In the light of several recent events in my life, I’ve realized that generosity is a concept that is so important to our lives as theatre artists, or as artists in general.

I’ll start with my most recent production. I had a very minor role in Kafka on the Shore over with Spooky Action Theatre. We artists know the pain, torment, trials and tribulations that are required to put on a show. It requires a tremendous amount of work, self-sacrifice and time. After all, rehearsal in french is ‘répétition’, and if you’re a performing artist, that makes perfect sense to you. We toil away at learning our lines, remembering our blocking, practicing with our props and scene partners, and it just gets downright messy and tiring sometimes. 

However, when we’re working with a truly generous cast, we notice that the process becomes that much easier. When the other actors on stage are giving you everything they have, it usually inspires you to put out more in turn. That transfer of energy grows and grows until magical things happen during rehearsal, and we do our best to take that to the stage. When I say ‘generous’ actor, I’m referring to those actors who are in their scenes with the full intention of giving you everything they have in order to make you look good. You match their energy, their language (both verbal and physical) with an intensity of your own, and your scenes feel electric. You can ponder all you want on how that energy transfers to the audience, but having been an audience member myself, you can tell when actors are enjoying their scene, regardless of its content. Watching two actors who are giving themselves without any thought to ‘looking good’ but rather making their partner ‘look good’ is so much more entrancing and captivating than watching a selfish actor whose self image is more important. That generosity of spirit, time and energy is what makes live theatre that much more enjoyable, and that selfsame generosity is an absolute necessity in bridging the gap between a ‘watchable’ scene and an ‘enjoyable’ one. It can be very hard to do, of course, but from the moment we start acting classes, or start acting professionally, we’re taught that it’s “always about your scene partner”. That holds true, and the more generous you are, the more you get back in return. 

On a more different scale, the actors in Kafka on the Shore were not only generous with their time and talents, but also with gifts! Almost everyone in the cast brought in food for people to share, and during the run many of us brought little gifts for one another. I received beanie baby cats, cards with anime characters that represented one of my characters, magic tea, pineapples, chopsticks, scented candles, a piece of abstract art of my character (aptly titled “Dog Deconstructed”), among many others. Such generosity of spirits really helped bring good cheer and merriment to our dressing room. That sort of continuous sharing makes it very easy to work with a group of people, especially when you have to do the same show over and over for a month. Sure, we were catty and snippy, sometimes punchy. Sometimes we stepped on each others’ beliefs or made fun of each other in ways that might not have been great, but I think the gifts were a way to show that we genuinely cared for one another as a cast, and that despite our backgrounds we wanted each and every one of us to succeed. I think a lot of that transferred over to the stage, and even though we weren’t in scenes with each other, we were always quietly rooting for the success of our comrades. I honestly think that that sort of selfless giving is very hard to find out there in the world, so I’m glad that I continually find it again and again in theatre.

Another aspect of generosity comes in the financial sense. Having just successfully run a Kickstarter Campaign for our season (yay!), I cannot help but be amazed at the sheer generosity of people willing to support our art. Both Elizabeth Hansen and I are amazed when someone donates $5, especially considering how expensive life is. I’m utterly flabbergasted when people donate money in the hundreds, because, that’s a lot of money! I saw donations for $500 and above and I was floored at the sight. Not because that kind of generosity is unprecedented, but rather because we were getting any money at all for theatre of all things. Theatre is so often mocked and criticized in public media, lampshaded or parodied in cartoons and the like, that I’m surprised anyone who is not a theatre artist has any sort of positive view of theatre at all! These donations not only went towards theatre, but our theatre! It came with little messages like: “It’s because we believe in you.” or “I love your work!” which just filled me with so much love and respect for our donors. So much of theatre relies on donations, because we’re not businesses. Hell, even the bigger theatres with their bigger profits still rely on donations because theatre is expensive. I’m quite proud to say that we’re practicing our own form of generosity by ensuring that our artists are paid for their time. It’s essential to our practice. It’s not much now, but the principle is so important. The artists are generous with their time, skills, talents, thoughts, ideas, etc, that it only makes sense that we compensate them for that. When we made profit off of Despertar, I paid my artists and stage manager an additional $100 just to help cover their travel expenses. I want to continue to foster the practice of this ideal, sliding the scale upwards as we grow as a company. My ultimate goal is to be able to pay actors a livable wage over the course of the show. This is, of course, a far-reaching dream, but it’s one to which I’ll continue to adhere to the best of my ability.

