Dear Emmy

I'll never get tired of this kind of losing.

YES!

HMS’ recent special CHICAGO VOICES, produced with Lyric Opera of Chicago, was nominated for five Chicago/Midwest Emmys and received three!

NO!

I did not win in the category for which I was nominated!

YES!

It was still a fantastic night even though I didn’t win. Maybe an even better one. There is always something to be gained from being humbled; to do so while giving your friends celebratory bear hugs is not a bad way to spend a night in a tux.

It is one of the oldest clichés in the book, but that doesn't make it any less true: it was an absolute honor to be nominated for a Chicago/Midwest Emmy for producing CHICAGO VOICES, alongside the talented team at WTTW, our fair city’s public television station and the most watched PBS outlet in the US. Their doc NAVY PIER: A CENTURY OF REINVENTION took home the trophy for Outstanding Arts & Entertainment Special, and well done them. If an HMS show isn’t going to get the big trophy, I’m glad a WTTW show did. And if WTTW hadn't aired CHICAGO VOICES in the first place (as they have all of our shows for the last 28 years), HMS doesn’t have 20 Emmys on our shelf.

I was delighted to see my WTTW friends and colleagues win, and even more so my fellow CHICAGO VOICES nominees, who picked up awards for lighting, audio and on-camera performance). I am not being falsely modest here. My team getting recognized mattered more to me than taking home a statue of my own.

I mean, look at these guys. Todd Clark? The best in the business when it comes to lighting for television and stage – not just what he does but how he does it. You won't find a more supportive and responsive guy in the room.

Timothy Powell, Marshaun Robinson, Mark Grey and Joe Schofield? Cream of the crop audio engineers and designers, whose work you can count on the way you can count on Tom Hanks or Meryl Streep being good in a movie.

Andrew Twiss? Simply a brilliant audio mixologist, who feels music as well as he hears it (and he hears it magnificently).

And holy smokes, John Prine was in our show -- JOHN PRINE! -- and got an Emmy for his funny and poignant performances. Getting up on stage and accepting an Emmy on his behalf was one of the cooler and more humbling experiences I'm going to have.

To be clear... sure, I wish I'd won, too. I’m not ego-less. But more than that – way more– I so wish Jessie Mueller had won. Her dazzling multiple appearances in CHIGAGO VOICES are among my most very favorite of anything we’ve ever pointed our cameras at (and that’s saying something).

When I first posted photos from last weekend's Emmy ceremony, someone sent me a note asking, "Where are the photos of you?" Truth is, I didn’t have any then (although I do now, which, along with the others, are up on our Facebook page). My favorite pic is the group shot, with all of us holding the CHICAGO VOICES Emmy hardware. It's all about the team.

But there's one photo of me that no one took. I so wish someone had grabbed a shot of me watching Todd, Andrew, Timothy and Marshaun’s faces as their names were announced and they took the stage to receive their Emmys, and then later as I sat just off camera and watched their live-streamed interviews.

It’s the same look I’m sure I wore the night we shot CHICAGO VOICES at Lyric Opera of Chicago, watching Renée Fleming, Jessie Mueller, Kurt Elling, Shemekia Copeland, Michelle Williams, The Handsome Family, Terrance Howard, Jussie Smollet, Doug Peck, Matthew Polenzani, the Voices of Trinity Mass Choir and the band that backed them all fill that cavernous room with the kind of music that makes you feel you’re cozied up and singing together in someone’s living room.

And the look I wore at production meetings, siting with the Lyric Unlimited producers, the design teams and Lyric’s leadership, knowing that while putting this show together would be a long and winding road, I was in the company of the perfect orienteers.

I can’t help but smile again, just sitting here sharing these memories with you. And so if I had to share with the world one image of myself, it would be exactly this look, one of pure, unadulterated joy, reveling in the moment as my friends create and are celebrated for their gorgeous, entertaining and life-affirming work, and wondering, how did I get so lucky to be here with them?

I'm not saying I'd look especially great in this image. Very few people can pull off the Giant Goofy Grin I was sporting. One’s face can only stretch so wide. So I might look ridiculous… but I sure would look happy.

In my various HMS adventures, it's that look – the Giant Goofy Grin – that I wear more than any other. Watching the HMS team in action is one of the greatest joys of my life. If you're that happy, who cares how goofy you look?

One thing's for sure: when I’m basking in the glow of my friends' successes, I am, to be sure, very well lit.

Better To Have Loved and Lost

Reflections on knowing, losing and still being inspired by Steppenwolf's Martha Lavey and Mariann Mayberry

It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving as I write this. In a couple of hours, I’ll be heading down to the opening of Steppenwolf Theatre Company’s newest production, The Minutes.

Steppenwolf’s very much on my mind this afternoon. Not only is this a big opening for them, but it’s also only been a couple of months since the memorial service for Martha Lavey, the company’s former artistic director and a towering figure in Chicago theater. And it’s been less than two weeks since we said goodbye to Steppenwolf ensemble member Mariann Mayberry, a singular bolt of elegantly jagged lightning who electrified every stage onto which she stepped.

The fierce, funny, brutally honest and deeply felt recollections shared at those memorials by various family, friends and fellow artists left me wondering if I deserved to share my relatively puny responses. I think this is a big reason why I’ve put off blogging for so long. I feel jammed up with feelings, and not sure enough about my place in the world to know how to comfortably share them.

It's not like I didn't know them. I worked with Martha and Mariann many times over the years, producing multicam shoots of their live performances and collaborating on 25 Years on the Edge, HMS' PBS special about the history of Steppenwolf. So, yes, we have history. But many others had far more, and so I’ve been feeling unworthy to say much of anything about their passings, for fear of looking like I’d be grief surfing on the waves of others’ endless sorrows.

