Beyond the Building: Black Directors on Transforming the American Theatre

AN SDC ROUNDTABLE

INTRODUCED + MODERATED BY TAYLOR BARFIELD

Amid the chaos of the past six months—when the COVID-19 pandemic has killed (as of this writing) more than 170,000 Americans, disproportionately affecting Black and brown communities, and protesters fill the streets in every corner of the country chanting Black Lives Matter and demanding racial justice—the theatre industry has been hit hard. Companies have shuttered, shows have been canceled, and people have been fired or furloughed in droves. In this unprecedented time, SDC JOURNAL asked me to assemble a group of Black directors to discuss what the role of theatre is in this time of social distancing and civil uprising, and what the future of American theatre could and should look like. Seven brilliant directors from across the country agreed to participate in this online roundtable discussion. Then, as has become commonplace these past months, the eight of us each logged onto Zoom from whatever slice of home had become our office and began talking.

ABOUT THE PARTICIPANTS

TAYLOR BARFIELD serves as Literary Manager for Two River Theater in Red Bank, NJ. He is currently a DFA candidate at the Yale School of Drama. His dissertation examines contemporary reimaginings of Black theatre history.

LOU BELLAMY is a freelance director. He is the founder and Artistic Director Emeritus of Penumbra Theatre. He continues to direct and develop plays from the African diaspora at theatres around the country.

JADE KING CARROLL is a freelance director based in New York City. Currently she is working with playwrights Dael Orlandersmith, Candrice Jones, and Chisa Hutchinson.

WARDELL JULIUS CLARK hails from Alabama but now calls Chicago home. He earned his BFA in Acting from the Theatre School at DePaul University. He is a Company Member and Teaching Artist with TimeLine Theatre, where he recently directed Kill Move Paradise.

KEN-MATT MARTIN is currently the Associate Producer of Goodman Theatre. He previously served as the Producing Director of Williamstown Theatre Festival and co-founded Pyramid Theatre Company.

PATRICIA McGREGOR is an acclaimed director and writer working in theatre, music, and film. She has been twice profiled by the New York Times for her work on world premieres.

HANA S. SHARIF is an award-winning director, playwright, and producer. She is currently Artistic Director of The Repertory Theatre of St. Louis and serves on the Board of Directors for TCG and the Sprott Family Foundation.

AWOYE TIMPO, a director based in Brooklyn, NY, works on new and classic works. She is also a Producer of CLASSIX, a series exploring classic plays by Black playwrights.

TAYLOR BARFIELD | I read something recently that said 2020 is like living through the Spanish Flu of 1918, the Great Depression of the 1930s, and the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and ’60s, all at one time. There’s some truth to that. It’s a time of sustained communal need and communal uprising that many of us haven’t experienced in our lives. And in the isolation, I have found myself wondering what theatre artists are to do in this time when our primary tool, live theatre, has to be put on the shelf for a few moments. What is our role in all of this?

PATRICIA McGREGOR | I feel like for many of us—and certainly for me—artmaking and storytelling have always been a form of protest. That might be because showing prismatic representations of ourselves is its own kind of revolution in the society that we live in that tries to reduce us to a monolith. Whether we are directing something that feels like a more naturalistic play, or our own take on what a “classic” would be, or supporting a new play or something really experimental, for us to show ourselves in our multiplicity is already a political act and often an act of protest. In many ways, the world is catching up. But I feel like I spend a lot of time with artistic directors who have “politics light,” like a nostalgic view of civil rights, which to me is hugely problematic. And now, I hope people are catching up and giving us support to do the kind of work that we have already been doing—and maybe to do it with more resources and abandon.

AWOYE TIMPO | I’ll echo everything that Patricia just said. Also, Taylor, in response to your quote, I think this moment is also breaking down the idea of linear time versus circular time. The echoes of all those movements, of all those moments of history that have existed before, exist inside of us now. They’re meant to teach us now. We’re supposed to remember them now. We’re reliving them now. They’re activating us now. We are living inside of the echoes of history.