We’ve been holding auditions for Apotheosis, and the last form of generosity I wanted to share is really the sharing of self. I know I touched on it earlier with my musings on the Kafka on the Shore cast, but this is slightly different.

I asked for people to bring in a piece up to five minutes long that they considered ‘emotionally moving’, which is a tall order. What people brought tended to be deeply personal in some way shape or form. Regardless of the piece they selected, they imbued as much of their own psyche into their work that I couldn’t help but smile at the risks people were taking. I know that when you perform, you can hide yourself a bit under the text, movement or whatever. But here, in an audition room with two strange faces and a video camera staring them down, I’m still quite pleased with the willingness they possessed to share that part of themselves with us while we sat and watched them. We were judging them and what they had to give, but they still put it out there selflessly and beautifully. 

Art is a culture of generosity. I believe in karma, but I never seek to reap its rewards; they come to me in whatever form they will. I think art functions the same way. We put ourselves out there, we give without thought of receiving, we create without thought of reward. Some say that our reward is that we get to make art. Some say that the reward is that you get more work in the field you love. They may all be right. Who knows? Art does not require our generosity, but look at what it does for us in turn. Let’s continue to be generous, giving, and kind, and I’m sure that our art will flourish.

My thoughts today wandered to the nature of professionalism in the arts. It goes along with my belief that artwork is work, and that it would be easier without survival jobs. However, just like any other job it requires dedication and a degree of professionalism in order to work at its fullest.

It’s a complaint of mine that actors are the laziest artists. Yes, many of us go through years and years of training, and we work tirelessly on shows. I know that our craft is difficult, more difficult than it seems, but sometimes I worry that we, ourselves, are not taking it as seriously as we should. Not that our work isn’t good, but I think sometimes our attitudes toward our work could be improved in the smallest ways. Audiences and theatre-goers expect us to be superhuman. Directors expect their actors to be superhuman, and actors expect their directors to be infallible leaders. The problem with these expectations is simply that we’re human.

I claim that actors are the laziest artists simply because I don’t think we take enough time to practice the fundamentals of our craft on our own time. Instrumentalists practice and practice at home before they take their work to the ensemble. They toil away in practice rooms and in their own homes to get their part correct before presenting it at rehearsal. I’ve watched, over my ‘professional’ career, several actors just stroll in to rehearsal clearly having not done their homework. I mean that lines are still being missed, intentions are not clear, choices were not explored, etc. This could stem from many different things; I know because I too meet these stumbling blocks in rehearsals. However, there’s usually a few tell-tale signs to point out that the artist did nothing between rehearsals to prepare.

In an orchestra, you’re typically surrounded by many others who play your instrument. You’d think that this may hide your lack of preparation, but if you make a mistake, the whole section can sound incorrect, and in turn, the whole orchestra is held responsible. Back in orchestra classes, there was the dreaded ‘down the line’. This occurred when a section could not play the line of music properly, and the conductor/teacher was unable to tell where the fault lay. He or she would take a moment and have each instrumentalist play the passage all on their own, usually revealing the culprits. Their embarrassment usually (hopefully) spurred them into practicing on their own, and returning with the line much closer to perfect than before.

Actors are going “down the line” constantly. There is rarely anyone else to support an individual actor. I understand that we artists work survival jobs and have families and social lives that eat up much of our time. However, I don’t think we take enough time to really practice not only our craft, but our current projects.