But with the benefit of a little distance from those nearly unbearably beautiful celebrations of their lives, I’m beginning to realize that this unworthy feeling is a little strange. Martha and Mariann were genuinely collaborative artists deeply interested in other people’s thoughts and feelings, and I doubt they’d ever marginalize the feeling of an audience member, or discount the attachment that person might feel to a story or even a storyteller.

In the spirit, I’ll hunker down, and express how appreciative I am for the life-affirming moments offered to me by Martha and Mariann.

I met Martha when HMS began its long history of archiving shows at Steppenwolf, beginning with 1994’s Libra, the John Malkovich-directed adaption of the Don Dilello novel which starred Laurie Metcalf. Meeting Martha Lavey is a momentous occasion for even the most brilliant individuals. I’m not a dumb guy, but I know a more formidable brain when I meet one (which is often), and there were few more formidable than Martha’s.

So a couple of years later, when it came time to interview her for 25 Years, I was decidedly nervous, not because I felt pressure so much as a calling to be the best possible interviewer in the world for her. I sensed that Martha was someone with much to say and a desire to say it, but who wanted – demanded, perhaps -- the right context in which to say it. This was clearly an interview, but I think she just wanted a good conversation, and to get that, I had to earn her time, her thoughts and her insights.

Interviewing is not an easy thing. I want it to feel conversational, and my tone and questions tend to take the form of a conversation, but it’s not a balanced exchange of information, and in any case, the general public will only hear the interviewees words, not mine. That said, I still feel it’s important to offer something of myself to the people I’m interviewing, so they don’t feel – in fact are not – alone.

Some interviews are personal and professional game-changers, ones that are not only exciting and productive but also make me a better interviewer on the spot, or at least aware that I want or need to be one. The Steppenwolf doc was filled with those, but Martha’s piercing presence and insights especially raised my game, or at least my awareness that it needed to be raised. Moments like that aren’t always comfortable, but growth seldom is, unless you’re in the company of someone taking care of you, or at least rooting for your success. I could feel Martha wanting me to be a good interviewer, egging me on to be a better improviser, and I will always be grateful for that invitation.

The irony of this – that our first lengthy conversation was one where I interviewed her – was that, generally speaking, it was Martha who asked the questions, not you. As my pal and fellow Lookingglass Theatre company member Andy White said at Martha’s memorial, Martha could successfully excise information from you that you might not even tell your spouse or therapist.

Those kinds of conversations with Martha came later for me, memorably at the several shows at which I saw her that we both attended alone. “Isn’t it great to see theater by yourself?” she asked me one time, when we happened to sit together at a matinee at Steppenwolf’s Upstairs Theater. In truth, that’s not the case for me. I go to shows alone a lot, but I would always prefer to share the experience with someone. Driving home after Martha posed that question, it hit me that for all of the declarations she made that day about the joys of solitude, in theater going and in life, she was still the artistic director of an ensemble theater company, and an ever-present face in a sea of audiences and theater makers throughout the city. Like all of us, Martha never really did theater by herself. Whether making it or watching it, and no matter how lonely or irrelevant we may feel – and a whole bunch of us do – none of us ever really do theater, or life, alone.

A few months after meeting Martha, when HMS shot Barbara Gaines’ beguiling production of “As You Like It” for Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (the known as Shakespeare Rep), I met Mariann. Barbara had transformed the Ruth Page Theatre into the lushest of green forests, through which Mariann’s Rosalind bounded joyfully and irresistibly. She positively glowed, and I was helplessly crushed on her. Who wouldn’t be?

I sheepishly inquired of Barbara what Mariann’s social status was. I learned that yes, she was single, but had just come out of something serious, so while Barbara would put in a good word for me, I’d be well-served to keep my expectations low.

That was good advice. Mariann did indeed call a few times, but when I answered, she always hung up, unaware, I assume, about a new technology called Caller ID. Years later we joked that somehow she knew I was simply the wrong Scott, and that she was, very wisely, waiting for the right one. I can’t imagine what her wonderfully gifted husband, the very special Scott Jaeck, is going through right now, but his gorgeous and brave recollections of his bride at her memorial service will forever haunt and inspire me. Thinking back on Mariann’s wholly original performances – her profound and heartbreaking Ophelia, her electrifying turn in Good People, her brave work in her final Steppenwolf show Grand Concourse, among many others -- I am thinking that perhaps it really is better to have loved and lost, even if I'm not feeling it.

That idea filled my mind as I tearfully listened to Scott’s astonishing eulogy, and the ones offered by other remarkable souls in her personal and creative worlds. What I take away from knowing Mariann and having seen most of her body of work -- what I've loved about that, and hope never to lose -- is the notion that whatever we feel is worth feeling and expressing through art, in large, expansive and communal ways. That what really matters is how we, in every sense of the word, act.

Several times during Martha and Mariann’s memorials, people spoke of theater being a refuge for the wounded. That it most certainly is, but a lot of people – theater people included – misinterpret this to mean it’s just the theater practitioners themselves who are wounded, because they choose against common sense and in the face of genuine anxiety to publicly reveal these wounds – revel in them, even. In our 25 Years doc, Amy Morton describes that as a freakish choice, and Andy has gone so far as to describe it as addictive.

But Amy also said it was a very tasty choice, and the kind of addiction Andy’s talking about can actually benefit everyone. To choose to be a part of the theater world, to indulge that addiction, is to open one’s self up to the mysteries and miracles found in the sacred space between the story tellers and the story listeners. In that space, we seek and often find healing in fellow players and audiences alike.

We are all the walking wounded, but in theaters – in all of the arts – we offer each other, whether knowingly or not, solace and comfort, simply by partaking in actions that on the surface look very much like the buying of tickets and the putting on of plays, but are actually perfect gestures of communion, confession and confirmation. And in the pursuit of the perfect pretending, we safely and joyfully bump smack face first into truth, fall headlong into community, and barrel helplessly into love.