The way I’ve been thinking about the question of our role as artists is that even though we can’t go to a building to make theatre, we ourselves as artists—we are still here in this world. We are still present and powerful as creators. That has not gone anywhere. Some of the components of our work are not accessible, but the kind of power and ferocity and beauty and activism that is part of our natural experience as citizens—all of that is full and complete no matter what the building is. Like this Zoom conversation is our building, you know what I mean? I feel really strong and excited about that. So much of our work is about either creating illusion or breaking illusion, and I feel very full inside of what’s possible in the moment.

We are still present and powerful as creators. That has not gone anywhere. — Awoye Timpo

Stephen Tyrone Williams in PARADISE BLUE at Long Wharf Theatre, directed by Awoye Timpo PHOTO T. Charles Erickson

JADE KING CARROLL | I completely agree. One of the things I have found personally is that this time has allowed me the freedom to think more deeply about what I want to create, how I want to create it, and with whom—rather than just, “Where am I going to get it produced? What is the date that it’s going to be shared with an audience? How can I best serve the play in that time frame, and when is my next gig?” I’ve come back to the core of why we are telling these stories, who we are creating them for and with, and how we can make them more accessible. We are in the middle of a revolution, and I’m hopeful for where that leads us as theatremakers and as a collective outside of the confinements of the buildings. Actually seeing each other as artists and humans, and seeing what we need as a community, and thinking about how we can nurture each other rather than looking to our institutional system that wasn’t really working to begin with. So, I’m hopeful. I’m wary, but I’m very hopeful too.

HANA S. SHARIF | It’s wonderful to hear the threads of this conversation. I’m the child of former Black nationalists, and the politics I was raised under never allowed me to believe that we were actually in a post-racial society. When I went in to the PWI [predominantly white institution] regional theatre world, I was really clear about what I was entering and why I was entering. I’ve said it many times: I only went in with the intention to steal the master’s tools, but opportunities kept rolling out and I’ve tried to maximize the learning, access, opportunity to leverage for a moment of evolution like we’ve hit now in the field. One thing I want to acknowledge, as someone running one of these institutions, is that the entire system is on the brink of collapse. Many of the largest institutions in the country are on the verge of bankruptcy. The systems that were never meant to support us as Black artists or the work that we’re most passionate about—those systems are fracturing.

I actually think it’s a wonderful moment, as the theatres doors are closed, for us as artists—as directors, playwrights, producers— to really think about the agency we have in the stories we tell. So often we’re telling our stories, but not to our people, right? You go into these big regional theatres, 95 percent of your audience are not BIPOC folks. And oftentimes, the most produced Black plays are not about our joy or our triumphs, but instead about the pornography of our pain and the marginalization of Black and brown bodies in relationship to whiteness. I wonder in this moment— when the streets are erupting with people demanding accountability and change, where corporations are being challenged by their employees—what happens when artists, who create fiction in order to reveal truth, exercise our own radical truth-telling, with real agency? This is a magnificent and liberating time to be creating art. I don’t have to be within the confines of the building. I can test and push the boundaries on what theatre is. We have more technology than we’ve ever had before; we have the ability to be connected, and there’s this global uprising of humanity that we, as artists, get to be part of.

I wonder in this moment...what happens when artists, who create fiction in order to reveal truth, exercise our own radical truth-telling, with real agency? —Hana S. Sharif

At the same time, there is a complete collapse happening in the systems that we’ve grown up in. I wonder what role we, as independent artists, can define for ourselves in the rebuilding of the American theatre. In terms of this idea of the continuum of time that Awoye was talking about, I’m clear that everything we are doing is moving with the power of the ancestors. I feel a spiritual practice at play in the work that we have to do moving forward—it is bigger than any one of us individually. That feels really sacred to me.

