Editorial Note: Still Grieving for the Theatre (One Year On) or, The Tale of Three Dresses

It is wonderful that spring has sprung, and I am enjoying being outside in the sun and blossoms. But the pandemic continues and we are all exhausted by carrying this stress and anxiety for over a year now. The death toll in America and worldwide has been staggering, and with new variants taking hold, we are all struggling to see the end of this time in our lives.

I grieve the absence of the performing arts every day. The last live performance I saw was in mid-November of 2020 in Vancouver when theatre were able to offer shows in British Columbia with 10% audience capacity. The production was a solo play, Buffoon by Vancouver playwright Anosh Irani. Solo plays allow theatre companies to avoid spreading the virus to other cast members, and the night I attended I was one of 20 people in the house. We were masked and distanced throughout, and also used hand sanitizer before going into the theatre. Yet what a treat that night was for me! I saw the actor after the show and I let him know how much his work meant to me, after not having seen a live production for many months. Two days later, a new provincial health order came down and all live performances were shut down. Again. This remains in place as I write in mid-May of 2021.

Since then, I have watched a few livestream performances online. Recently, I began watching a student production, but was so sad to see that the actors were wearing masks that I turned it off after a few minutes. The actors’ face is a huge part of her instrument, and although I understand why the actors were masked, it made the experience depressing rather than uplifting. Then a Facebook friend posted photos of her daughter’s production of Sondheim’s Into the Woods, and all the actors were masked. Imagine trying to sing into a mask. I am happy that these students had the chance to perform, that is important, but the audience experience is so diminished as a result.

The Great Intermission continues. And there are so many who are reading this who are suffering with lost employment, lost opportunities, lost theatre lives. My heart goes out to all of you, with the dearest hope that with vaccination will come more freedom to gather, and that by the end of this year we will be meeting in the theatre once again.

We all grieve in our own ways; I have learned this when dealing with the deaths of my father and of my in-laws. My way of dealing with the absence of theatre in my life has been to draw on utopian philosopher Ernst Bloch’s notion of “anticipatory consciousness.”¹ He theorized that prior to great socio-political changes such as revolutions, enough people must have a vision of a better future that can then drive them into action. I see anticipatory consciousness as a crucial aspect of the art form of theatre. From moment to moment as we watch, the audience is anticipating what will happen in the next moment, the next minute, the next act. Anticipatory consciousness is also in play during rehearsals; we work in ensemble to create moments that will deepen audience engagement and allow audiences to feel the thrill of anticipation.

How has anticipatory consciousness had an effect on me? Well, my response here is not very admirable, as it involves some consumerism, but here goes. I have purchased over this past year three opening night dresses. Each one has its story, and if you will indulge me here, I will tell them to you.

The first dress was purchased for my niece’s wedding in Germany at the end of March last year. Of course, due to the coronavirus pandemic, the wedding was sadly canceled. As a result, I became the owner of a beautiful and sparkly beaded dress I had nowhere to wear. But the after-effect of buying this dress was to troll online sites late in the evening looking at other beautiful sparkly dresses, which in my mind I was calling “opening night dresses.” The anticipation of wearing an opening night dress to the opera or ballet or theatre was helping me cope with the loss of live performance. Thus, I bought a second dress (deeply on sale, as were all three) that was even more beaded and sequined. My husband looked at me with some concern when this dress arrived, but he accepted my assurances that this would not happen again. My mother helped me to hem the dress and I began looking forward with anticipation to the opening night when I could wear it.

Then, not long ago, after another night of trolling fancy evening dresses, another one caught my eye. Into the shopping cart it went! But before it arrived, I held an intervention for myself with my husband. I told him how these dresses, of which I had no need, were filling up a hole in me where theatregoing used to be. He listened with empathy as I spoke of my grief, my anxiety about so many theatre friends whose livelihoods are on hold, and my own stress having to teach this inherently embodied practice online. Anyway, the third dress arrived in all its sparkly glory, and I am sharing this story of my three opening night dresses here in order to prevent buying a fourth, fifth, or sixth one.

I recognize the privilege that underpins my story. I have not suffered loss of employment, and have a tenured academic position that allows me the indulgence of these purchases. These are dresses I wanted but do not need. They have allowed me to look forward to an evening I cannot yet see, but remain hopeful is on the horizon, when I can enter a theatre lobby in one of my three glittering dresses, greet long-absent friends with a hug and kiss on the cheek, and take my seat in anticipation of the pleasure of a play. I wish no less for all of you.

Enjoy your reading in this double issue, which focuses on voices from Canada and the U.S. in Issue One and on international voices beyond North America in Issue Two. This is my final issue in my three-year term as Editor-in-Chief of YTJ. I have been honored to play this role, and to see in annual reports that the readership of YTJ is growing, attracting more and more international scholars to these pages. I know that the future of the journal is sound and look forward to reading it in post-pandemic times ahead. See you at the theatre!

Notes

¹ Ernst Bloch, The Philosophy of Hope (1995), see Reference.