In this act of surrender we hit upon one of life’s few certainties – perhaps it’s only one – a certainty Martha Lavey and Mariann Mayberry bestowed upon me and so many others, and it’s this:

That wounded as we are, and vulnerable to the temptation to go through life alone as we may be, it is better to be scared in the company of good people than comfortable in the company of none.

So I thank you, Martha. And I thank you, Mariann. I’m off to Steppenwolf now. See you both there.

Breathe Deep.

Here's looking at you, Kid Victory.

As I write this, it's Saturday March 18, 2017, the 90th birthday of the great John Kander. We're all familiar with John’s work – everyone knows “New York, New York” and the plethora of incredible songs he and Fred Ebb wrote for shows including Cabaret, Chicago, Kiss of the Spider Woman, The Scottsboro Boys, Zorba and so many others.

Since I was in my late teens, John has been my thoughtful mentor and dear friend. He is -- to me and to the countless others who have seen and loved his shows, or, even more luckily, worked or collaborated with him in music, theater, film and television -- a profound inspiration.

Isn't that what we're all looking for? Inspiration? I know I am, all the time, and that's one of the reasons, perhaps the primary one, that the arts are so important to me.

So it seems fitting that, because many of John’s shows explore the roots and ramifications of criminal behavior, I should take this moment to state my intent to a crime of my own.

I’m going to steal something from Julie Brannen.

You might not know Julie, but I hope you will. She’s a Chicago-based dancer, teacher, choreographer, creative arts therapist and all-around inspiring human being. Julie was one of three curators of the recent Annual Alumni Concert produced by Columbia College Chicago’s Creative Movement Therapy Department, a lovely and intimate collection of dances and scenes steeped in vulnerability and empathy.

Julie's own piece, which closed the first half of the program, was fused with exquisite ideas, movement and rhythms. But before the show had even started, she had already made a major contribution to the evening.

As the de facto host of the evening, Julie offered a pre-curtain greeting which ended with an invitation to the audience to take a deep breath together.

That was a beautiful move, and next time I warm up an audience when HMS shoots another live performance special, I’m copping it. (There. I've confessed. Whatever happens now... "I had it comin.'")

Audience warm-ups are a big deal. They're functional, to be sure; for HMS, they are the moments when Matt Hoffman, our brilliant director and editor, leads our equally talented camera team to capture shots of audience members listening and applauding, shots that we’ll cut into the show when we’re editing it for broadcast.

They're also opportunities to declare what the evening is really about.

Here's a good example. Last month, HMS captured Chicago Voices, a magnificent concert created by Renée Fleming for Lyric Opera of Chicago (it will air in Chicago Thursday March 30 at 9pm on WTTW11 -- stay tuned for national airdates).

When Renée conceived the project a couple of years ago, the idea was to celebrate the diversity and worldwide impact of Chicago vocalists. By including artists like Kurt Elling, Shemekia Copeland, Jessie Mueller, Michelle Williams, Matthew Polenzani, Terrance Howard, John Prine, Lupe Fiasco, The Handsome Family, Jussie Smolett and more, "The People's Diva" had certainly accomplished that.

By the time the show was performed to a sold-out crowd at the Civic Opera House, fifteen days had passed since Donald Trump had been sworn into office, and no one saw the world the same way anymore. Thus audiences could not help but see and hear Chicago Voices (a show that, like so many other happenings on stages and screens around the world, celebrates inclusiveness, truth and empathy) in a different light.

Rather than ignore our current social and political climate, or exploit potential antagonism, our collective choice was to use the warm-up to invite our Chicago Voices audience to come together, and we did it by asking them to take a few minutes before the show started to introduce themselves to someone sitting near them they’d never met before.

Go ahead. Reach out. Touch. Share some time and space with strangers, who might have come to hear something or someone different you did, but who all came to hear music. Together.

Our Chicago Voices audience did just that, and it was lovely. The theater was instantly filled with the same camaraderie that the performers were experiencing themselves, both on-and-backstage.

I like to think that this gesture of welcome, which reminded me of the “handshake of peace” we used to do in church, was the physically interactive version of what I would see Julie ask her audiences to do a few weeks later.

Share some time and space together. Be here now. Breathe together.

Quietly inspiring stuff.

The word “inspire” is, of course, derived from the Latin root for breath. I love the idea that breathing together is a way to connect with each other, on very deep and soulful levels. It’s a profound opportunity to show some support, exert a peaceful influence, and do something that we all too rarely get to do: really, truly connect.

We describe momens that are especially striking as “taking our breath away” or “breathtaking.” I love variations on words and phrases, and have always found it interesting that we use those phrases interchangeably, because to me, they're not. The former made me think of exhaling, while the latter conveyed inhaling. They're both necessary, but they're different kinds of moments. I love that the arts make us do both.

Birthday boy John Kander’s new show Kid Victory, created with the terrifically talented playwright and lyricist Greg Pierce, premiered a couple of years ago at the Signature Theatre, just outside of Washington DC. It told the tale of a young man attempting to recover from the trauma of having been abducted by a man he’d befriended online and then imprisoned for a year in his basement. Sounds horrifying, and it is, but in typical Kander fashion, this is not a punishing show. Kid Victory, like so many of John's shows, is not about exploriing darkness for the sake of being dark, but rather, diving deep into both human lightness and darkness with all nsight, compassion and love that demands, and seeing how we come out the other side.

That first production of Kid Victory was told in relatively objective terms, in that it moved us through a series of events and flashbacks, effectively showing us what happened to whom. It’s final image, a gorgeous moment between father and son, was powerfully impactful, and when the lights came up, I could feel the audience exhale as one. You know that feeling… the whispered “whoooooo” we make as we process a moment of sad and profound beauty, and together exhale it in a moment of genuine catharsis.

