As the pandemic ravages live theatre, these leaders hold hope and uncertainty for their future

Since the Great Cancel of 2020 began, several of us who work in associate leadership roles at theatres across the country have been meeting weekly-ish on Zoom. For me, those conversations have been a big part of making it through this sector-wide reckoning with some degree of hope. We all come to the table with our split selves: as both artists trying to understand this moment, and as leaders trying to help our institutions to navigate the series of crises that are upending our entire sector this year. Sometimes we act as a support network and a community of practice; sometimes we're grappling with our industry's shifting landscape; other times we're just a group of hot mess humans who get together to see who got desperate and tried to cut their own hair this week.

What I love most — and miss most — about working in theatre is the collective energy of a creation space. We're artists who exist in and through dialogue. Most of the time, we define our form collectively, and our strength is often in a balance of points of view that don't resolve tidily. So in thinking about coming up with some kind of insight about the current and future state of theatre in Canada, it seemed only right to make it a collaboration.

A small group of us got together a couple weeks ago for a conversation: Sascha Cole (creative producer for The Theatre Centre), Mel Hague (associate artistic director at Canadian Stage), Kimberley Rampersad (associate artistic director at the Shaw Festival), Jenna Rodgers (associate artistic director of Vertigo Theatre), and myself (an artistic associate at the Stratford Festival).

As has been the case for many of our chats over the uncannily elastic months of this pandemic, the conversation both avoided and addressed the identity crisis that has been thrust on theatre in this moment. Many other art forms are defined by their material manifestations (sculpture, poetry, film) or their techniques and tools (music, dance). But we generally intuit theatre as being defined by a meeting of who, where, and when: the moment of liveness, the IRL gathering that has made theatre and plague pretty incompatible throughout history. However, the current crisis has come in a moment of radical democratization in terms of artistic creation. The tools to create, produce, advocate, and disseminate broadly have never been so directly accessible to artists (and "laypeople" too, for that matter), and we are witnessing incredible inventiveness that is blurring the edges of our discipline even more than before.

Theatre's one of those jobs where you both work to live and live for the work. Our work defines us and how we see the world. Because of that, we often let ourselves work in not-so-borderline exploitative conditions. As we collectively grieve the ways of working that we took for granted, we can also find hope in the possibilities of reinvention in this time: in form and process. When we're no longer a public health hazard, we have an opportunity to rebuild a more equitable and humane way of making our work.

ted witzel: The phrase "in these uncertain times" has had every last drop of meaning wrung from it as the months have worn on. To talk about the current state of theatre is hard because I'm not sure a current state of theatre even exists, but let's give it a shot. What are the conversations you're having inside of your institutions and your own art practices right now?

Mel Hague: I remember early on in the pandemic, ted, you and I were talking about whether as a live art we're used to working with uncertainty. I actually think we were dealing with an ultimate certainty. When a show meets an audience, that is like being on a trapeze with no net because you're in front of people and the possibility of failure is palpable. We actually trained ourselves to work toward some pretty hard deadlines. And now that we're in this nebulous space of, "Should we do things smaller? Should we do things further away? Should we do things outside?" it's actually really, really hard, working in a nebula.

Kimberley Rampersad: At Shaw we're such a sizable machine [that] it's challenging to change and to shift nimbly. There are so many cells in this moving entity that we are; we all have to pulse together and that is the heartbeat of the organization. We've lost all the sureties of calendar and budget. And we just need to be ready to create when [we can] and be able to move quickly, and things change every day.

Sascha Cole: At The Theatre Centre, we made a decision early on to take off the pressure to produce content. The heart of what we do is the Residency Program, so we decided to shift to a year of development and use this quieter time to foster new relationships with a new intake of artists. It's refreshing in a way, to have this slow time to build relationships and talk about process in a way that we don't normally get to do, because usually as a producer you are in this hamster death wheel, chasing time and resources.

