Open Wardrobes

I realized recently that this spring marks the twentieth anniversary of the first time I stepped out on the stage as an actor. I was a freshman in high school and the play was a non-musical version of The Phantom of the Opera, published here by the Dramatic Publishing Company. I played Monsieur Mercier, the orchestra conductor. It wasn't a large part, but it had lines, and I was hooked. (Somewhere I have pictures, but this was long before the age of digital photography.)

Actors are a special breed (I think we suffer from a deficiency in whatever part of the brain tells us not to make a fool of ourselves). I've talked to a lot of non-actors who wouldn't touch the stage with a ten-foot pole, especially the part about getting up in from of people and having to remember all those lines. I don't know how to explain to someone who feels that way the thrill that comes from stepping out onto that stage with your fellow castmates and being the character, knowing that a million and one things could go wrong (and often do). How do you explain that that possibility is part of what makes it so exciting? We all have our passions in life, and whatever yours is, the best way I can explain what that feeling is like is that each time I do it I rediscover that passion that I first found on opening night of The Phantom of the Opera.

So here's to 20 years in which I've been everything from a mad scientist to a monk to a woodcutter to a giant mosquito (yes, really). Through it all I've experienced long nights of rehearsals, broken props, and audiences of six people, as well as lifelong friendships and the thrill of a standing ovation. Here's to another 20 years, and hopefully many, many more beyond that. And to everyone who I've ever shared a stage with, not to mention all those who have directed me, stage managed me, costumed me, and so on, thank you.