So memorable was that experience that I wondered what it would feel like seeing Kid Victory’s second iteration, which is still running at New York's Vineyard Theatre. The show is now more of a memory piece, with everything happening within the perspective and recollections of the young man as he struggles to re-acclimate to the world from which he had been so cruelly and manipulatively snatched.

In this new form, Kid Victory is even more empathic and beautiful, and when that same ending image of father and son reveals itself, I found myself taking a deep breath in, rather than letting one out. What had once left me feeling so beautifully devastated that I had to breathe it out, now filled me with something so devastatingly beautiful that I had to breathe it in.

Another mentor in my life, Jean Rothenberg, told me not long before she passed that we should view the truly important things in our lives the way we look at breathing. Which is to say, we can't live without them, but we’d be ill-served to obsess over them. That was her way of encouraging me to stay present, and be in the moment. Just like Julie Brannen. Just like John Kander.

So, in memory of Jean, in the wake of Julie's invocation, and on the anniversary of John's birth, I will now listen to some music, take some deep breaths, and then I think I’ll go see or hear something in a theater.

I think that's the way they'd want it.

Let’s See Action

If you're an arts lover, you are also an advocate and an activist. Here's how we can take some small but important steps together to make a real and much-needed difference in 2017.

Yesterday, I attended Congresswoman Jan Schakowsky's "Join The Resistance" rally at the Broadway Armory in Chicago, a stirring call to stand up for American values and against those who confuse those values for "whoever has the most toys wins."

Congresswoman Schakowsky, who has been representing Illinois' 9th Congressional District ("the fightin' 9th!") since 1999, is what you want in a congressional representative: smart, determined, responsive, pro-active and a genuine "speak truth to power" kind of person, no matter which party holds the White House, the Senate or the House of Representatives. I've been meeting with Jan for many years to talk about arts-related legislation, and can tell you that without question she's one of our fiercest advocates, someone who actively walks the walk when it comes to the arts (and, frankly, everything on which she works).

So it was unsurprising, deeply gratifying and extremely energizing that after the rally, she challenged me to help rally the arts community to create messages and take action that would not only effectively tell the good stories that need to be told (and who better to tell stories than people in the arts?) but also to make the telling and hearing of those stories fun and exciting.

So, as The Who once sang, Let's See Action.

So what does that mean? What can people who work in and around the arts, or simply love them passionately and recognize their power and their reflection of the best of humanity, do? Given our limited time and resources, what positive steps can we take? There must be some, because whether you wear the red, the blue or the purple, there's something for you to be concerned about as this new era begins.

Passivity is not an option. We must be positive and pro-active. I have complete sympathy for anyone who’s been protesting the outcomes of the election or the Electoral College. I understand why people have marched through streets, shut down buildings and flooded social media with angry, despondent cries of “Not My President.” If I can't get to Washington to march on January 21, I'll be marching in Chicago.

But I worry that this will be the extent of what we do. Many of us are deeply upset about the direction our government is taking, and I suspect many more will feel that way in the coming weeks and months, especially if they voted for Mr. Trump. But the fact is, he is, or soon will be, my President, and, if you live in America, yours. To say otherwise would be markedly un-American, not to mention short-sighted, petulant, counterproductive and the height of hypocrisy. Those of us who supported President Obama took rightful offense to Americans who said that he was not their President. Those who did not support Mr. Trump's candicacy, and I was among them, should remember that now.

More to the point, that kind of thinking risks letting ourselves off the hook too easily. It allows us to feel righteous and superior, which not only discourages us from participating in the process, it essentially removes us from the process altogether, on a volunteer basis. It's a haughty and wildly unproductive form of surrender.

I'm not suggesting that we shouldn't protest things that matter to us. We should, absolutely, and I am eager to see the constructive and creative ways that happens. That said, I'm more eager to see how we proactively work together for positive change, even if the only result is that key issues that matter to us are represented by greater numbers. That alone is huge. That alone is an election.

If you're an arts person, your mandate to take positive action is huge. Most of us who work in or around the arts, or support them in any way -- including being audience members, which for my money is one of the most important ways anyone can support the arts -- are, no matter what our political affiliations and philosophical predispositions, unnerved by a new administration whose leader has expressed a confusing and often contemptuous regard for free, creative and artistic expression.

The arts are about truth. They are about empathy. They are about democracy. Driven by both individual and collective expression, the arts are as “of, for and by the people” as it gets. Steeped in both establishing and following social behaviors of profound good and deep moral standing, their absence or diminishment makes this world scarier, more vulnerable, less beautiful, less democratic and decidely less human. A president who feels he can bully and abuse the arts, as he has done to so many other individuals, communities and entire sectors of business, is a president to whom we must stand up.

Confronted by this new and unprecedented reality, how do we, as vital and active participants in the arts, respond? Especially if our time and resources are limited?

I have an idea about that. It's incredibly easy and won’t cost you a dime. It's a small step, and I promise you won’t find yourself writing a check or being forced to volunteer time you may not have. (You can always do those things if you like, but that's not what I'm asking of you now.)

Here goes.

Join two email lists.

That's it.

The first one is the e-mail lists for Americans for the Arts, your nationwide arts advocacy and lobbying group. The second is for your statewide arts advocacy organization (if like me you live in Illinois, it's Arts Alliance Illinois; if you live elsewhere, in a moment I'll give you a link to find out who represents you).

Sounds easy? It is.

Sounds too small to make any kind of difference? Read on.

Lots of folks in the arts don't realize that we have our own lobbying groups working year-round to advance legislative efforts vital to our ability to carry on as working artists, arts organizations and arts-adjacent companies and individuals (in other words, all of us).