THE CHRISTIANS at Baltimore Center Stage, directed by Hana S. Sharif PHOTO Richard Anderson

LOU BELLAMY | Hana, maybe it’s because I ran an institution that I resonate so much with what you are saying. And maybe because I’m in Minneapolis, where this current civil uprising began. But I’ve been so busy getting jobs and creating work and preparing for the next one and sitting on panels and all that sort of stuff, I don’t know that I was listening in the same way that I am now listening to the people. They are doing the work, and they’re doing it, frankly, without our buildings and all that. It’s an interesting time to be cognizant and listen to what’s going on, at least for me. What I fear is that that energy, that creativity, will be hijacked and monetized and taken away in the same sort of way that I’ve seen Black creativity taken away my whole life—and that’s said by someone who makes a living in those large, white organizations. That’s where I direct. What worries me very much is that, if we’re not listening well and addressing and understanding what the people are saying, the message will be taken from us. I wrote an essay years ago called “The Colonization of Black Theatre in America,” and I see strains of that going right now. What one has to do—especially if you’re using, as Hana says, their money and their levers and their place—is somehow strike a balance between that and still being culturally sound and spiritually truthful. Those are the things that worry me about this wonderful moment of people speaking.

Kimberly Hebert in GEE'S BEND at Hartford Stage, directed by Hana S. Sharif PHOTO T. Charles Erickson

KEN-MATT MARTIN | Thank you, Lou, very much. I’m honored to be in this room with you all. Hana, I don’t even know if you remember this, but I first met you years ago at a TCG conference in DC. At the time I was still running Pyramid Theatre in Des Moines, Iowa, which is the first and only Black theatre company in the state of Iowa. You and I had a brief conversation, and you asked me what my long-term goals were, and I said, “I’m running a Black theatre in Iowa of all places right now, but I really want to run a big regional theatre one day.” And you challenged me in that moment. You asked, “Well, why not just keep running your theatre in Iowa? Why are you interested in this other thing?” Since then, many opportunities have come my way to work within white institutions. What feels so unique and different about this moment is that there’s a generation of directors and artists who get to look to leaders like yourself and Lou and others and say, “I have these people to look to as a kind of guiding star, and hearing them reflect on what they did and what they want to do in the future, I frankly just feel emboldened to be able to walk away from all of these white institutions altogether.”

One of the reasons I became a producer, once people realized that I “have the skill set” and I started getting those opportunities, is that I wasn’t interested in being asked to direct the second or third production of that one Black play that the white producers decided was the next big Black play, that a white woman directed the original production of. That was not of interest to me. I removed myself from the freelance equation and was like, “Oh, let me just get a job where I can make a living by way of producing.” But in terms of my artmaking, I’m just Black as fuck. I make work for Black people. I don’t actually care what white people think about anything that I make. I never have. So even though I might produce your plays for your white audiences, as far as my directing work is concerned, I’m going elsewhere. And I think what’s so beautiful about this moment is I get to look to leaders like Hana and Lou and say, if they can speak that boldly from their positions and reflect in this moment of major reckoning, I can do the same.

It’s tough; there’s also all this stigma that comes with being a millennial. When you’re young and Black in this business, folks will slap that millennial thing on you on top of you being Black, and act like you are being uppity for asking for what you deserve. I’m emboldened in this moment. I’m just gonna make the Black-ass work that I want to make, which is why artistically speaking, I’m making something for Black theatre companies and that’s it right now. That’s where I’m putting my focus. It’s a beautiful time, because I feel finally that the ground has shifted in a way where I can say that, and I can do that boldly, and that there are folks like all of you here who are in a pretty similar place.

PROWESS at Brown/Trinity Rep, directed by Ken-Matt Martin PHOTO Mark Turek

WARDELL JULIUS CLARK | Amen. My spirit is so full already from this conversation. It is so nice to know that, although we are in different places at different points in our careers, we listen to our elders to know what is possible. Awoye said something about time. And time for me has really been something I homed in on in March, when we first went into quarantine. I started to do some deeper spiritual work; after doing nine shows in two years, I had time to work on myself. I am of the same mind as Ken-Matt in that I was the first—in 2018, ’19, ’20—I was the first Black male director at five theatres. And I thought, “I don’t care what you’ve done with your white plays for the past however many years; it’s a new day, and I am not really interested in centering your subscriber base. You hired me for a specific reason, and I am going to tell the truth of my people in the context of this play.”