Jenna Rodgers: As I'm listening and thinking, there are sort of three "E" words that come to mind. A lot of conversations I hear are waffling between notions of what "excellence" is (which I think is a charged thing), and with opportunities for "experimentation." They're being set up in a false dichotomy, that it can either be excellent or an experiment. And we all know that's not true. But it seems like artistic leaders are asking, "Well, should we do this really risky thing or should we stick to what we know — what is excellent, what we know will be purchased?" And I think what one of the things, ted, you and I have talked about is how companies that have a really clear "ethos" are shining: that's the third "E" word.

And that's resonant with what you just said, Sascha, about The Theatre Centre — that the heartbeat of the organization is the residences, so you have something to lean into. For Vertigo, where I'm the associate artistic director, the mandate is murder mysteries. They've switched to audio plays and they're commissioning writers and trying to do these really high quality audio plays. That's how they're finding that middle ground between excellence and experimentation, because they have a thing to hold onto: "We're going to keep doing mysteries." It's clear. The downside is that they're experimenting in form, perhaps, but not in content. And we're seeing lots of other theatres that are looking at experimenting in content, which is maybe a bigger risk or more difficult thing to define.

tw: You're all pointing to an uncertainty. In the material terms of how we're going to be producing, our calendars and budgets and audience numbers and ticket sales are all completely out the window at this point. But then the other massive uncertainty that Jenna's pointing to is an uncertainty about what theatre even is in this moment. It was maybe back in April, there was that anonymous article that got shared a bunch on Facebook that was basically like, "I don't like this because I'm not able to sit in an audience and you can do all the Zoom stuff you want, but I don't call it theatre." And there was another wave of people on Facebook who reacted to it, including this really smart duo of artists from Winnipeg, Davis Plett and Gislina Patterson, talking about this as a time of unprecedented accessibility in the arts because so much of it is moving outside of physical spaces. All of our institutions are working in some way, whether it's residency development, whether it's digital performance, whether it's outdoor performance. But I feel like I have never been less clear on where the beginning and ending of our form is.

SC: I think that's so exciting, honestly. I'm thrilled about exploding what's possible. I just bought a ticket for the Canadian Stage show where you're on the phone with a stranger for an hour. Is that theatre?

MH: Yeah, that's the 600 Highwaymen piece, A Thousand Ways. I wonder if there's something about all of us coming to theatre on the phone, something new and equalizing, and maybe my theatre degree now means nothing in a really great way?

KR: I think there is something terrific about arriving in the moment, however it happens. I keep trying to be like, "OK, what does theatre mean to me?" And right now, I feel it's the gathering, arriving in a moment together, in real time, wherever that is. You have to show up, and the people on the other side have to show up: I think that's dope. After that, all bets are off. We will challenge the form. We're challenging Western European colonial notions of what theatre even is. It's wide open. I love not having the answers, and right now I'm especially looking to young artists for them. Show me the way!

MH: Brendan [Healy, artistic director at Canadian Stage] was saying that it was like we were all driving around in our car and then we slammed on the brakes and everything that was in the back seat flew into the windshield. And that "everything" is institutional racism, is colonialism, is capitalism — all of this stuff that we were just driving along with, and now the process I think a lot of institutions are in is in examining all this shit that flew into the front of our car. And now is something that it was not in February; now is a new place.

SC: Yeah, I don't ... how can I say this? I don't miss the old way. I don't want to go back until we address the precarious nature of employment in our sector and are working toward creating safer spaces for folks. The amount of harm that theatre has caused — there is a long road ahead, and I have zero interest in going backwards to how it was before, zero.

MH: Yeah, and I'm not actually sure it's achievable. Like, I work at a place called Canadian Stage. What does a decolonized Canadian Stage look like? I don't think I'm ready, on a Monday, to go into the depths of what I actually think about this. But it is the challenge of our generation of artists to be articulate about what our hopes are for these futures.

KR: What is beautiful about this moment is that it demands we create a specific language to help us articulate that. Whether it be through song, through dance, through more text, whatever it is, a new language with digital performance, or us right now — what is the language that helps us articulate that?

MH: And art is so critical to articulating it. I don't think I realized before, because my life was so steeped in live art; I didn't realize how actually important it was to my own conception of myself. Taking in live art is how I made sense of the world. And not having it has been an added layer of grief: I'm missing a key part of how I've taught myself how to handle moments like this.