But we do, and they're terrific. I see firsthand what Americans for the Arts and Arts Alliance Illinois do for us, as an individual member of the former and a board member of the latter. I'm proud and impressed by the way these organizations serve, advance and lead the network of groups and individuals who cultivate, promote, sustain, and support the arts. They work hard to ensure that everyone has access to their transformative power. Through research, close collaboration with policymakers and public agencies, and robust communications, AFTA, AAI and other state organizations advance widespread support of all the arts, enhance the health of the arts & cultural sector, and foster a climate in which the broadest spectrum of artistic expression can flourish. When have these efforts ever been more important than now?

And there are a lot of current and critical issues over which Congress have authority to legislate, right now, including:

• arts funding on the local, state and national levels (and we who live in Illinois continue to learn the hard way about what happens when stage funding is held up or disappears);

• arts education policy and funding (and isn’t this more vital than ever? Isn’t it imperative that we provide models for creative, collaborative and cooperative thinking as early as possible?)

• tax policy (like whether people can take tax deductions for contribution to not-for-profits — and yes, this is one of the things that could go away, which would be devastating for our field)

• support for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, PBS and NPR (and I can personally vouch for the fact that these are and will continue to be the arts’ best media advocates);

• tech issues (like a free and open internet, which is critical to our field and which incoming cabinet members oppose; access to wireless microphone frequencies, which is in deep jeopardy and which could hurt or cripple many arts organizations; and online “bots” that allow online scalpers to gauge unwitting ticket buyers and undermine the credibility of our companies);

• cultural exchange programs through the State Department;

• improving the visa process for foreign guest artists;

• supporting programs that promote health through the arts, including veterans, children, and people suffering from dementia, Parkinson’s and other serious medical conditions;

• tax fairness for visual artists, which would allow them to take a deduction for the fair market value of their work when they donate it to charitable collecting institutions;

• and many more important issues that impact each and everyone one of us who works in, supports or simply loves the arts.

Huge stuff, right?

To help AFTA, AAI and other statewide organizations do their jobs effectively, we need to add as many supporters and voices as possible to their efforts. And that’s why I'm asking you to sign up for a couple of e-blast lists.

Here’s all that will happen when you do. You’ll get a couple of extra emails every month that will bring you up to date on important issues that affect our lives and our work. The information you receive will make it easier for all of us to protect and nurture the arts. It will provide insights into how our elected officials — who, we should never forget, work for us — deal with the arts and arts-related issues, which offers keen insights into how they govern in general.

This will make it easier to connect and work with your fellow artists, advocates and activists, and will go a long way to make sure that we will be able to continue the work that we and the world both cherish.

We are stronger than we think, and, in even greater and more enthusiastic numbers, we can be more influential than many of us know. Ours is a field that is not only a vital cultural, education and social force, but also a powerful economic driver. The arts are a multi-billion-dollar industry that employs more than four million people and generates more than $9 billion in federal tax revenue (and nearly twice that amount in state and local tax revenue). When legislators understand our economic impact, they tend to pay more attention to the vital social, cultural and educational issues about which we care so passionately.

Any legislative effort is an uphill struggle, but I’ve seen firsthand that Senators and Representatives do respond to our efforts. I’ve sat in congressional offices with fellow arts constituents, collectively presented our wants and needs, and then seen legislation supporting those wants and needs introduced on the floor of the House of Representatives. (You can, too… anyone is welcome to participate in these kinds of advocacy efforts in DC, state capitals and local communities.)

During our visits to DC with AFTA and the Alliance, we've asked our elected reps and their staffs this question: from how many people do you need to hear about any given issue for it to be given priority in the congressperson’s legislative agenda?

The answer: on average, between ten and fifteen people.

Between ten and fifteen people.

That blew us away. Just ten to fifteen emails or calls about the same issue during one week, and that issue gets on the boss’ desk. The cast of a small theater, dance or music performance could do that in one fell swoop. Imagine what could happen if our numbers were greater and our voices were louder.

Rest assured, if you sign up for these e-blasts, your email address won’t be shared with other agencies or individuals. It’s just us and our arts lobbyists, sharing information and working together to protect our field and the ever-important right to free speech, creative expression and free assembly.

If you want to get involved by coming to advocacy events, like coming to Washington DC for National Arts Advocacy Day (which this year is March 20-21) or other local community events, that would be fantastic. Not required... but fantastic.

And if not, please consider me your point person on helping to get issues that matter to you in front of our advocacy groups and our elected representatives and their staffs. I’d love work side by side with you, and if that isn’t feasible for you, then I’d love to be a rabble-rouser on your behalf. Seriously, bring me some rabble. Watch me rouse.

Having just witnessed a successful presidential campaign in which terrible stories were told and succeeded because they were conveyed with the bombast and apocalyptic urgency of a “Transformers” movie (and because better stories were told less than successfully), can there be any doubt that we have a more-urgent-than-ever need for a good story? Told well? By good storytellers?

That’s us.

And that’s what we need to do, together, right now.

Many of us will want to do more than this, so that we can actively rise to Jan's challenge. I can't wait to hear from you and brainstorm how we're going to do that.

But first, so that we can all take this first step together, I ask you to please join me. Click here to join the Americans for the Arts e-blast list; here for Arts Alliance Illinois; and, if you live elsewhere, here for the link to the National Assembly of State Arts Agencies, where you can find contact info for your state organization.

Individually, this is just a small step. But taken together… it's a march.

Winning vs. the Win-Win

One requires losing. The other is for everyone.

It's been several weeks since I last blogged, barely able to contain my rage after the release of the Access Hollywood tape that, somehow, did not manage to derail Donald Trump's presidential aspirations. It's been an excruciating stretch of time since then, where my words have failed me and my actions have seemed to me to be inconsequential relative to the hellstorm that I've feared will come to pass sometime after January 20.

I'm calmer now than I was then, and I'm pretty sure it's because in the last month or so, I've seen sixteen stage productions, gone to five movies (one of them four times -- a "Star Wars" movie will have that effect on me), read three books, listened to twenty or so new albums, gone to four museums and hung out with a whole lot of creative and artistic people.