Back in college, when I was still an aspiring violinist, I would practice for several hours a day. I set aside time to practice, even between classes and work. Practice usually lasted around 2-3 hours a day, with time devoted to basic techniques, scales, arpeggios and etudes. The rest of the time was devoted to drilling the difficult passages in the pieces, and then I would run the piece on my own to a metronome, then run the piece without the metronome to work on expression and phrasing.

In my acting life, it’s not as often as I’m preaching, of course. I try to set aside time in my day for basic acting exercises, running my audition monologues, running my lines, walking through my blocking in my head, stepping through choreography, etc.

In terms of working on a production, if I’m given a script in advance, I try my hardest to come in off-book and completely memorized by first rehearsal. If that’s not the case, then I work to get the lines down before I even bring them to rehearsal. I understand that one might have a stressful job and life outside rehearsal. I understand that one might have a lot of lines to memorize with limited space in the brain.

But you know what? We chose to accept the roles we do. I understand both the joy that comes from being offered a role, and the pressure from our profession to take those roles. When we accept our jobs, we accept the work that it entails. If we can’t accept the work, and continually make excuses as to why our job isn’t done, then we need to re-evaluate ourselves. We need to remind ourselves why we’re doing what we’re do. Why did we choose the arts? Are you okay with putting yourself through the hours and hours of torment, hard-work and drama that no one else sees, just for some stage time in front of an audience? Do you have something you want to say with your work? With your art? With your whole being?

I believe that artwork is work. I believe in paying artists. It gets difficult for me to fully believe in my own mantra when I see actors who won’t put in the work between rehearsals and between performances. I’d love to say that getting rid of survival jobs would help aide that professionalism towards the craft, but I’m not so sure, because of how ingrained in our patterns it is.

So today’s blog post is a sermon. I haven’t always followed it myself, but I intend to redouble my efforts to do so.

It’s difficult being a small theatre company. It’s especially hard for us, given that two of us wait tables for our survival jobs, and the other is in a Master’s program. We’re pretty broke on a regular basis, so putting out that money can be difficult at times.

Thank goodness for Kickstarter! Many theatre companies already rely on donations and grants to keep them running. We can’t propose grants to foundations yet, since we lack our 501(c)3, but we can raise money via donations.

So instead of ranting about something theatre related, I wanted to take time in today’s blog post to thank everyone who has donated to our Kickstarter so far. We have 40 backers, for just under $2500! We have $5500 more to go, but I’m not worried, considering the kindness and generosity of our families, friends and peers. 

The money we raise here will primarily go towards paying our hardworking theatre professionals, our performers, technicians, stage manangers, producers and directors! Hell, we’re even paying Keegan some minimal rights for his play, Immortal Jellyfish!

JR Russ first implanted the necessity of paying artists for their work in my mind, and it’s a concept that all of us at Avalanche insist on seeing through. We can’t pay much now, but thanks to the kind donations we’ve been receiving, each member of our personnel for each show will be paid for their time and effort. It’s not much, but we refuse to let anyone work for free.

This blog post may not be very well organized, but I’m just so happy that I can’t keep my thoughts straight. Thanks to the donations, we can afford to uphold one of our highest ideals even at the earliest stages of our company’s development. It can only continue and grow from there.

“I was perfect.” ~Nina, Black Swan

I’m not sure how this random thought crossed my mind. I remember walking down L street, then coming up with this idea.

Art is imperfect, which is what makes it beautiful. The creative, interpretive and performing, are imperfect as well. This is the energy that drives us forward in our creation of art, fueled by our passion, commitment and personalities. We strive constantly and interminably towards creation, through flawed scripts, flawed techniques, flawed processes, equipment, etc. We work with what we have, always, with our fabled mantra: “The Show Must Go On.” We’re expected to be superhuman and to work for very little pay. But it’s this imperfection in our craft as well as ourselves that really brings the light the beauty in our work.

