We can’t forget about the artists. Especially now.
When will it be OK to talk about art again? That’s something I’ve been thinking of since the COVID-19 pandemic hit the world. Lives are at stake during the pandemic. Protesters continue to march for the lives of black people. The oil and gas industry is in a historic crisis, from which these companies — and the city of Houston — might never fully recover. To talk about theater or art can feel inappropriate right now.
I didn’t want to weigh in. Nobody wants to talk about art right now, I thought, at risk of taking the spotlight away from more pressing matters.
And so the theater world retreated from attention, garnering only a news story or two every now and then about devastating financial loss.
It’s easy, after all, to forget about the artists. But what happens when we do? I could surely imagine a world without theater — we’ve lived in one for three months now. But I wouldn’t want to.
The shutting-down of the theater world hasn’t just taken a favorite activity of mine away but robbed me (and many of my friends) of a sense of purpose. It’s taken away my most fundamental sense of Houston as a city. To me, Houston was always defined by its artists because without the artists, Houston wouldn’t have its voice, its identity. The pandemic has also taken away a sense of the social fabric that defines this city, the vast yet often tight-knit community of directors, writers, musicians, painters and designers.
Because when I think of Houston, I think of seeing the explosive “We Are Proud to Present…” at Stages Repertory Theatre and the divergent opinions
on its take on white colonialism. I think of the Alley Theatre’s sprawling, colorful “Vietgone” exploring the Vietnamese experience. I think of the Catastrophic Theatre’s “Speeding Motorcycle,” a warm celebration of the life of Texas singer Daniel Johnston. I think of the blistering “Exit Strategy,” which Rec Room put on during the height of debates on the future of Houston schools.
These shows not only reflected the diversity and complexity of Houston but also challenged us to think critically about our city. But when COVID-19 hit, I didn’t feel there was anything to say about missing theater. I thought I’d just wait the crisis out and hope that society soon reverts to being able to afford to care about the arts. But now it’s becoming clear that the world that emerges from COVID-19 won’t be the same.
Houston’s theater world, after all, couldn’t be more vulnerable right now, as it faces a pincer grip of multiple, potentially catastrophic changes in society. Theaters rarely recoup even half of their expenses from ticket sales, relying on philanthropy to pay for the rest of their production costs. Though Gov. Greg Abbott has announced that fine arts performance halls are allowed to reopen, none in Houston has so far. This is a harsh reality when combined with the fact that the industry depends on the generosity of wealthy companies and individuals from the oil and gas world.
The Alley Theatre’s $7 million budget cut, from $20 million to $13 million, because of both current and projected reductions in public grants, ticket sales and donations, means Houston’s biggest theater company is fundamentally changed.
All of Houston’s companies will face a similar struggle. As a journalist working in print newspapers, I can attest that this kind of shrinkage does more than financial damage. A massive reduction of an industry fundamentally changes what it feels like to be a professional. There is a psychological scarring that comes with becoming unemployed doing what you thought was your life passion, a sense of selfdoubt and fear that may taint your relationship with your craft forever.
And it’s not much better for the remaining staff, who are working more hours for less pay, and who experience lingering feelings of guilt, fear and bitterness. These “survivors,” so to speak, can’t help but wonder if things will continue to get worse. Theaters’ artists and leaders have told me they’re in a fog of uncertainty over when and how the industry will recover.
But uncertainty, or hopelessness, is a temporary state of emotion during a conflict or crisis. That’s why I’ve never thought of art as “nonessential” — because I defined art as the practice of seeing, creating and performing human progress, or in other words, the very antithesis of hopelessness.
When faced with the AIDS crisis, the theater world not only survived but emerged, through “Angels in America” and other plays and musicals of its era, as one of the nation’s most important art forms. Out of AIDS, the American theater took on a new sense of sacred beauty — it became not only a temple for gay youth but a new way for people to exist and thrive.
The 1980s and ’90s weren’t proof that it’s easy to recover from catastrophes but showed it was possible, and that art has always been an essential component of that recovery. In the darkness of disease and death, there is always a reason to go onstage and make art. No one knows what theater will emerge after COVID-19, or in what shape or form, but we can’t forget about art and artists, precisely because it’s so easy to do just that right now.
We shouldn’t think of artists as irrelevant during this time. We should look to them as leaders. The word “drama,” after all, comes from the Greek word “dran,” which means “do, or act.” In these times, I can’t think of anything more essential.