It took a lot of art immersion therapy, but I feel like I finally have my feet back on the ground. Being around that much beauty, appreciating the extraordinary collaborations each work of art required and reminding myself that partaking in art is just as important as making it made me realize that, by hanging on to fear and anger as tightly as I have and by dwelling on the past and the future rather than the present, I was betraying every liberal bone in my body.

My favorite definition of “liberal” is “willing to respect or accept behavior or opinions different from one's own.” There's a lot that's been said and done that I cannot respect, but that definition said I could either respect OR accept, and so I accept what's happened as real, something on which I can build, and something from which I can move forward. Finally, I've been able to find a way and a place to use those all-important words born from the world of improvisation: "Yes and." Which, come to think of it, is now my new favorite definition of the word "liberal."

My favorite ways to be a liberal "yes-and-er" are to be an artist, an audience member and an arts advocate. In some way, no matter who you voted for, chances are that you, too, partake in one or more of these wildly liberal activities, all the time. You go to the movies, right? You watch TV, you read a book, you see a show, you listen to some music, you admire some fashion, you look at a building and think, wow, that's cool. And it is. All of it is very, very cool. And very liberal of you, opening yourself up to something new and beautiful like that. Well done.

Chances are that whatever you did, you loved it, and you'll do it again, and again. We’re all liberal that way, and it doesn’t matter if our next trip to a theater is to see “Rogue One” or “Hamilton,” we want to come out of it more excited and energized than we were going in. Transformed. Liberated, if you will.

That's what the arts are all about. And our incoming President, whom I and many others would call neither liberal nor conservative, says and does a lot of things that appear to stand against those things which the arts (and by extension all of us, as living, breathing human beings) stand for. Mr. Trump’s words and tweets about “Hamilton,” “Saturday Night Live,” the media at large and civil protests in general carry with them dangerous implications -- for all fields, and all countries. Whether his attacks on free speech and creative expression were genuine or simply a means of misdirection away from other pressing issues, they are an ominous and lazily crafted group of words to be coming from any democratic leader, let along the incoming President of the United States.

And yet I must stand in defense of Mr. Trump’s right to say them. That’s the artsy thing to do. It’s also the American thing to do.

Well... it's a half-artsy, half-American thing to do. At this point I've only listened. I haven't responded. I haven't said "and." And I will not allow myself to be someone who simply says "yes" to these words and ideas.

So... the "and."

In the stirring finale to Aaron Sorkin’s spectacularly written film “The American President,” Michael Douglas, portraying President Andrew Shepard (my second favorite fictional president after, of course, “The West Wing’s” Jed Bartlet), offers the kind of speech that I wish more people with microphones -- pundits, Republicans and Democrats alike -- had offered. Shepard, having been repeatedly provoked by a challenger for the presidency, finally decides that no one puts Andy in a corner.

“America isn't easy," he says. "America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say, you want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the land of the free.”

When the fictional President Shepard pushes back on his fictional opponent Senator Rumson, he might as well be talking about the very real President-Elect Trump. "We have serious problems to solve, and we need serious people to solve them, and whatever your particular problem is, Bob Rumson is not in the least bit interested in solving it. He is interested in two things and two things only: making us afraid of it and telling you who's to blame for it.”

I like to think in most parts of the world, we operate differently than Senator Rumson and President-Elect Trump. Certainly we do in the arts worlds, where, bereft of significant fame and money, most of us do the work for the only reason left: because we love it, and because so does almost everyone else.

Sure, people have their own tastes. Some prefer movies to musicals, or books to sculpture, in the same way that some sports fans prefer baseball to football. Some music lovers think that rock isn't music at all, in the same way that some football fans think that what we Americans watch on autumn Sundays isn't really football. That's all fine -- at least we love something. In the end, whether your big thing this year was the "Game of Thrones," the “Gilmore Girls” reunion, the new Anne Patchett novel, the new Chance The Rapper album or the Shakespeare 400 festival, you’re an arts lover.

We all are.

Plus (and this can’t possibly be said enough), by any measure, be it economic, educational, social and cultural, any investment in the arts pays off exponentially for individuals, communities, states and countries (that they also unite us, touch our souls, create community, define humanity, explore our weakness, challenge our strengths, entertain, enlighten and promote the best possible behavior among people of all sizes, shapes, ages, nations, creeds, colors and political affiliations is a nice little side benefit). Bottom line: the arts practically invented the win-win scenario.

This is not to be confused with the “winning” that the President-Elect likes to talk about. His kind involves other people losing, which is usually unnecessary; and, according to him, it's going to happen so often that it will, in his own words, become “boring,” which is just weird.

“We’re going to win,” he says. “We’ll have so much winning.” “We’ll win everything.” To borrow from “The Princess Bride,” Mr. Trump, you use that word a lot. I do not think it means what you think it means.

The truth is, sir, that it's here within the arts that the lives of most people in the world are reflected and portrayed with far more honesty than anything I’ve ever seen you describe or any lifestyle I've seen you inhabit. Like most folks, and unlike you, we’re too busy working and caring for our families, friends and neighbors to spend a lot of time talking or thinking about "winning." In fact, the word “winning,” as you use it, doesn’t mean much to us. (And I know you're very enamored of award shows, but that’s other people talking about and evaluating the arts, and no, they don’t know what "winning" means, either.)

We work with and for each other, with a very simple and beautiful goal, which is to create things that will make people’s lives more interesting and beautiful. And if we have a hope for ourselves, it's that the work they've seen us create leaves them feeling inspired and empowered to go back to their lives with that much more energy, empathy and compassion, and that maybe they'll appreciate it enough to come back and let us do it again.

You seem to love outcomes, Mr. Trump, but we're more interested in a process (over which we have at least a little control, by choosing who we spend time with) than an outcome (over which we realize we have relatively little control, and from which we work hard to avoid getting too attached).

