Studying music in college felt too mathematical, studying under people who drilled basics, not instinct. My piano teacher was insufferable. My voice teacher, rote. My guitar teacher was a gentle, generous man who put me on the classical guitar ensemble and often asked me about my interpretation of the pieces I played in class. He loved the voice my guitar had, but it wasn't enough. I burned out because the instruments weren't fun to play any more, and I left school altogether to join the workforce.
Just a few years of riding the day job from holiday to holiday and merely paying bills, I had to return to college, this time to study theatre. After taking a night class for acting, the bug hit, and I ended up taking almost every class in theatre I could take. I studied theater history (I did an extensive study of the Etruscan influence on Greek Theatre), studied stagecraft and makeup, acting, and eventually directing, at the request of the resident acting guru. He had once hurled an insult at me in class after prompting some improvisation, saying out loud "You're too smart to be an actor." He threw me into directing, felt incredibly proud of himself, and I not only became the president of the dramatic society, I directed a one-act play, the Valley Collegiate Players annual show, and acted in show after show until I fell in love with a cheerleader, and then everything changed. I instantly felt like I was there too long.
I transferred to another college, wanted to start fresh in theatre there, but word got out that I was the guy from the previous one, and I fell into a crazy awkward love triangle that, despite a hugely successful appearance as an actor in a directing final, I changed to an English major and once again dropped out because there was no sense of instinct, curiosity, or discovery. Learning felt like a construct, not an organic sense of wonder. Back to the work force I went.
When I eventually felt the bug to return, and let's be honest, was there ever a doubt? I attended/audited an acting class in North Hollywood, and it took me a moment to get my bearings, but it wasn't until I watched an actor named Laura Katz did it click in. I wanted this in my life. It became an obsession. Everything I had learned in college was not being taught here, so I could envision how to build things, create soundscapes, staging, props, do makeup, and the training was so grounded in reality, the value of everything was enhanced. Within a couple of years, I was asked to start up the theater company, was given the keys to clean the theater, and had regular roles in the school's iconic long-running play. Running the theater took the place of training in class, and over the next decade or so, I went from show to show, was constantly writing and directing plays, and spent extra time making sure that everyone else in the school was involved. I started a one act workshop, took the school from a few performances a month all the way to performances every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night with matinees during the day on Saturdays and Sundays.
This was the decade - my 30s - that decided some of the sacrifices I'd make for art. I directed over 20 plays, wrote over 20, supported every production as the managing and technical director. One night, the cast had all left for a noisy bar where literally nobody could hear the person next to them, so I don't know what they ever got out of the experience. I was in the theater all alone - Studio 2 - and suddenly felt like I was in the presence of a relationship that was playing out its course. I stood in the middle and spoke out loud. "You and I have been through a lot together, huh?" I walked to different spots on stage, retracing where actors I worked with stood, thinking quietly about how many people I worked with over the years. This was a couple of years after we had our one and only theater company meeting to discuss the end of the one act series, and, unexpectedly, for my mentor to publicly give me thanks for growing the theater company. Actors in the audience whom I worked with cried when I was recognized. Some time after that, our founder took me aside and told me that I reminded him of the spirit and energy of the group theater in New York, where he studied. I stood there in the quiet theater thinking about all of this, and then I said, "Someday all of this will be over." I knew I was on the other side of the mountain, making my slow descent.
I still had a handful of plays ahead of me, including an original musical and a final "flagship" production that used multimedia and made specific statements about identity and art. I made every prop. I created the poster. I rehearsed the actors in a museum, on my old college campus. The play almost didn't happen, facing a major issue when I had to fire and recast an actor. It was the last play I'd ever direct, and then after that I was done. I'd still act in a play for the next few years, but I was slowly cutting ties. The end of the play also coincided with a massive layoff at my day job, so it really felt like I was about to take a huge leap of faith, only part of it was voluntary. Thrust into a lifeboat made of severance with no theater to distract me, I attended some outplacement classes and then took a four day train trip across the country, where I met all kinds of people and saw the country through my camera. It was the time I needed to mourn the life that was, and imagine the life I wanted. I had nothing, and yet I still wouldn't settle for anything less than what this sacrifice called for. I said no to various jobs. I landed at Universal.
For the next 14 years, I survived incredible resistance during my first few years before I hit a stride of incredible growth and opportunity. Any time I wanted to quit, someone was there to catch me. Anytime I suffered a setback, handfulls of people were there to gloat. At the height, I had live entertainment in four to five spots at the same time, and I had moments of thinking I'd retire there, even fantasizing about me taking a final street performer spot for a brief performance set. I thought for sure I'd at least get a sendoff, some kind of fanfare. I distinctly remember walking with one of my employees past the stage towards the control room, and the end whispered to me. I told her "I have walked this route thousands of times, often carrying ridiculous props, sometimes walking with talent, sometimes wading through a massive crowd. It never got old, but all of this is temporary. It all ends someday, so I'm grateful for every moment, even just walking back here with you." What she didn't know was that most of the time, I was solving impossible riddles of corporate politics, constantly finding a way to keep the musicians and my team safe. They figured that part out when, on my birthday in 2020, I was laid off at the height of the pandemic.
This time I really had nothing. I thought it was all over. I couldn't go anywhere, I couldn't realistically look for work. I fantasized whether I'd be happy working somewhere not entertainment related, abandoning all of my momentum and experience. I didn't allow myself to believe in any outcome. I was an astronaut flying solo in a massive void, and I had no sense of ever returning to Earth. I started a three month process towards the end of 2021 interviewing for a job, and plan B was going to be pulling out some retirement money so I could focus on writing a book while I waited for industry opportunities to start warming up to post-pandemic normal. I didn't land that job, and in a three week turnaround from that rejection, I literally fell into a new position where I had to prove myself again, and it became my latest obsession.
The moment I've had to pause, see where I've been, and imagine where I'm going, is always deeply personal. I've seen heightened life in those spaces, watched nerves give way to budding confidence, experienced risk making artists better. I feel myself wanting to protect any performance space I touch for as long as I can. I am always in that relationship longer than the space needs me. I feel it's necessary to acknowledge the end, to foresee it, to respect the chapter, no matter how long or short, because somehow, this quote is burned into the back of my mind:
"We cannot become what we want to be by remaining what we are." ~ Max de Pree
The goodbye is coming, and then I'll evolve again. Never be afraid of the outcome, or of change, or of being forced out of a position that fits me, that feeds me, that feels like home. In the end, home is what I carry with me, my values, my actions, my love, my experience. I may know every crack and every sound of the spaces where I've worked, lived unforgettable moments, and paid my dues in those spaces, but the things I seek are not exactly magical qualities attached to a job title or any sense of power or creative control. Home is a garden with fertile ground where I can plant seeds and cultivate growth for everyone. Home is the family I never had.
Home is waiting for me.
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