Going back to your point, Jenna, about excellence and experimentation, I would say entertainment is something we've been missing. Like, can entertainment and experimentation take place at the same time? Because theatre is joy. It's sparkle and spectacle. It's Elphaba going 20 feet in the air on a thing — that's theatre too.

tw: We were in a conversation earlier today at Stratford — we've been undergoing a process of examining institutional harm and harmful structures and are trying to now articulate pathways forward. And our instinct is still to go to policy, toward very official-sounding language about how we're going to construct the workplace that we want. And I understand the need, but it also feels diminishing or institutionalizing. I so value the process of building the terms of collaboration. We create microcosms of the society that we want to be in. It's about ways of being together and ways of creating together. It's really generative at its core. And I miss that so much that I don't even know how to let myself feel what that feels like, or feel the longing for that way of being.

KR: There's a lack of joy that translates from those policy documents that hurts our souls — like, the idea that you need to codify some way to invite everyone to the table. And I think that that's what I find so challenging right now. I don't understand how we reduce the feeling of generosity and kindness we approach our work with, and then the rage I feel that it needs to be spoken at all.

MH: But the policy is so important because a lot of institutions have relied on an individual heroic leadership. And what typically happens, actually, is that that individual comes in, burns themselves out, leaves, and the culture itself remains the same. So the policy, the governance structure, the organizational priorities and values, are more than just a legal defensive document for HR. It's the groundwork for how we treat each other, so [that] it is not my responsibility to change a culture that only will change if I'm in the room.

JR: I think about the number of times I've been asked to talk about my process, or the number of times that people are like, "Oh, well, it was like an anti-racist process because you were leading it," but that's not how it works. I'm very fallible. Putting BIPOC people in institutions doesn't erase history, and programming those shows doesn't erase history. That's what makes policy work feel feeble sometimes: it's hard to reconcile the incrementalism of policy work with the goal of a systems change. And systems change is so fundamentally radical because it needs to upend a colonial model, a model that exists to continue replicating the same outcomes. Individual rehearsal halls can exist as floating islands; these productions like Kim's Colour Purple built on real joy, but then we finish the show and it's gone. And it doesn't even necessarily mean that this excellent bubble of joy wasn't made using the tools of the colonial model.

We are so conditioned to speak in "either/or" dichotomies. It's a challenge to articulate because our best tool to get at nuance is the live art. And we don't have that right now. And even if we did, I don't know that our live art and our training and all of the things that make us who we are as individual people is enough to completely change a system. It's generational work.

tw: And it comes right down to how we even conceive of a system. So many large institutions talk about themselves as machines, but a system is more of an organism than a machine. It's like trying to tear mint out of your garden: it's still going to come back. It has a survival instinct. It is not a static object to dismantle — it's a living thing.

KR: I feel like what I'm missing as we're working on systems change in these organizations is that: the artistic expression of it, along with the policy. I miss the poem or the sonnet. I miss the words or the creed of it. I miss the art of it. I miss seeing us, seeing our fingerprints, feeling our breath.

tw: It's a reach for beauty. How are we chasing beauty in this moment where so much of our work is policy and email and Zoom meetings?

SC: It feels like we're in this moment where we're just thinking. My head feels disconnected from my body. I want this important policy work to be braided into the art, into what we make. It feels so separate right now. And I'm just itching to move into the body, to move into space, to move onto the stage or outside or wherever.

MH: I'm just feeling like it's baby steps — just ensuring that even these small interactions that I'm having with artists are different and more caring than those that I may have had before. Because if I try and look down the whole journey, I get overwhelmed. And honestly, even having a conversation like this is painful, because I used to feel so much more articulate than this. Like, I used to be able to think forwardly and I can't; I'm stuck.