Let’s say that someone succeeds in creating a perfect composition. It is truly perfect. However, I think the only thing that would strike us would be its perfection. With the subjective constantly floating over our works, we realize that the imperfections in our work meld and intertwine with the imperfections in ourselves. If art is a light, then these flaws provide a series of prisms with which to refract our light. Art becomes more meaningful because we see only bits and pieces through our own imperfect lenses. Take a script, which is inherently imperfect. Take an actor, who is human and therefore imperfect, and suddenly, you have art that is notably far from perfect. But as opposed to striking us on the singular level of singular beauty, the art shines through an infinite series of refractions. Only some of it will even reach us, but it reaches us on a level that we can understand, associate with and appreciate. 

It is the constant effort of growth that accelerates and empowers our work. If we were to create perfect art, then where have we to go? What new directions can we embark upon? It is the energy released from the efforts we put into our work and our craft that makes the work beautiful. In this light, the difference between talent and skill is meaningless, because both are striving to grow. We cease to be artists when we cease growing, because we can no longer release that energy. Stagnation is our enemy. To me, perfection is stagnation.

I never wish to be perfect, nor do I wish it in turn on anyone. The greatest joy of working stems from the fact that we’re working towards the creation of beautiful and meaningful things. If they’re not meaningful and beautiful, they’re fun and creative. If not those, then they’re educational or serve a purpose. In failing all of these, then the question becomes: Why art?

It is our existence as imperfect beings that pushes us towards growth. Whether this is a conscious choice or unconscious one proves insignificant in the face of our continual forward motion. We move forward as artists. We move forward as people. Let us enjoy our imperfections, and allow them to aid us work towards our futures, rather than holding us back.

For the past year, I’ve been playing close attention to Artists. I love analyzing the ways in which they work. It’s an activity that requires full use of my intuition as well as logic as I systematically take simple actions or objectives and classify them, sort them and otherwise try to utilize them to define the artist. I’m not always correct, of course. The study of human psychology, in general, is already a bizarre field. Applying that lens to an artist seems extra bizarre, simply because of the work in which we engage. I think a question that sparked this new train of thought came from a friend of mine after she saw “Django: Unchained”.

“I don’t like the way female characters are portrayed in Quentin Tarantino films in general. It’s like he’s saying: “I think women are so awesome and so cool. Why won’t any of them sleep with me?” 

I, obviously, can’t confirm or deny whether or not she’s correct on the matter. If that’s what resonated with her when she watched the film, was that simply her projection onto what she saw in Tarantino’s work, or was that his subconsciousness leaking through the film?

Therefore, one of the qualities of artists I’m trying to figure out is motivation. More and more I’m beginning to wonder what drives an artist into the paths they take? Why do we throw ourselves down our paths with all our might, knowing full well that it could very easily wind up a dead end, leaving us bitter and defeated? Many of us working in arts fields have a skill that is not deemed entirely ‘necessary’ by many people in society. Arts has been relegated into the realm of ‘entertainment’ rather than providing culture. More people would rather watch football than go to a show. Nothing against football; I love it as well. However, it makes our work as artists that much more difficult. 

So why do directors take on shows? Why do playwrights write their plays? They know full well that we’re competing against the titans of media that possess a myriad of advantages. The money, of course, lies in film, television, sports, etc. It’s very clear to me that most artists who choose a career in art know that they’re not in it for the money. There are the lucky few that can make their living off of their arts careers alone, but an overwhelming number of artists I know work survival jobs to pay the bills. A select few are even mooches, who always seem to be broke and somehow getting by through the good graces of others. 

So, with money considered a non-factor, what drives people to take on the work they do? 

