As I stand here on this stage, and I see so many people in the room who have been such an important part of my life for the last decade-plus, I can’t help but think about how tired I am. It’s been a stressful 12 years. Rewarding, but stressful. 

I say 12 years of course, because there was really a year of solid planning and work that went into Dramashop before we actually opened our first production. The unofficial start to Dramashop was really THE BOOK OF LIZ, which involved me making a paper-mache Mr. Peanut costume, and Jess embroidering a pillow with phallic cheeseballs. That really set the tone for the next 12 years.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I wanted to say tonight. There are lots of people to thank. Too many. And so, I’m not going to thank many people tonight. Please, nobody take offense to that. I’m grateful to each and every one of you, and to many people who couldn’t be here tonight. Not mentioning someone specifically isn’t some sort of secret burn, but my term ends on June 30 and there’s other stuff I want to say.

This also isn’t going to be the history of Dramashop, though there will be a little bit of that mixed in. But I’m less interested in talking about where we’ve been and more interested in talking about where we’re going. Where I hope we we’re going. Where I challenge you to go.

But first, some history. 

When we started Dramashop, a lot of people thought we would fail. And I knew that, yes, there was in fact a good chance we would fail. It was 2011. The 2008 recession had hit arts organizations hard. The Director’s Circle and the Roadhouse had closed. PACA hadn’t even started yet. It would have been perfectly understandable if we failed, and, at the risk of throwing some shade, some others who have tried since, have, in fact, failed. 

I don’t know if you know this, but theatre people like to talk some smack, and man, was there some smack being talked about us. “Who did we think we were? How dare we take on the Playhouse? We’re not even from here.” 

It wasn’t coming from leaders in the arts community, for the most part, because they got it. They saw what we were doing, and for the most part, they were supportive. They knew they couldn’t be everything to everyone, and that there were areas they were unable to serve without overextending themselves. 

Almi Clerkin and Richard Davis were supportive to the point that they even suggested shows we should consider. I even continued to serve on the Playhouse board until I felt I couldn’t give both organizations the attention they deserved. 

But yeah, there were people in the theatre community who considered what we were doing to be an act of betrayal or a show of entitlement or ego. 

They didn’t know what we knew: we came to play. Or more appropriately, to work. They underestimated us, which I suppose was a blessing, because it meant we could only exceed expectations. 

Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t bring this up to start something on my way out the door, but it’s important to reflect on where we started as you all take on the task of determining where we – where you – go next.

A couple of years into my tenure at Dramashop, Jess and I had dinner with a fellow arts administrator. She grew up in Erie but had been away for a while, and she was excited to learn about Dramashop. She used a phrase that I’d heard before, but not necessarily in regards to theatre. She described Erie as a non-competitive theatre market. And that really stuck with me, because that’s exactly what we are. 

If you drew a Venn diagram of Erie’s theatres, with a circle for each theatre, there’d be some overlap, for sure. We are all theatres, after all. 

But each theatre is different. The types of shows we produce are different. Our venues are different. Our budgets are different. If each circle on that diagram was in proportion to the size of the organization’s budget and reach, our circle would be one of the smaller ones, for sure. 

What the naysayers didn’t realize in those early years and what some may still not realize, is that we’re not competing. Not really. Yes, last night, you couldn’t see FORUM at the Playhouse and EVERYBODY at Dramashop, so you had to choose which show to see on that particular night. But you could see FORUM on Friday and EVERYBODY on Saturday, head to PACA or ALL AN ACT or THE STATION next week.

We don’t “compete” for talent or for audiences any more than a Broadway musical competes with a new work at the Public Theatre. There’s not only room for all – there’s a need for all. There’s an audience for all. 

For me personally, starting Dramashop was about creating a place where I could do the kind of shows I wanted to do. That sounds selfish, and if it was just about me, it wouldn’t have worked. But I wasn’t alone in wanting to do those types of shows. You’ve all heard me say it. We do the shows that aren’t going to sell 500 seats a night, let alone over the course of three weeks. Annie Baker would not play well on the LECOM stage. EVERYBODY surpassed its ticket goal by a significant margin, and it closed this afternoon to an audience barely bigger than the cast. And that’s still a success.

We do the shows that you probably don’t want to bring your kids to – or bring my parents to – and that’s ok. Because we built a model for theatre where we aren’t dependent on selling 500 seats a night, or even 50 seats a night. If we sell half the house, we’re great. 

We built a theatre where the emphasis isn’t on just getting ot that final product, the emphasis is on the work. The design and construction, the trial and error. Character development. Table work. Company-building. 