JR: I feel stuck on the question I've been avoiding for this conversation: "What is theatre right now?" I feel like it's a trap, every time I'm asked. Someone asked me what I like about theatre. I've liked the digital shows where we all have to show up; there's a satisfaction to that. But what I like most about theatre is that I want to keep talking about it. When I love a show I need to keep talking about it because it's planted an idea in my head, or because it's challenged my way of thinking, or because I've been struck by a moment of beauty. And I realize that many other forms of art can plant ideas, or take hold of your imagination, and that's what makes me feel scared right now. I sometimes feel like a fraud because this is my career, and I don't know what theatre is right now. And I don't know what it will be on the other side.

tw: I think that speaks to the great imposter syndrome of theatre as well. In this moment, no one's asking themselves the question, "What is music right now? What is dance or sculpture right now?" We all know what those things are; not being able to gather around them hasn't changed that.

MH: I think the thing that theatre taught me is patience. I don't exercise patience in any other aspect of my life except for when I am watching a show. It allows me — even forces me — to think and consider something for longer than is necessarily comfortable, without looking at my phone, without getting up and going to the bathroom. And now, even in trying to form this thought, my focus is very different than it was. I mean, I feel personally attacked by the things that we're not allowed to do. I'm not allowed to go dancing, I can't go to karaoke, and I can't go to theatre.

tw: Having just spent the last week refreshing the internet every five minutes to find out the fate of the free world, that's also just a micro version of what the last six months have felt like: there's just been like a manic cycle of constantly refreshing to look for some kind of hope or reassurance. At least the murder hornets were maybe overblown.

JR: It's been interesting because here in Alberta, I've had the privilege of going back into rehearsal. We're rehearsing on Zoom right now, but we move into in-person rehearsals in a week, which is exciting. My partner was even commenting. He said, "You're so much happier when you're in rehearsal. You seem like yourself." I was scared of five hours on Zoom, but to do five hours of table work, with a little break, it doesn't it doesn't feel as painful as I thought it would. But that is the effect that this career that we love has on us.

SC: I feel very moved just hearing you say that, Jenna. I realize I haven't felt like myself since this started. And the few touchstone moments over the last eight months, where I felt plugged back into my purpose again, is when I have been in conversation with artists. An exchange about a new project, or even just consulting on grant applications, whatever it is, just being in conversation with an artist, reaching through the screen — it transforms me.

KR: For the first time in my life, I haven't felt like dancing. Since the end of May, I couldn't dance. We were doing a project here at Shaw, and I was like, "I can't do it. We can't dance. I can't dance. I certainly can't give choreo; I certainly can't have us dancing in the streets like everything's OK right now." But I danced for the first time yesterday. I had to teach a class. So I taught this class with a mix of little young people and grown and sexy people. And we're talking about dance and why it's so fucking important. I was like, "Don't give up because you're so fucking important."

I kept my shit together, but when I logged off after the last person, I was done. I was on the floor for seven snotty ass minutes, and it was ugly and amazing because I just felt ... I felt everything. I hadn't felt the bottom of my despair until I had an interaction with other artists, and it was one of those rare moments of transformation. Maybe we all have to define theatre for ourselves in terms of that feeling. But what is that feeling? Kind of like doom scrolling or hope scrolling, looking for that hit?

tw: That's sort of my metric for when a show really works for me. I'm most moved when a show makes me feel like I'm part of something bigger than myself, that I feel like I am being asked to aspire up and toward something with the people I am beside. Like, I never wish I was in the States, but this weekend [when the election results were announced], seeing people pouring fucking champagne out on the streets and dancing, part of me was yearning to be part of something that felt great and collective again.

I was teaching at York right before the pandemic hit with a graduating group of students who were so spectacular in how much of themselves they brought to that project. They never got to open the damn thing; we just live-streamed our dress rehearsal because we were supposed to open on like March 18th or something stupid like that. But those students spent the winter collectively articulating a hunger for a revolution that they didn't even know was coming. And over the last seven months, it has unfolded.

We wrote in an epilogue, the day of the livestream — the last line of the show was written and delivered by this beautiful young actor: "When the revolution comes, I hope I fuck shit up. I just want to change the world." That's still the last moment I sat in a theatre before a blackout. And that's still the thing I feel is feeding me right now.

This conversation has been edited for clarity and length. Thanks to the inimitable Gloria Mok for her transcription help.