Last Tuesday I wandered backstage. I saw the vast array of building materials,
lighting fixtures and nick-knacks that fill the small rooms, storage areas and
rafters of our local theatre. There were
miles of moldings, wide and narrow, large sections of flooring that would
extend into rooms never to be seen.
Baskets full of doorknobs, some turn of the century, while others
designed for a simple Oliver Twist; they sat next to teapots, muskets, and
stacks of books leaning on televisions and moose heads. Closets were packed with overcoats and
feathered hats, with wigs piled next to cigar boxes that held an assortment of
mustaches. An old cookie tin held a
variety of stick-on tattoos; some suggesting a military history while others
indicating an allegiance to a cause or a bold proclamation of
independence. One wall was peppered
with an assortment of beards and toupees, for those plays requiring fur-bearing
actors.
It is a
wondrous place, filled with potential and anticipation. It is a place where lines from a sketch are
lifted from the page and transformed into bedrooms, back alleys, hideouts, or grandmother’s
kitchen. Jars of dust and spools of
cobwebs sit on a back shelf waiting to create just the right atmosphere, while
wooden signs, painted with indiscernible languages lean against the wall.
Do not,
however, believe that backstage is paved with wide aisles or meandering lanes,
for it is not. Barely navigable and
dimly lit passageways wind around tripping hazards, skill saws and mannequin
limbs. It is not a destination you’ll
find in any brochure.
It is simply a holding area for the imagination.
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