That’s why “win-win” makes so much more sense to us than “winners" and "losers.” That’s why we’re liberated to welcome the new, follow the fear, wade through the unknown, embrace the different, confront the awful, and overwhelm it with the power of good.

Which is why, Mr. Trump, unnerving as we find you, we’re rooting for you. As Americans and as artists, that’s what we do: root for people. When we write and tell our stories, we want all our characters to be interesting, and we want everyone in our audience to empathize with them. Even -- sometimes especially -- our antagonists, through whom we can explore our dark sides. We want them, at some level, to evolve, so that we can offer them, and thus ourselves, forgiveness and redemption. We did it for Darth Vader, Ebenezer Scrooge and The Grinch, so I bet we can do it for you -- if you're up to the challenge.

But don’t cross us or take us for granted; the Voldemorts, Saurons and Wicked Witches of the world stuck to their guns, and while they may have had their brief moments of power and control, in the end, they lost everything, as their kind always does. We learned a lot from them too, but they were obliterated. And while a lot of us don't like what you're about, we're not actually hoping for your obliteration. That would likely be bad for all of us. We'd much rather you be visited by three ghosts and wake up a better man, have your heart grow three sizes and take off the helmet to look upon us with your own eyes.

Should you be tempted to dismiss these stories as mere frivolous fantasy, Mr. Trump, may I advise you, for your own good... don't. Stories are the map of the human experience. They are the guide books to our fears, hopes, dreams and ideals. They are our sources of inspiration and our cautionary tales. They offer understanding, compassion, reflection and forgiveness. They allow us to go to the darkest of places, and survive them. They invite us to think more about our own stories, and how we might tell them better. And they offer us something that you have thus far failed to offer: hope.

The difference between us, Mr. President-Elect, isn't that you have power and we don't. It's that we have hope and you don't.

We acknowledge your right to be a bad storyteller, and to tell a bad story badly. In fact we appreciate it, not because we like what you say or how you say it, but because you remind us that there has never been a greater need for the good stories, told well, by the good storytellers.

Having done what President Shepard told us to do -- having felt our blood boil, and having defended at the top of our voice your right to say at the top of yours that which makes us feel crazy, frightened and angry -- we are coming to terms with what happens in the absence of the good story, when good storytellers are silenced or mute, and how pressing is the need for us to get back to work. And rest assured, a bunch of us are about to start taking our hope out for a spin and see what it can do.

Join us. Don’t join us. It's entirely up to you. Whatever you decide, we're back. And we’re not just starting a new chapter. We’re writing a new book.

Everyone ready? Then we’ll begin.

"Once upon a time…"

Live Long And Prosper. Or Die Trying.

That was the year that was. And in way, it's the year that always will be.

For “Star Trek” fans, there’s a stern test to discover how dedicated you are to the now nearly 50-year old franchise. It’s called “Star Trek V: The Final Frontier,” and if you can sit through it and still want to see “Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country,” you’ve passed.

(Even if you hate “Star Trek V,” as many understandably do, you should still see “Star Trek VI,” not only for the great story but also for the best Shakespeare references that space opera has to offer.)

Any franchise, especially one that’s lasted five decades, is going to have its ups and downs, but one of Star Trek’s unique qualities is that even its lowest points have meritorious moments. I remember watching “The Final Frontier” with my dad and my sister (“Star Trek” is very big in my family), and even while knowing that this was not one of the series’ stellar installments, I was nevertheless struck by a particular piece of dialogue that, for all the silliness going on around it, still managed to cut me to the quick.

“Star Trek V’s” antagonist, y’see, is converting people to his own personal cult, in an effort to commandeer a starship and fly it to the center of the galaxy, where God, it seems, is rumored to live. Our villain does so by “taking away pain” – I still don’t really understand how he does that – after which people are overcome with serenity and calm, and are willing to do his bidding.

He attempts this on Captain Kirk, and of course our hero resists, saying, “Pain and guilt can't be taken away with a wave of a magic wand. They're the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves. I don't want my pain taken away. I need my pain.”

I know others have said something similar, in more poetic and profound terms. To honor the spirit of “Star Trek VI,” I should note that Shakespeare did it pretty darn well when he wrote “Pain pays the income of each precious thing.” (This is no slight on Star Trek; Shakespeare pretty much said everything better than anyone else, even Mr. Spock.)

Ever since hearing those lines, I’ve carried the idea of needing pain, and of how pain helps shape who we are. Even during my roughest of times, I find myself both incapable and unwilling to repress feelings that some might call negative, and that I would simply call, you know, “feelings.”

Emotions to me are neither right nor wrong; actions, on the other hand, are a different matter entirely. If I feel horrible, there’s probably a pretty good reason for it. Doesn’t mean I can act however I want, but I’d be in trouble if I repressed those feelings. Repression does our relationships and us a disservice, and I don’t want that and can’t have that. I need to feel as bad, or good, as I’m feeling.

And I don’t want bad feelings to go to waste. Even now.

My friend Eric Eatherly was killed in an automobile accident last week. Eric, one of the nicest, smartest, most cheerful guys you could hope to meet, was 35. I first knew him as a performer with Hedwig Dances, when he and his fellow dancers in Jan Bartoszek’s wonderful contemporary company agreed to be part of our Chicago Dance Project series. Eric also danced for Shirley Mordine, Melissa Thodos, Rebecca Rossen and others, before an injury forced a career change, and, as a member of the terrific team at The Silverman Group, he became one of Chicago’s most beloved press reps. His brand of infectious enthusiasm and out-and-out niceness never ceased, and never ceased to impress.

And then, just like that, in the time it takes for one car to crash into another, or in the moment one needs to open an email with the subject line “sad news” and click on a link to a Chicago Sun-Times obituary, Eric’s particular brand of liveliness has been transformed into a memory, and a date in January that was to have been a party to celebrate his wedding will instead be a memorial service to commemorate his life.