Sometimes, I wonder if the artists are just caught in the trap of work. We’re constantly told that we have to ‘put in our dues’, by performing in minor roles or doing plays we don’t want to do, just for the credit. We get our faces out there, we market ourselves as artists, we schmooze and mingle and make connections, all just to get to the next show. We have to do many projects that we might not actually care about, just to do more projects that we might not actually care about, with only the glimmer of hope that we can get to do the type of art we wish to do.

And for some reason, this is our praxis. It’s our reality, to work jobs we don’t care about to rehearse for shows that we don’t care about with only the tiniest morsel of hope that we could actually do something with our art. I’ve noticed that the most motivated artists have escaped that cycle, or have been fortunate enough to have joined forces with other similarly motivated artists. A large slew of professional theatre artists seem to be swept up in the cycle of doing jobs because they’re jobs. While I understand that we’re always doing what we love and the nobility of that notion, I wish we didn’t have to do it that way. Money has become such a factor in our lives and careers, that it’s turned into the one thing holding us all back. Production Companies, in turn, have to operate like businesses, and there’s a sort of pseudo-capitalism undercurrent in the theatrical community. The biggest houses can afford the best actors, the best toys and best equipment, can draw the biggest, richest crowds with better donors, and the rest of the companies are begging for the scraps. The small companies have to rely on ingenuity, creativity, moxie and elbow grease just to fill their houses. 

* * *

I have some outrageous motivations, ambitions and desires. I don’t consider myself unique in this field, because I’ve found other artists with the same zealotry for art that I feel I possess. The sad thing is, I feel like we’re all stuck in the spiral that I mentioned earlier, stuck in a world where we’re continually working just to work. (After all, if we didn’t work just to work, then there probably wouldn’t be a lot of shows going on in the DC Area.)

My motivations for doing shows are usually wrapped up in the educational. Simply put, I don’t have the same education in my craft as most of my fellow artists. I’m constantly wowed by their knowledge of technique, playwrights, history, etc, and I very clearly consider myself a neophyte in their presences. My motivation is to learn from them, as much as I possibly can, to then take back to Avalanche. In turn, I have an evidently outrageous dream for my own company. I dream of a future where the artists and personnel are all compensated a livable wage, are provided health care and benefits. It’s a system that would require a LOT of work, and a lot of time and energy to create and maintain. This would be much easier if I didn’t have a survival job sapping most of my time, but therein lies the rub! I need to work my survival job to do art, but because of my survival job, I don’t have the time or energy to devise a way to do art WITHOUT my survival job. That’s the unfortunate pit that most artists fall in to, and it takes a great deal of effort to pull ourselves out of it. The survival jobs sap us of our resolve and motivations making it even harder to escape. At the same time, imagine how our art and craft would flourish if we were freed from the mundane jobs that we have to work in order to continue to work on our crafts? If we could just focus on our jobs, the way that professional athletes and the professional film actors do, couldn’t we come up with some beautiful, beautiful work? I’m not saying we need to be paid as much as them, but you don’t see Brad Pitt or Eli Manning working in offices during the day just so they can afford to do movies and football respectively. I can’t imagine Beyonce or Serena Williams waiting tables just so they could afford the ability to perform. The rest of us our paying and paying just to be able to perform. The illusion is that we’re getting paid, but with our stipends of $400 or even $1000 after two months, we’ve spent just as much in order to survive just so we can perform.

My dream is to eliminate that cycle for everyone. Somehow. It’s lofty, but it’s not unattainable. 

My motivation is to keep doing shows, make myself known in the community, and start joining the hearts together so that we can band together and escape the cycle as a community. My motivation is to keep working in the cycle until I can break it somehow. There are HUGE obstacles of course, but I don’t see it as impossible. 

I plan on Avalanche having a building one day. If Avalanche doesn’t make it, then I’ll continue the dream on my own, but I’d rather not think about that particular possibility. I want this building to have all sorts of facilities: Dance studios, black box theatre, concert hall, painting and sculpting studios, empty rooms to remain versatile for practice, performance, art displays, studios, etc. I want a drama therapy office, or an art therapy office, so we can give back to the community as well. I want lofts that artists can rent for a night for cheap, because we know how many of them stay late to work. It doesn’t need to be fancy on the outside. I really don’t care how the building looks on the outside. I just want the inside to be stuffed to the brim with creative energy.

