We are in the same boat, looking over the edge. Holding onto one another for dear life.
The last story I published for Isthmus, at least in its current iteration, was “Dark Stages,” where I barely scratched the surface of the aftereffects of the shocking and dramatic shutdown of virtually all performing arts events. Everything changed in the space of a week as the spread of COVID-19 at large public gatherings became first a worry and then a menacing reality. Roseann Sheridan of CTM shared a heartbreaking account of shutting down the company’s production of Peter Pan, which involved a large cast of young performers.
Veteran stagehand Mark Bitney shared worries about the economic future of the union’s members and recounted working on three giant sets, two of which still hang vacant in Overture’s dark building. Something that didn’t make it into the article was the effort to present a livestream fundraising event to support the Bartell Theatre. As crowd sizes were reduced from 250 to 50 to 10 in quick succession, the logistics of moving even a small audience safely in and out of the building became daunting. The Kathie Rasmussen Women’s Theatre performed Expecting Isabel several times before closing it. I had tickets for March 13, but I couldn’t go. It was too late.
The last live show I saw was Four Seasons Theatre’s When the Music Stops: The Anita O’Day Story, on March 11. The last hugs I received from non-family members were from the show’s star, Sarah Streich, and the club’s owner, Hanah Jon Taylor. At that point in understanding social distancing, I was not offering hugs, but I couldn’t bring myself to reject an offer. Yeah, I’m a hugger.
In 2015, when I was offered the chance to become Isthmus’ arts and culture editor my only fear was that selfish, existential dread that many artists live with day to day: What about my art? In addition to being a writer, I am a singer, a trumpeter and a playwright. On a practical level, I feared that protocols on conflict of interest would bring less attention to the projects I was involved in: VO5 and Are We Delicious? Or the musicals I have written with my husband, Andrew Rohn, should we revive any of them. Sort of the opposite of nepotism. I also feared that turning all my creative energies outward would shrink my capacity to create my own art. That my tendency to focus on product vs. process would be exacerbated. That my jealousy of people doing what I wanted to do would rise up and eat away at me. That my time to create would be constrained by the demands of a full-time day job.
I swallowed those concerns and embraced the opportunity to serve as a journalist, a conduit between the public and the artists. And personally, I found that instead of shrinking, my world expanded. My voice grew stronger in every way. I had countless heartfelt conversations about the creative process with authors, musicians, playwrights, visual artists, filmmakers and arts administrators. I commiserated with them on the difficulties of finding an audience, securing funding, collaborating and operating small organizations in a difficult climate. I fell in love — over and over again — with the people I interviewed. I was honored to bring their stories to the page.
For one cover story, I interviewed the remarkable KelsyAnne Schoenhaar, the founder of Encore Studio for the Arts, one of the country’s only theaters for people with disabilities. I sat in on rehearsals and interviewed the company’s actors, who provide a window into living with disabilities. For another, I profiled Wendy Schneider, a multimedia goddess whose dedication to Madison’s music and arts community is humbling. In October, I profiled Julia Reichert, a 50-year veteran documentary maker whose films spotlight the economic and cultural woes of the Midwest.
Not everyone I talked to identified as an artist. But in their own ways, they all are creatives, bringing beauty and joy. And each story I wrote changed me. Isthmus gave me the creative freedom to share the story of my father’s struggle with dementia and our family’s agonizing experience with involuntary commitment and the inadequacies of the health care system. My conversations with Henry Janisch, who served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, gave a glimpse into the experience of a combat veteran. As I watched UW-Madison struggle through the years of recognizing what an unfriendly climate this city is for students of color, I cherished my chance to profile UW’s First Wave program, the country’s only hip-hop scholarship. On a quiet, snowy day I traveled to Barneveld where a three-hour conversation with Bill Robichaud transported me to the rainforests of Laos where he had spent decades trying to document the existence of the world’s rarest mammal.
Not long ago, I talked to glass artist Richard Jones, who was shutting down his furnace and shifting his focus away from carbon-intensive art. Our conversation was eye opening. And his words about the climate crisis were even more prescient than I understood just a few short months ago: “I’ve heard scientists say we have about 80 years left of viable agriculture. We’ve forgotten our connection to the Earth — this very simple thing, stop and look. Look at the world: It’s suffering and needs your attention. What’s important is right under our feet.”
So, as Isthmus pauses during this difficult period and performing artists enter a period of forced intermission, I just want to say thank you to everyone who answered my calls and emails. It has brought me great satisfaction to share your stories.
To the Isthmus arts freelancers, I couldn’t have done it without you: your fresh ideas, your patience, your toiling away at revisions for little pay. Your voices made this community a warmer, more connected one.
A special shoutout to everyone who gets up to write in the wee hours, who rushed from their day job to their night rehearsals, who fought to have artists compensated for their work, who hauled their shit to a three-hour club gig and came out with $20. To the crowdfunders and the shoestring budget organizations: We are rooting for you. I don’t need a refund!
And to everyone who banished their inner critics for long enough to create something and put it out in the world, remember this: We are still listening. We are still watching. We are here.
