the worst thing the evening had in store for us.
Less than 48 hours later, the rest of the Summer & Smoke run was cancelled. In the space of a couple hours, productions across the city followed suit. By Monday, the entire country began locking down.
Looking back now, as we’ve all grown tired of saying, I weirdly wish we could have held on to that broken chair moment a little tighter. Would that everyone’s crises were contained within the space of a theater, within reach of a solution. Would that the rush of panic, the anxiety of “Ohmygoshwhatarewegoingtodohowarewegoingtofixthis” were followed by the rush of relief and giddiness that accompanies solving a problem. The fracture appeared in the leg of one of the chairs within moments of the show opening, and while some audience members might have noticed it, the chair held up. Ethan noticed and replaced the chair with the stealth anyone experienced in working live theatre possesses (we later discovered he ran down five flights of stairs all the way to the intimidating basement of the building to secure a replacement, then all the way back up to make the transaction. I mean…what?).
When the COVID-19 pandemic took over, theaters going dark was the lesser of large-scale worries, never mind broken chairs, missing props, dropped cues, and the myriad caveats that come with live theatre. The myth of those concerns, so stressful in their moments, paled in comparison to the rising number of cases and deaths reported each day.
In lockdown, everyone was given the same set of guidelines to protect themselves and their loved ones. When it came to livelihoods like theatre, artists everywhere had to adapt in unique ways. The Impostors Theatre Co. was just one of many theatre companies who dove headfirst into readjustment—we sharpened our adaptability tools, embraced the challenges and creativities of virtual storytelling, reexamined our company structure, recommitted ourselves to amplifying marginalized voices, listened, and worked hard to ensure our supporters still had (and continue to have) access to free, engaging entertainment. The gratitude we feel for everyone who has supported us over this time, whether through donations or following us on social media, makes those newer anxieties pale a bit, too.
We can’t wait to get back to our broken chair on opening night worries; to the stealth of solving a problem in the dark backstage; to toasting a sold out show; to dancing with paintbrushes too late into the evening, putting the finishing touches on a set; to saving seats for friends and family; to gathering around a piano and shout singing the wrong lyrics to a song by The Killers; to finally finding a parking spot; to sharing headphones; to kissing on the platform, waiting for the train; to holding the door for a stranger.
Until then, we will continue onward as we have the last year. The pandemic is still here (IT. IS. STILL. HERE. Wearyourmasksandsocialdistance) but so are we.
Next time: behind the scenes details on Hertha Nova, our upcoming radio theatre production.
Notes from Ensemble Members’ Quarantine Archives:
“Joy is a discipline. Sometimes joy is like a surprise free dessert at your favorite restaurant. But more often than not it is cultivated every single day by being present with myself. Which is CERTAINLY not always comfortable, but on the days when it’s really uncomfortable, it’s actually even more important.”
“Movement. Self-Reflection. Compassionate Action.”
“Everything—tearing down the set to a show, hiding from the TV, dancing in the grass, driving north and back—is helped by a playlist.”
“Songwriting isn’t therapy, but some words are better on the page than the mind.”