These are just two of my dreams, and therein lies my motivation in everything that I do recently.

But hey artists, what about your dreams? What’s your motivation?

Sadness is inherently part of who I am, but I have art in my life now. Bit by painstaking bit I’ve grasped it, shaped it, and transformed it into joy. I’m so thankful to have had music, theatre and writing in my life.
~Jon Jon Johnson

Firstly, I’d like to point out that I feel like a super-douche for quoting myself. I don’t apologize, of course, because those words still resonate with me. I find them incredibly important in my process as an artist, even when I don’t have the work to channel it. 

Grief is a powerful force in our lives, and one that we often choose to deny. We don’t have time for it, or it shows our weakness, etc. We have a myriad of excuses as to why we choose not to go through grief. More often than not, we find ourselves smuggling our grief away in to some corner of our room, alone, by ourselves, where it can be no burden on anyone else. Other times, it escapes in gushes and consumes your self as well as those around you. Sometimes it expresses itself violently, in ways that inflict harm either to your person or the persons around you. 

For me, it expresses itself in art. 

It perhaps explains as to why I’m drawn towards art with big, emotional feelings, because I never really gave myself a chance to express them when I was younger. I won’t go into the sordid details, but my past is rife with sadness. My life, even while I was blissfully unaware of it, had been wrapped in a horrid shroud and it permeated into my life. In middle school, as it began to rear its head, confirming my suspicions, I became a quiet and removed child. I had a few friends, but I mostly preferred to spend time alone. I played my violin dutifully and true to technique, and enjoyed singing immensely. 

However, in High School, I got into theatre. Suddenly I was using my whole body to express things, and I was able to take those feelings I had wrapped up inside of myself and push them into theatre. I would share them with an audience, and they were none the wiser to the specifics of my pains, joys, etc. My feelings had been expressed, in front of people, and it felt wonderful. My violin gained that expressive ability as well; I learned to channel all that grief and pain that was in my heart, soul and body and release it through music. I started to write poetry and stories, and realized that many of my demons could be expelled through that expression. People would have inclinations as to where some of thoughts behind my work came from, but they could never pin-point it. I didn’t want them to, hence the masque of art. 

While music and writing are excellent for expelling many of the thoughts that rage around my head and body, neither of them have come close to the sheer joy I feel when performing in a show. No matter the character, I found some common ground and used it to bodily experience whatever emotions I had. I found myself drawn to works by Sarah Kane, for instance, because of how easily her writing embodies pain. It’s so easy for me to wrap myself in the shroud of her words and express my own inner machinations. They’re not congruent, obviously, or else I’d be as dead as her. However, I’ve taken the similarities and flavoured the art with my own, thus giving the art life, and giving me expression.

Theatre has always been therapeutic for me in this way. It’s been an excellent release, and I daresay that I’m rather addicted to catharsis, especially those found in tragedy. I love to explore not only the way I grieve, but the way that these characters would grieve as well. I know it sounds particularly morbid, but I find great joy in acting out painful situations. I can express some of the workings of my spirit in a way that is beautiful and artistic, rather than violent or hateful (even if the play calls for violence or hatred, it’s in a safe space; no one is truly heart by it). The illusion of theatre allows me to contain, re-shape and release much of what has tormented me over the course of my life. 

Recently, I tend to play roles that don’t allow me this catharsis, but it’s okay; I still love acting. But this is partially why I helped start a theatre company devoted to the evocation of emotions. Even when I’m working on a show that doesn’t have room for me and my releases, I still have my violins (Wolfgang and Roxanne), and my writing. 

Art will always have a place in my life, and I’m so thankful for it. It’s the catalyst that has turned my sorrows into something beautiful, powerful, and joyful.