It is so empowering in this moment to know that, whether we go back to PWIs or not, or however we choose to work in this moment, it is from a freely liberated place. We can choose where, when, and how we exist to create our art. I always say that artists have always existed. There are some larger truths about the world, larger than race, that are coming to light at this moment, and artists have always had the power and the responsibility to tell those truths. That is the kind of thing that I’m really interested in, as it is my responsibility as an artist right now to tell the truth of the world as it relates to my people. I feel emboldened to say no in a very different way than I did before. And in this moment now, and in the next moment and whatever comes after that, is a specific kind of power of the ancestors. All the things that were ours are coming back to us in a very real way. All of the colonization all over the world, for not just thousands of years but hundreds of thousands of years, is coming back to the original people who created everything, including spirituality and art. So, I am even more emboldened in that I know that the wind and the wings of the ancestors are lifting us up to this next moment, and that is scary, because it’s new in a way, but the fear is a very small factor in how I feel like we’re moving forward.

Christina Acosta Robinson + Galen Ryan Kane in THE PIANO LESSON at Hartford Stage, directed by Jade King Carroll PHOTO T. Charles Erickson

TAYLOR | I want to circle back to something Hana said about rebuilding the American theatre. And I want to ask you all, because you are directors and producers and leaders in the field, how can we rebuild the American theatre to reflect our needs and our spirit?

HANA | I’m artistic director of the largest regional theatre in Missouri, St. Louis Rep. My predecessor was there for 34 years; my current managing director/partner has been there 33 years. St. Louis is a city that’s 50 percent Black, but the audience base, the patron base—not just subscribers but single-ticket buyers, too—was 94 percent white when I was hired. The beautiful thing about the moment we find ourselves in is that the 60, 70 years of tradition is no longer relevant to the next generation of potential audiences. And in order for regional theatres to survive, the language I’ve been using is that we have to shift the value proposition for what a theatre is. It should always be about beautiful plays and beautiful work, but it can’t just be about that. Because millennials, who are now in their thirties, are very interested in the connection between where they spend their time, their energy, their entertainment, their resources, and their social constitution.

We’re in a community where the mayor lives on the corner, and every night we’ve got protesters on the street. Some days they are on the street with drums at 5 o’clock in the morning saying, “If we can’t get no justice, you can’t have no peace.” That’s the energy of the world in which I am now creating art. In order for me to get funding, in order for my theatre to be able to continue to sell tickets beyond our subscribers, we actually have to shift our positioning in this community, and we’ve got to show up in the way the community wants us there. If we don’t do that, then in five years, we won’t have enough of the traditional subscribers to be able to keep the doors open. Some of the transformational work I was being brought in to do has been catapulted forward five years by the moment we find ourselves in. Many institutions are in a position where they have to figure out how to meet the future faster than they were prepared for, and I feel like that’s where the real opportunity is for individual artists. So how do you come in and say, “Oh, I can help you get there, but here’s what I need in exchange”? How can we now make some demands on the institutions that we’re going in to work with? Because they need us. In the past, it’s been like, “Well, if you won’t do it, she’ll do it.” But what happens if we’re all aligned in what we will and won’t do? What happens if we are aligned about what the conditions have to be for us to show up in your institution to work? What happens when we start to say, “We can shift the standards instead of having to dance for the money”? What if we just say, “This is actually what it means to have an artist like me in your institution—here’s what I need, and here’s what I’m going to deliver for you on the other end”? What if negotiation looks completely different than it has in the past? I’m super interested in that question.

LOU | Hana, I think your analysis of what’s happening is spot on. And the opportunity as well. But I worry in that scenario, where is the place for Black institutions? And the reason I worry about that is I’ve seen the larger society come for our art, our creativity, our style, time and time again. And we lose control of it. The other thing is, and this is me being 76 years old and near the end of the road, the only way that what I have done can survive is through institutions, and so I think the Black community needs these institutions. They have to be robust; they have to be strong. And I wonder about them in the context that you’re speaking about, where we have this power to affect the work that these large white organizations are doing, because they want it badly, but still take care of our own institutions, which will nourish our communities and care about them as more than just ticket buyers.

Lou Bellamy directs Erika LaVonn + James T. Alfred in THE MOUNTAINTOP at Arizona Theatre Company

HANA | I’m crystal clear that the Black talent in PWIs was created by Black institutions, and that the American theatre has really profited from the genius of our institutions. And then, for whatever reason, the funding ends up going by and large to these white institutions who are credited for programs lifted from BIPOC theatres. So in every theatre I’ve worked at, I focus on how to use the platform I have in order to honor and amplify the generative work that’s already been done— before it was Christopher Columbused.

