December 19th, 2005
How I pick my plays:
I want you to imagine that you have a soulmate-- that perfect friend, that perfect buddy, that person who sees life as you do, who loves you as you love yourself and whom you love the same way. A soulmate, all that implies.
Now I want you to imagine that your soulmate was born in Russia 200 years ago, or England 500 years ago, or China,3,000 years or southern France 25,000 years ago. He sees nothing as you do. Cars and Ipods are as foreign to him as Mars is to an ant. He likely speaks a language you cannot speak or understand. His dress, his habits, his family are all hopelessly foreign and strange to to you. He might die young of a disease that was cured decades ago. And yet, he is your soulmate.
If your positions were reversed, if you lived in his China of 3,000 years ago and he today lived your life, neither of you would be different in any way. He would see life as you do, make all the choices you make and you, in his life and time would live his life exactly as he did live it so many years ago.
Now I want you to imagine that your soulmate knows you are out there somewhere and he wants to communicate with you, as want to communicate with him. If he were born 25,000 years ago in a cave in France, how does he talk to you in 21st century America?
He does it through Art.
For Art is the only thing that lasts. And yet, the Arts, drawing, painting, music, writing must be done by each individual for the people who share the world with him when he is alive. One cannot write for the dead. One does not know those who will come after him and cannot draw or paint for them. He must tell the truth in his own world in such a way that those he will never know will carry it on, generation after generation, language to language, continent to continent until now, during your life, in your country, in the privacy of your own home, or the darkness of a theater in your town, or the lights of an art gallery, he will finally be able to speak to you.
How does he do this? How does a person who drew on the cave wall in southern France 25,000 years ago, the Chinese who sharpened his drawing quills by hand in ancient China, the Englishman in the squalor of 15th century London, and the writer, lost in the vast steppes of Russia's central Asian plains talk to his soulmate --- for he knows you're out there, and he seeks you just as urgently as you seek him. I believe he does it by telling the truth. I believe that there is no other way and never will be. And by truth, I do not mean what appeared in today's newspapers, or yesterday's rumors and fears. He tears himself open and tells the truth of the human heart. For to him, that is the least he can do for you and most he demands of himself. To tear oneself open, to face the truth of life beneath the clamor and noise of everyday existence--this is what your soulmate does so that he can tell you he is out there and understands.
This ain't easy! To send laughter and tears down through the ages, it's not easy. First he must take his natural skills and hone them to a fine point. His Russian novel, his English play, his Chinese drawings etc. take a lifetime devotion and learning, development and devotion to craft. Then everything he creates must be on several levels. He must please his contemporaries who have read the newspaper and read the rumors, he must develop his following who will keep what he has created alive after he has died, much as the medieval monks kept alive the written wisdom of former ages, and lastly he must impart to his work the essential view of life, the ultimate truth of the human heart that is meant just for you. His Art must inspire translators and collectors in an unimaginable future and trust them to carry on until you get his message.
So how do I choose plays? I pick plays from the last hundred years or so which were written by people of my time and place, which were written by my flesh and blood, contemporaries of myself, my Father, my grandfather and so on which, in my limited vision have told the truth about life. And here is where a torturous paradox intrudes. Namely, that those plays which continue to delight us and are most thoroughly intergraded in their time and place. God is in the details. Those plays which carry on with reams of philosophy and "great thoughts" are usually terrible, dull, and uninteresting and those plays with meticulous attention to what contempories thought were the trivia of life turn out to be the most truthful and the most fun. I cannot tell you which plays will still be done a hundred years from now--not to mention a thousand years from now. That knowledge is so vast and complex that only God can comprehend it. What I can do, what I am, what I live on this earth to achieve is to be that translator, that collector, that receiver of joy written for the stage in the past decades and keep it alive, pass it on, create delight in the human heart, help those more complex than myself find, in the privacy of their own being, the soulmates for who they look.