I adore the idea of community, and I love the ideal that it encompasses. People have asked me, on several occasions, what I think of the DC Theatre Community, and I really do feel like it’s fragmented. Undoubtedly, with so many resources, so much social media, etc, it’s grown quite connected. But even connected, I still feel like there’s a current, or a pulse, underneath the community that keeps it apart. 

I think finances play a large part in it. I think we’re all inadvertently competing over our market, which is our audiences. I love that I see so many shows going up all over the place, and I love that I get to see so many shows. However, it takes a lot of planning (usually on the part of my show-watching buddy, Elizabeth Hansen). We miss out on a lot of shows we want to see simply because they’re at the same time as other shows we want to see. Considering we both work night shifts, or have rehearals, etc, it’s hard to get out there and see all of the shows on our lists. 

I think, sadly, the only reason that there is any semblance of a Theatre Community is because we share so much personnel between the various theaters and production companies. There’s a limited (albeit large) number of actors in the area, and we move from house to house to house in beautiful perpetual motion. 

But then I see some of the bigger houses importing actors from New York or Chicago, and I think to myself: Surely there was someone in DC who could’ve done that just as well, if not better. It requires the gamble, and it requires faith, which I think some of the larger companies are losing. 

Not to say that Avalanche has those things in droves, no; we simply have no choice BUT to gamble and have faith. I don’t ever want our company to import actors from outside of the DC Area, because there are so many actors who are starving for work right here in our backyard. 

One could argue from a sort of “Theatre Capitalist” standpoint and say that it was the eager beavers with more talent and more gumption than the rest, therefore they deserve all the work they can get. They deserve the equity paychecks, and they deserve to tell us that “it’s not about the paycheck”. But I really don’t think Theatre should be a capitalist sort of venture. It shouldn’t be communist, either. I’m not asking everyone to share their resources. 

This is a big wish, but I wish theatre companies would stop having to operate like businesses. We’re not businesses, and I wish we didn’t have to focus on things like funding, or money, when all I want us to focus on is art. I dream of a day when that’s possible.

On the subject of community, I think that money is always the underlying factor in keeping the community under that slight separation. The Theaters themselves have to compete over the limited audience. Big Theaters get big audiences, and us small theaters are forced to fight over the scraps. Big Theaters with huge budgets get all the awards and prestige, so audiences flock to them. I’m not saying Big Theaters are the antithesis to community, nor am I saying that I wish they would share. They’ve undoubtedly worked hard to become the titans they are, and they still put on beautiful work, which to me is quite honourable. 

I think there are excellent community builders out there too. I think the Capital Fringe Festival does an excellent job of bringing people together. I think Project Gym was one of the most excellent microcosms for the community that I dream about. I’m starting to see it more and more; people from outside of companies helping! I suppose if one were to look at it selfishly, it’s the value of proposition, but that comes with any act of giving. However, I love the banding together that I’m seeing start to happen around town. My dream is to put Avalanche at the nucleus of this new generation of community, but that will take work. 

* * *

I think one of the strongest tools in building community is kindness. The rewards from kindness are not always immediate, which is why I think people (not just artists) tend to avoid it. I get amazed, especially in times when we’re fundraising, at the number of people who will simply cast us aside as beggars. I get equally amazed by people with whom I’ve lost contact who quickly step in and help. One such example? 

I saw on facebook a post from a woman I had not seen since college. She’s up in New York and is a SAG-AFTRA actress now. I would’ve written her off as someone who thought herself ‘too important’ for the likes of us. However, she unquestionably put up our Kickstarter link to her circle of friends and family, and had nothing but nice things to say. This stemmed from the kindnesses we showed one another back in college. Even that glancing friendship came back in return in a way that I never expected. 

But that causality is one of the best tools in building a community, I think. So let’s be kind to one another, and let’s grow together, both as artists and as a community.