Not for the Life of Me.

I get an inexplicable thrill walking into a theater. Before the curtain rises or the show begins, there's a tangible, almost palpable excitement that I can sense. It's quite beautiful. Whether it is the energy of the performers, or the liveliness of the audience, I can feel the way a theater almost cries out for the story about to unfold, for the truth that is about to be revealed. It And I feel at home. Because there is a huge part of me that cries to be on that stage. 

I love being an audience member, believe me, I do. In fact, going to the theater is my favorite pastime. And I say pastime because that's what it truly is, a hobby. It's not a mere source of trifling entertainment. My professor said something quite memorable at the beginning of this year to our class, and it's something I'll never forget. During a lecture she said something along the lines of, "you know, for you, going to the theater is like a football player watching the super bowl". And I smile each time I reflect on her words, because I think, Dianna Heldman, you couldn't be more right. I've discovered there's an interesting way that we sit on the edge of our seats, awaiting what could either be a brilliant production or something quite disastrous.  We hold our breath, hoping that the performers won't "fumble" the ball of hard work and talent upon that stage. There's something, too, that marks our conversation as much different than the average theater-goer before we've even walked through the door. We talk names, reputations, and expectations for the evening. And I love it. I crave it more than ever. But as soon as I enter a theater, once I glimpse the closed curtain, I almost feel the lives that have been behind the curtain on that stage, that have told their own story the way I desperately want to. Each theater holds a part of the performer, and the theater itself gives something in return. 

I'm reminded of the way performers have given themselves to a theater in my hometown, the Civic Auditorium. It was built in 1952, and is connected to Idaho Falls High School, which as it happens, is the rival school of my dear old high school, Skyline High. Contrary to popular belief, the Civic is not owned by I.F.H.S., but is the property of the city of Idaho Falls. It seats 1,612 and is the home of many concerts, orchestras, musicals, and much, much more. The backstage walls of the theater are covered in the sharpied names of performers. Endless bricks of names and show dates, ranging from the auditorium's first years to present day. Almost every performer that has stepped onto that stage has written their name upon those walls - given a timeline, a small piece of a puzzle. Mine is right behind the stage left staircase, in green marker, and is tremendously ugly. It takes up three small bricks. I had signed it in the Spring of 2008, when I had sang for our church Easter service there. I went on to perform twice more in that theater, and had the great privilege of conducting and music directing Aladdin Jr. as part of a children's summer camp. I've worked with some amazing people in that space. My name on that wall signifies much, much more to me than I'm sure it ever will to posterity. But it was not just the Civic Auditorium that holds that piece of me. In fact, the Civic Auditorium possibly holds the least amount of that piece as possible. There is another theater that is near and dear to my heart,  my first love, the Skyline Little Theater. It is the least impressive venue, the one that sat only 80 people, the one that holds many of my dearest memories, the one that led to many tears, laughter, growth and change. The one that I trusted so much to. However, my experience tonight brought me to an important realization.

Tonight I attended "Rantoul and Die" in the Phoenix theater, home of the Actors Repertory Theater of Idaho, commonly known as ARTI. I love ARTI performances with a dear, dear passion. The ARTI theater is another place that I feel I owe a large bit of gratitude to. My old drama teacher and dearest inspiration, Rebecca Beck, is the "artistic director" for ARTI's board of directors. The entire board functions as a small family. Each of them is heavily involved in the theater, both acting and directing and doing whatever is necessary for the good of the theater. Last November ARTI burned down. I walked into my drama classroom to find Mrs. Beck almost in tears at relaying the news to us. They had lost a large deal of the theater. Their green room and the new restrooms that they had just renovated were completely destroyed; they had fallen into the basement. The fire happened to be just two months before they were scheduled to run "Messiah on the Frigidaire". With remarkable effort, the theater was cleaned out and maneuvered to suit the needs of the audience, and as it must, the show did go on. They're planning more aggressive renovations to be completed this summer, and it's hard to believe that just a year ago, most of the building was blackened and charred. 

Visiting the theater again tonight was wonderful. The show was crazy, hilarious, and very, very twisted. The cast performed beautifully as always, and I was rolling with laughter at the character of my drama teacher. But once again, as soon as I set foot inside that theater, I felt something of comfort. It was greater than the performances or auditions spent in this building. I've helped out at ARTI for years, helping house manage and host, seeing the shows, and falling in love with the devotion of the entire crew. The feeling of comfort was from the fact that I felt a sense of belonging I couldn't quite place before. One that I now recognize as affirmation and excitement for the love I have for performing. For tonight, I'm quite content to be the audience, but with all my heart can't wait to be on the stage soon. 

Keep it classy,

-Em

New York return: 8 days!