Before I took the job here, the first person I called was Ron Himes, who has run the Black Rep here in St. Louis for 40 years, to say “Hey, I’m thinking about taking this job, but I’m coming to your city.” I can’t come into this man’s city and not show respect to the giant that he is, when I know the institution I’m about to inherit has been the beneficiary of his talent and those he helped train. And so, my first year in, it was like, “Who are those artists? How can we work together? If you’re already doing something great, I don’t need to then come in and take the funding and replicate your work. How about I be a good partner? How about I use my resources to amplify what you’re already doing?” Because there’s a debt that’s due all over this country. That’s what we’re seeing in the streets. There’s a debt that’s past due, and I think that for those of us who are producers—I look to Ken-Matt—I think that one of the genius parts of being a producer at these institutions is you actually get to open the door for more people. And you have some agency in how decisions get made—as painful as that agency is, as much as that agency costs.

So I think to your point, Lou, it’s absolutely true that we’ve got a 30-year history of taking genius talent and money out of our institutions that our communities need. And I do feel, and this is my own politics, that if you look like us, and you’re in one of those PWIs, you have a responsibility to be feeding back and using the platform to amplify the genesis of where the talent has come from. It’s not just paying homage; it’s actually about strengthening the theatrical ecosystem.

Dulé Hill + Daniel Watts in LIGHTS OUT: NAT "KING" COLE at Geffen Playhouse, co-written and directed by Patricia McGregor PHOTO Jeff Lorch

PATRICIA | It’s really inspiring to be in this conversation. It’s fueling. I feel like we’re often the only representative in a room. And I think this is one of the tide shifts, moving from silos of fighting into collective action and using that power base so that we’re not having to fight these battles alone. Something that both Lou and Hana are talking about reminds me of diversifying our portfolios as individual artists and as institutions. As an individual artist, I am very clear that if I’m working at your institution, I don’t feel I’m working for you. I’m working with you. Whatever you have to say to me, dramaturgically, is filtered through the lens of, “My perspective and work have value. Would you give that note in that way to a white male director?” I am collaborative and value good notes, but don’t bow down if/when it is revealed that there are problematic hierarchical power dynamics at play. That’s a power shift. Creating my own work and not working exclusively in American theatre helps me to be more selective about where and how I engage, as I have options if I am not feeling the politics of a place or person. I also think there’s something very empowering about all of us on this call feeling like we’re producers, whether that’s of our own work or work of other people. That’s one of the big reasons my sister Paloma and I formed our company, Angela’s Pulse, where we do pieces that are rooted in social justice and amplify Black diasporic voices in a variety of mediums. We founded it at a time where we were both working with big companies, but we saw the writing on the wall in terms of the problems that happen within those companies. We wanted to be able to not only produce ourselves, but also amplify and support other people.

I think there’s often a big perception problem in the American theatre, often in primarily white institutions: “Aren’t we being benevolent for engaging with communities other than our subscriber base?” Rather, there should be an appreciation that a range of communities showing up makes your institution more relevant and helps it live up to its mission and the grant money that it has been given. I learned a lot from working in music on concerts with J. Cole and Raphael Saadiq. People were willing to not only show up, but to pay top ticket prices because they were centered in the conversations the artists were having. People are willing to show up and/or pay to show up if they are excited by and feel represented in what they are seeing and welcomed into the experience of coming to the theatre. I’m excited by places that are making work that is relevant to our current times and not upholding the values and representation of a problematic past. How is our artistry on the front lines of political and social movements that align with Black Lives Matter and represent ideas and prompt action toward a more just world? To Lou’s point, there are people on the front line risking their lives right now in order to move the world forward in a way that is necessary and just, and that might even allow for us to dream for our kids. So how can we make sure that with every project that we’re on, and in every way that we engage, we are trying to be on the front line with the tools that we have, with the gifts that we are given? How can we contribute to the cause in that kind of way? That’s what makes me excited. That’s the kind of guiding principle for how I choose to do work.

