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“Cutting it a little close, huh?” John comments with a friendly smile.
In addition to the acting class, it’s a requirement for technical theater majors to act in at least one show before we graduate. Actors are also required to join a show crew, spend a semester in the scene shop, and take a couple of design classes too. I think it’s supposed to give us a more wholistic experience of the theater world.
I didn’t think much about it when I joined the theater program at Middle Penn, but every year, the requirement taunted me. John Chappell, my advisor, would remind me at the end and the beginning of every semester that I needed to get involved in a play.
I’m a senior now, so I had no choice but to audition for the one-acts or one of the Main Stage shows. Considering the non-musical show this year is Shakespeare, the much smaller, student-directed, barely attended one-acts were my preference. I wasn’t sure they would count, but John said they would.
“Tried to skip it entirely, but alas,” I say, and the three of us share a chuckle, “I wanted to graduate in time.”
“We will definitely be chatting about your graduation plans, but let’s dive into this meeting. What do you have for us?” John asks.
I wrestle three black folders out of my backpack, handing two to John and Adam and keeping one for myself, a packet of papers stapled together neatly inside. “So, if you flip past the cover page, the first page is my concept design summary.”
When John asked if I’d be the designer forA Midsummer Night’s Dream, he requested I put together a packet for the first design meeting. He walked me through filing the paperwork to let this design project count as a class this year, because even though “in the real world, you won’t do this,” it’s still college, and I need something to be graded on.
John and Adam both skim the page but then look at me. There’s a slight tremor in my hands, and I grip the edges of my folder to try to still myself. I mentally cue myself, the way a stage director might:And three, two, one, Designer go.
“A couple words stood out to me as I thought about theMidsummer Night’s Dreamlighting design. ‘Immersive’ and ‘whimsical’ are the main two. So when we’re in some of the opening scenes, I want the lights to saturate you not only in the setting but also in the feelings of the characters. Before the faeries take the stage, the main story is the love square, and I want the lighting to reflect some of that tension.”
Adam and John are nodding, which gives me the confidence to continue. I sit up a little straighter, absorbing their assurance.
“Once we get into the scenes with the faeries, I want the feeling to reflect their whimsy and mischief. I want the lighting to be an outward expression of the inner workings. The rest of the summary talks a little more about the color scheme andsome of the textures I’d like to use to achieve that, but if you turn the page, you can check out some of my inspiration photos.”
We all turn the page in our packets, and John and Adam continue to nod as they look through the photos.
“So I’ve got lots of bright whites for the early scenes, with some softer pink accents. I want that bright white to fuel the intensity of the lovers’ quarrel, and for it to serve as a contrast once we’re in the forest scenes. That first page of the color schemes is for non-forest scenes—bright whites with some soft, warmer accents. I plan to lean into the cool colors for the forest, so you can see the color palette on the second page with some ideas for that.”
They take in the photos, and I take a steadying breath. It feels like it’s going really well, but my heart is racing, and despite my confidence, I’m still a little shaky.
Both Adam and John look up at me with smiles.
“This looks great, Ian,” Adam says. “You’ve got an immense talent for this.”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming at his praise. “Did you have any questions?” I glance between John and Adam, and they both shake their heads.
“I think this is going to look great on the main stage, and we can work together once you finish the lighting plot to hash out some of the details,” John says.
“Great! Thank you so much. I’m looking forward to it.”
We all stand and say our goodbyes, and on the way out of the office, John calls after me.
“Ian, walk with me to my office. I thought we could chat about postgrad plans,” he says.
My stomach sinks to my knees. I’d hoped to avoid these conversations until January at least, when I might have a more solid plan, but maybe John can help me narrow down my options.
We walk through a set of doors that take us to the main stage. It’s a real Everest of a climb through the audience seating of the main stage to John’s office—a crow’s nest up in the tippy top of the theater.
The office is a mess, rolled-up lighting and set design plans strewn about the room, bits of gels, pencils, tools everywhere—I count three tape measures without effort. His office is like a search-and-find puzzle from a kid’s magazine, packed to the brim with stuff you’d have to sort through to locate anything.
“As always, apologies for the mess. I think one of those chairs is clear.”
He points to the two chairs across from his desk, and he’s right. One is completely empty, and the other holds a heavy-looking stack of papers. I take a seat in the empty one, and John plops into his worn leather rolling chair.
He claps his hands together to commence the meeting.
“I thought we could take just a few minutes to connect about postgrad. I know it seems early to be having this conversation, but your attention is going to be everywhere this semester, and I want to talk to you while you have the mental space for it.”
The press of my top row of teeth into my bottom lip keeps me grounded as the anxiety of leaving college threatens to carry me away.
