Well that was unexpected.

About an hour ago, I had a one-on-one meeting with Paul Owen, a grizzled veteran of theatrical design, and I think it blew my mind.

As you may or may not have known, dear reader(s?), life has been less than ideal as of late. My schoolwork has been, when it even exists, poor, and my drive to do theatre has been on a steady decline. I've been more or less completely baffled by this. It has seemed that whatever is plaguing me has been on the tip of my tongue, right there, but I've been unable to identify what it is. I think, after my chat with Paul, that I have about figured it out.

Paul has had the kind of life that I want now. He started his career as an actor, and thought that his life would travel along that set course for just about ever. That is not how theatre works, however. He stared serving as a messenger of sorts between a director and her design team, as he was the only one she trusted to relay exactly what she wanted to a group of people that, for one reason or another, she was unable to communicate effectively with. (Note here that I admire that greatly. To not only realize such a weakness but to actively seek help for it is quite admirable.) When the scenic designer quit a few seasons later, Paul was promptly told that he was to be her new designer; she would have no one else. He would design not only sets, but lighting and costumes. So it went for 30+ years.

What I admire so much in a man like Paul Owen is the willingness to learn every aspect of theatre, because, as I have constantly held, it is vital to great success, and incredibly fulfilling on it's own.

Enter me. I did theatre in High School, as many of my classmates did. It was fun, to be sure, but looking back I think I only decided to major in it out of a sense of comfort. It was my escape from an otherwise wholly unremarkable academic career. It was where I belonged in the social hierarchy of Oak Park and River Forest High School. So I majored in it, and right away felt in over my head. This was something I did on the side, when the real world retreated for the day. But now, everything was different. The real world was theatre, was the enemy, and it became too much. I steadily declined academically, only getting by on the good social graces I was able to hang onto by a hair.

As the next two and a half years sped by, I wanted out. Cocky and full of a swaggering bravado after a successful tour of duty at a summer stock theatre company, I felt able to work in the real world, and didn't see the point of even being here. Killer Joe, the biggest challenge I've faced in my life, hit me like a sack of bricks, and for all practical purposes, I failed in my duty. I failed my design team and I failed my director as I withdrew into my head, refusing to take up the heavy mantle placed before me. I continued to critique the work of those around me with an unwarranted acidity. It all came to a head just recently.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a fairly caustic review of Killer Joe. A few days ago, my director read that review. He messaged me on Facebook, suggesting that I take them down to avoid a drop in cast morale should they see it when they came here to see the photos I'd taken, all the while maintaining that he did not take it personally.

I called him immediately, as he deserved that, at least.

I explained that at The Krannert Center for the Performing Arts, challenging what a director says is, while not explicitly forbidden, generally frowned upon. And when your entire design team is composed of professors, the task of asserting yourself becomes daunting to the point of impossibility, especially as an undergraduate, first-time designer. He, thankfully, understood, and was most disappointed in my inability to come to him with any of my concerns, as the review was written in the middle of the rehearsal process. Thus, the critique represented a wholly unfair judgment of what the cast was still working on. Moreover, it was needlessly mean-spirited, and less constructive that it should have been. We made amends, and we even 'chilled' at a bar the night after invited dress.

With this fresh in my mind, I was off to meet a brilliant scenic designer who has spent his life doing everything. We sat in front of my set, and chatted. I felt completely at ease speaking to Paul, which I credit to his approachable and almost grandfatherly demeanor. I told him pretty much everything that had been bothering me lately. I told him about the challenges in working with your professors, the desire to speak up when one disagrees with something, even if it rocks the boat, and my fundamental belief that the great designers never got their start the way I was getting mine. He urged me not to forsake scenic design, and to take hold of the position I was in at such a marvelous school, surrounded by people that he said admired me. Moments earlier, I had been speaking to the scenic charge for Killer Joe, and one of my teachers, and his words took me back not only to that conversation, but to every single one I had had before then, with any of the design faculty. They had given me a golden opportunity to work with a new director on a relatively new play that no one would dream of putting on at Krannert, and what had I done? Thrown it back in their faces, time and time again, and not giving any ground. I've been selfish.

Paul helped me realize that I have a lot of maturing to do in my theatre work. Extrapolating on that, that maturity growth is something I need in every arena of my life. The key, then? The answer to what has been bothering me?

That I don't have to rush it. I'm a 21 year old college student, and I've got my whole life ahead of me. I've not consigned myself to a ten-year contract with Krannert. I've got a year and a half left, and then I'll be left to my own devices. I have a long road to travel. Even after this, things will not magically fall into place, and I'll have to work hard to establish myself as the type of designer, actor, and director that has the power to shape the very meaning of my field. I have a massive amount of maturing to do, but you know what?

That's okay.