As an individual artist, I am very clear that if I'm working at your institution, I don't feel I'm working for you. I'm working with you. —Patricia McGregor

KEN-MATT | I’m reflecting, Lou, on your point about how we continue to center our own institutions in this moment as well. It’s so key. It’s so important. As someone who started one of these Black theatre companies and then found my way into these white institutions, I view my role right now within the white institution as working to create and open up as much space as I possibly can for as many Black and brown folks as possible. But I don’t view it as my role right now to save these institutions; it’s my duty to hold them accountable. And as a result of that, and as a millennial in my thirties, I am also interested in what radical divestment looks like from these institutions so that they get their act together. The reality is that I don’t know that these white institutions deserve us, frankly. And I am not interested in trying to save them. Not to say that I hope that they all go under, but I do think the means through which we can continue to hold them accountable is the larger question.

At the same time, what I’m principally interested in is how to investigate and interrogate ways that we can continue investing in ourselves and investing in our institutions. I think it’s possible to do both at the same time: You can hold these white institutions accountable, and you can also invest in your own institutions. I’m just curious about what that process looks like. Hana mentioned Ron Himes. Ron and I had lunch when I lived in St. Louis for a few years right after undergrad—before I started Pyramid. I was 22 or 23 at the time, and hungry and ambitious. And I asked, “Ron, why have you never really left St. Louis? Why haven’t you worked elsewhere?” And he said, “Because I don’t have anything to prove.” So many people, especially young people, operate as if they have something to prove. Especially for those of us who are considered early-career, emerging, mid-career, whatever the hell all that is—what do you have to prove to any of these white institutions that don’t actually care about you? I am curious and interested in the question, what does radical investment in ourselves and in our own institutions look like in this moment, in addition to holding these white institutions accountable?

WARDELL | I’ve been saying this for the past two months, as people are asking, “What do we do? How do we fix it?” First of all, it’s not my problem to tell you how to fix your institution or the harm that you’ve caused for however long. Also, the radical divestment idea Ken-Matt is talking about is something that is very much at the front of my mind in a large way. I told someone the other day, I don’t care if every PWI in Chicago closes down and there’s nothing but BET [Black Ensemble Theater] and Congo Square and MPAACT [Ma’at Production Association of Afrikan Centered Theatres] and ETA Creative Arts and the Latinx and the MENASA [Artists of Middle Eastern, North African, and Southwest Asian Descent] theatres and communities. Really investing in those companies while the PWIs get their shit together seems very, very exciting to me right now, because everyone’s really scrambling. And I’m like, “What are you scrambling for? Why is it so hard to do the right thing?” Well, talking about it is one thing, but there has to be action and accountability, and that seems really difficult, even in this moment. You look at the “We See You” demands coming out, and I think at least half of the white artistic directors in major cities, you can see steam just popping out of their head, like, “Oh my God, there’s this comprehensive thing, and we have no idea where to start.” Well, start at the base level and start working. That seems to be really difficult for them. So radical divestment to me seems like a very strong possibility.

Cage Sebastian Pierre, Kai A. Ealy + Charles Andrew Gardner in KILL MOVE PARADISE at TimeLine Theatre Company, directed by Wardell Julius Clark PHOTO Lara Goetsch

PATRICIA | A few people have brought up money. Elizabeth Alexander, the President of the Mellon Foundation, has just come out and said, “You’re not going to get the money unless you’re really about social justice.” There are a lot of primarily white institutions that have gotten a lion’s share of the big grants focusing on “diversity,” “engagement,” and “building community.” How can we ensure support of Black theatres, Black artists, Black collectives on the large grant and gift level that have had this work at the center of their practice for a long time? How do we hold accountable the work at these primarily white institutions that have already received big grants for this work? Where are we putting our own money and time in terms of showing up for each other’s work and showing up for Black organizations and artists? How do we get the tools and give each other the tools so that we make sure the financial support is there in places where we are in the driver’s seat and not on the fringe?