The car crash that killed Eric and critically injured his dad happened less than 48 hours before the end of a year which, for the Chicago theater and dance worlds, was marked by a death toll not seen since the days when HIV was running rampant through the arts worlds and a diagnosis was an absolute death sentence. Eric’s passing shakes me to the core not only on its own terms but also as part of a seemingly endlessly mounting list of names:

Molly Glynn. Bernie Yvon. Sati Ward. Trinity Murdock. Terry Fox. Lori Helfand. Bob Christen. Dyane Earley. Harold Ramis. Joel Lambie. Roy Leonard. Fred Kaz. Sheldon Patinkin. Richard Schaal. And now, just as 2015 has started, Julia Neary.

I’m never ready for wonderful people to pass on, and losing mentors who were in their 70’s and 80’s is hard enough, but more than half of those people were under the age of 52 when they passed.

I’m neither a good enough nor smart enough man to find any sense of order or rightness in that, nor do I find any fairness in the rash of scary illnesses that over the last few years have struck so many family and friends.

In the face of all of this, I feel awful. I feel scared. I feel angry.

Which is also why, I think, I feel so lucky.

And I think I feel lucky not only because I’m still here, surrounded by amazing people and immersed in communities who have shown extraordinary grace and kindness to each other, but also because I have been gifted, undeservedly, with enough of their grace and kindness to allow me to feel as bad as I do without feeling self-conscious, and as hopeful as I am that better days are ahead of us without feeling delusional.

These people, and their good will, have allowed me to do something productive with this pain, and not let it go to waste. It’s true that I don’t want to feel all of what I’m feeling right now, but given the givens, I’d be worse off if I were feeling any way else.

I love that so many of us – and I’m biased here, but I think this is especially true in the performing arts worlds – are quickly compelled to talk, sing and dance in celebration of a life, rather than dwell on mourning a death.

For all of the dark and disturbing things that happen to human beings, on both intimate and global levels, there does seem to be something in the communal human psyche that urges us to revel in what we shared with the person we lost, what we remember about them and how they changed us. And maybe, just maybe, that something better, or at least something else, comes after this.

There are all kinds of books, films, plays and dances that speculate on what might happen after we die, which says something very interesting about us. Whether these are the result of humanity’s synchronous understanding that there is more to the universe than meets our eyes or pure wishful thinking, these visions are wonderfully revealing.

My favorite one is Albert Brooks’ very funny and insightful movie “Defending Your Life,” in which he starred alongside a never-more-luminous and funny Meryl Streep, with some shrewd supporting performances by Rip Torn, Lee Grant and Buck Henry.

In Brooks’ vision, we Earth-bound residents are wildly unevolved residents of a lower level of an expansive Universe. Because we’ve only learned to use somewhere between 3-5% of our gray matter (earning us the nickname “Little Brains”), we are thus equipped to deal with one thing: fear. When we die, we all go to Judgment City, where our fear-based lives are put on a trial conducted by some of The Universe’s more advanced souls (the ones who use up to 50% of their brains). The Universe, it turns out, records every moment of our lives, and the purpose of the trial is to measure how well we dealt with fear, from the first day of our lives to the last. Prosecutors and defenders present at key moments from our life recordings to present their case that we either conquered our fears or succumbed to them; if it’s the former, we get to move on to the next level, and if it’s the latter, we go back to Earth and try it again.

I remember seeing that movie with my friend Sara Bibik at the old Evanston neighborhood theater when it first came out. We must have spent three hours afterwards at the Noyes Street Café talking about what moments our attorneys would have chosen, and if we would have made it to the next level or been sent back.

I had a couple of big fear monkeys on my back at the time, and “Defending Your Life” indeed inspired me to go back and face them, successfully I think, although I won’t know for sure until I head (back?) to Judgment City. Certainly some other fears still linger, which is why “Defending Your Life” remains a touchstone, and a source or encouragement, as I think about them, face them, and ponder the continuity of my life from moment to moment, year to year, person to person, situation to situation.

As 2014 ends, many of us in the Chicago performing arts communities are bidding it an exhausted and embittered “good riddance.” Some part of us must know that none of what’s happened is a personal assault by the universe against us. And surely we intellectually grasp that however we attempt to divide time into years and days and hours, really it’s just one big river of time as far as the universe is concerned. With great humility, most of us must acknowledge that however awful this particular eddy has been for so many, there are others out there in the world being tossed about by stormier seas and sucked under by more insidious rip tides.

Still, we feel beat up, and rightly so. It’s no wonder so many of us have talked about being glad 2014 is done, and that’s ok. It gives us something to point at, maybe even something to blame, as if all of this had something to do with this particular revolution around the sun.

Still, I found myself nodding my head while reading a recent Facebook post from my friend Terry Kinney, a Steppenwolf co-founder, an actor/director extraordinaire and a fascinating human being. He wrote, “I actually don't think you can leave a year behind. It's the difference of a day. One day it's 2014, and then it's suddenly 2015. But can you leave 2014 behind you, discarded and rejected? I question that concept. Life is measured in years, but also in months and weeks, but mostly in days, minutes and seconds.”

Indeed. And I don’t want to forget any of it. I don’t want to numb the pain, considerable though it is. I don’t want to diminish the impact of any of the losses that, to this Little Brain anyway, feel senseless, tragic and sometimes just plain freakish and mean. Bring the pain. Every drop.

Because if I’m going to learn how to use more than my 3-5%... if I’m going to get smarter, and more peaceful… if I’m going to follow the one smart thing Captain Kirk said in “The Final Frontier” (and, seriously, that’s about the only smart thing anyone says in “The Final Frontier”)… then I’m going to have to feel it, all of it, and see where I land when I do.