Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

11.1 cover image

 

 

The Place of Possibilities

 

Julianne Vana

 

 

I spent countless hours in that dark and cold place. I was rarely seen. I rarely slept. I rarely ate. When I had the chance to eat, the food was often awful, yet I scarfed it down as quickly as I could. There was always more to be done; nothing ever seemed to be finished. The hours were odd and seemingly endless. When I would finally leave, I still had countless hours of work left to do. When I would finally leave, I wanted nothing more than to go back again.


While that dark and cold place sounds miserable and we often described our time there as hellish, it was home. It was the place where I belonged, where I felt the most comfortable. It was where my family could always be found. It was where I could always be found. If it was up to me, I would have spent all my time there.


You see, this place was actually a place of magic. New worlds would be created often, raising up from nothing. First it was an opera house, then a mansion, next it was a castle, and then a ship. Once a mountain even rose from that dark, cold place. While it was all these things at different times, one thing remained constant. It was always a home and it was always there for me.


This place was a place of possibilities. When you entered it, you could become anything you pleased. Some became pirates while others became royalty, some became phantoms and others became prima donne. I became many things: a student, an assistant, a leader, a sister, a story teller. I became who I am today.


In this place, stories came to life. A few simple words or a single soft song immersed you in a world you couldn’t even imagine existing. When the lights came up, it was as if you blinked and opened your eyes in a completely new place. Whole worlds could be hidden behind one red velvet curtain.When they were revealed, it was as if you were actually there.


The best part was, everyone played a role in the storytelling. Some acted, others set the scenes, some wrote the stories, and others directed. We all worked together to bring these stories to life. We all worked together to create worlds from scratch. We built castles out of plywood and carved mountains out of foam. Characters filled in the blanks, adding their humanity. Haunting music drifted up from the pit, spilling out onto the stage and into the audience, filling the whole theater with a unique atmosphere. In a few silent seconds, a dozen people clad in black could transform a bedroom into a garden terrace or a ballroom into a boiler room. In a few moments, a boy dressed as a third class passenger could reappear as a pompous millionare.

 

We watched friends, family, and strangers made their way into their seats. We listened to their laughter and their gasps, their confusion and their tears. We felt the emotions of everyone combine to create an atmosphere unique to that specific time and place. No night was quite the same, even though the same story was often being told. Each new audience brought a new interaction.

 

Those interactions were the true magic of this place. A story is nothing without someone to tell it to. A show is nothing without the exciting exchange between the performers and the audience. There’s something about the rush of a live performance that is unlike anything else. You’re constantly on edge, praying that things go right. No matter how many times you rehearse, there is always the likelihood of something falling apart. But there are those seemingly impossible instances when a moment goes beyond what you ever thought it could: when an actress holds out a note that makes the hair on your arms stand on end, when the lights hits her face just right and the effect is hauntingly beautiful, when that one, flawless moment is suspended in time and it seems too perfect to be real, too perfect to ever be recreated, that is the moment I live for.

 

This place has always been, and always will be, my one true home. It may seem odd, but of all the places I’ve lived, none have ever really felt like a home. They were always impersonal and clean, without a single dash of character. They were simply a place I had to return to at some point; simply a place to rest for a while.

 

The theater is different. The shop floor is covered in so much paint and sawdust that you can’t even tell what color it started off as. The prop room is stacked to the ceiling with random items that all hold a lifetime of meaning and stories. The green room has never actually been green, but the walls are covered with pictures of those who came before us, who will always be remembered and who are often idolized. Playbills line the halls, a testimony to all the stories that have been shared. That is what a home should be like.

 

As everyone knows, a home is where you can find your family. My family is a mismatch of performers and painters, ballet dancers and builders, musicians and makeup artists. While we may not be related by blood, they are the family that I chose and was in turn chosen by. In the theater, I always felt free to be myself. There was no pressure to be anyone other than you. We were all different, and many of us were outcasts. I think that’s the reason we never turned anyone away. The theater was a place where the outsiders could finally belong. It was, and will always be, the place where I belong.

 

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always easy. In fact, it never was. There were times when I wanted nothing more than to run away and hide from the stress of it all. There were times when all I wanted to do was cry. There were many times I did cry. However, not all of them were the result of sadness or stress. When a story finally came to life around me and I was able to see all that we worked for achieved, it was often hard not to cry.

 

The most tears were definitely shed when it came time to say goodbye. As the years passed and each show came to a close, I watched each of my seniors join hands and take their final bows. As per traditon, they would all come forward and kiss the stage goodbye. For three years I watched as each of my family members took their final curtain calls and all too soon it was my turn.

 

I remember the warm lights shining in my eyes, the sound of applause in my ears, and the feel of the sweaty yet comforting hands squeezing my own as I exchanged smiles with my family. The tears welled in my eyes as I brought my lips to the stage in that place that I will always call home. As the curtain fell, I was wrapped up in a knot of crying actors and techies. Makeup was everywhere and everyone was sniffling, but we knew it would be okay. As we learned in our own stories: you can go, but you’ll be back soon. You never say goodbye to family and you never say goodbye to home

 

 

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