JADE | I really appreciate everything that’s being said about the institutions. I do believe right now that a lot of them are not gonna make it. I’m okay with that. And I think missions that look good but aren’t lived by are being exposed right now, and I think that’s necessary. One of the things that I’m always interested in as a freelance artist is how can we center these institutions around the artists. A lot of the people who are the gatekeepers at institutions are not artists. How do we center around the artists—’cause we’re the ones creating, you know? That’s why we’re all doing it. How do we come out of this so we can survive and create, so we can actually do the work and eat and spend Sunday with our families? How do we create a livable situation? And how do we make artists comfortable in the communities we’re going into? ’Cause it’s not only the theatres. Sometimes the theatres are the best-intentioned, but if I’m in the middle of Westover, WV, or any of these little places that I go to because they do need to crack open their lens and hear these stories— and you do need those communities, and hopefully those communities are there to watch the plays, to engage, to grow, to have or experience a new conversation, to commune—but it is dangerous for artists a lot of times. I often feel more overt danger in the community, not necessarily in the theatre (though that definitely exists). It’s a separate thing, and that’s something I’m really interested in. I’m interested in tackling how to make artists feel safe to create and have a living wage. And how we can do that as a collective and not be so dependent on an institutional system.

Stephen Pelinski, Celestine Rae + Elizabeth Heflin in FROM THE AUTHOR OF at Delaware Rep, directed by Jade King Carroll PHOTO N. Howatt

LOU | You know, when I’m hired, I view myself sort of as a hired gun, a representative of the culture, a keeper of the culture. And I’m not being egotistical about it. This is how I live. This is how I do my art. It’s my citizenship. I always get tickled during meet-and-greets, you know, when you’re introduced, and you’ve got to talk about the play. I always say that I will be directing this piece as though there is no one but Black people in the house. And to watch their faces when I say that, it just tickles me all the time. What this assumption does is create that space that you’re talking about, Jade, where an artist can bring all of themselves to the equation, not just the part that’s going to be considered acceptable. So I try to create this milieu where they can feel safe to be Black, and I’ll protect them. I consider that to be my job.

JADE | I think the theatres, and us, as artists, have to take better care of each other as humans in this moment and moving forward. Let’s really take the time to look at each other. Let’s actually see the human next to us, not what we can get out of them, but what’s the conversation we’re having, why are we doing this? Let’s be honest with each other and ourselves. In order to really be present and feel safe, there are so many things at play. But one of the most important things as a director is to create that safe space, which we are constantly navigating. And it would be great to just be able to walk and not have to constantly navigate. I don’t know the answer to how we make the communities that we need to go into safer. It’s a bigger question of really seeing humanity, really seeing each other as humans first.

"How do we shift our very understanding of what we think of as the American theatre to actually be a true American theatre that encompasses all of us and all of our art?" —Awoye Timpo

AWOYE | The thing I keep thinking about is what I was saying earlier, about this nature of illusion, but also this nature of lens. When we think about the American theatre, when we’re asking these questions about the American theatre—in my mind, the kind of illusion that I think can be suspended or lifted or changed or transformed is that we think about the larger umbrella of the American theatre as being inside of these predominantly white institutions. I think there’s the possibility of decentralizing those institutions as the large umbrella of what the American theatre is, so that it can encompass all the things that we’re talking about. It encompasses us as artists, it encompasses the community, it encompasses the fighters, and not as separate things that need to squeeze under the umbrella. But that what we deem the American theatre gets put in an appropriate place, because there are so many of us, and there is so much incredible work that people are doing inside of their own communities, wherever people are making art and gathering and communing and talking and building. How do we shift our very understanding of what we think of as the American theatre to actually be a true American theatre that encompasses all of us and all of our art?

Zenzi Williams in THE HOMECOMING QUEEN at Atlantic Theater Company, directed by Awoye Timpo PHOTO Ahron R. Foster

TAYLOR | Thank you, Awoye, and thanks to all of you for this conversation. It’s been such an honor to be in a digital room with some of the baddest Black directors in the country. You’re all brilliant. It has only been an hour, but if feels like we could and probably should be talking for a million more hours. Is there one last sentiment that anyone would like to leave us with?

PATRICIA | Onward!

Dawn L. Troupe + Anthony Michael Peterson a.k.a. Tru in SPUNK at Cal Shakes, directed by Patricia McGregor PHOTO Kevin Berne