And while the end product of that work is a show with an audience, and while we want those audiences to be entertained and challenged, if I had to choose between artistic quality and commercial success, I’d choose artistic quality every time. The good news is, we built a model where we could achieve both. 

Incremental growth. That’s been a guiding principle for Dramashop. At the Arts Council, I watched organizations be crushed by the weight of their own overhead costs. While an all-volunteer organization can only do so much and it might be time for Dramashop to invest in a more sustainable model, we knew we had to start small or avoid a similar fate. 

In our first season, our entire budget was less than $10,000. The first Supporting Players Goal was $1,000. This year, our Supporting Players goal is $20,000 – more than double our entire season budget that first year. We’re still about $1500 short of that goal, by the way – hint hint.

Think about that. If all goes well, we will raise more donations in the next 3 days than we did in our entire first season. Our first season had 2 mainstage productions, a small scale “fringe” production, and a staged reading. Next season, Anna will produce 4 mainstage productions, 2 staged readings and a one-act festival. 

We went from a traveling company with no home, building sets in our basement, to turning Dramashop into not just a thing, but a place. A beautiful place with posters commemorating our 72 productions so far, and with a giant logo on the wall to remind audiences who produced that awesome show they just saw. 

Consistency. Another guiding principle. While each production can and should vary greatly, I hope and believe that we have set a high bar for ourselves in terms of artistic quality. Do we clear the bar every single time? Probably not, but damnit if we don’t try. 

Smaller budgets don’t have to mean diminished quality as long as you don’t bite off more than you can chew and design within your means. Some of the best productions we’ve done have had the simplest sets and costumes. Spectacle is tricky, and costly, and not necessarily our wheelhouse. Remember that Venn Diagram? More often than not, spectacle is better left to others in town. 

And to be clear, for those who didn’t take my Intro to Theatre course, I’m talking spectacle as one of Aristotle’s six elements of theatre. It’s an important part of theatre, to be sure. So when we do spectacle at Dramashop, it’s got to be done in a way that can match the level of quality our audiences have come to expect. When it rains in an elevator on the EURYDICE set, instead of installing plumbing, we use a watering can, to great effect. That’s the magic of theatre.

Identity. We know who we are. We know who we aren’t. We’re theatre geeks. If you’re here for the party, you’re going to be frustrated by the work. The process of it all. Work now, play when the work is done. 

If you’re here for theatre that’s going to have you talking on the elevator ride down, on the car ride home, or quite possibly a week or more later, hopefully this is that place. 

I think of sitting in the audience, in the uncomfortable silence of SMALL MOUTH SOUNDS, a week after almost losing Jess. Suddenly, we, the audience, aren’t so safe beyond the fourth wall, watching fictional characters contemplate their lives at a silent retreat. Suddenly, we ourselves are at a silent retreat, forced to – given the space and time to – reflect on our own lives. Our own pain. Our own struggles. 

A moment to feel whatever we’re feeling as we sit in the silence of a dark theatre, staring at an empty stage, waiting for the next moment of action to happen. 

But nothing happens. Nobody says anything. Nobody even walks on to the stage. Somewhere, somehow, for me at least, it stopped being theatre and for a moment became something transcendent. Or maybe that’s exactly what theatre is – something transcendent. 

A contradiction. A shared experience, alone together. Truth but not reality. Disbelief suspended. Ephemera. 

We come into this sacred space, the weight of the world on our shoulders, and share these experiences in the dark, together. And then we carry that experience out into the world. Changed, or not. Moved, or not. And then we go on to whatever’s next. Ephemera. 

Mission. I’m now working at my second Catholic college, and so that word “mission” can be a complex one, but the principle is the same. Mission guides us. It’s the start of a journey. It’s the foundation upon which everything else is built. 

The mission of Dramashop is to provide entertaining and provocative theatrical experiences designed to challenge and engage the Erie community.

As I worked with Anna these past few months, and as we talked season selection in particular, I would come back with probably annoyingly vague advice. Rather than “yes, that’s a good pick,” or “that doesn’t feel like a Dramashop show to me,” I’d say things like “Go back to the mission. Does it fit the mission?” That was always my guide in season selection, or when someone would say “Dramashop should do this” or “Dramashop should do that.” 

And so back to the almighty Venn diagram. Because that’s where theatres, or any organizations for that matter, lose themselves – when they lose sight of their mission. If our circle starts to overlap too much with anyone else’s circle, or if anyone else’s circle attempts to, I don’t know, encircle all the other circles, somebody has screwed up, and somebody isn’t going to survive it unless the market has fundamentally changed and there’s suddenly an overwhelming demand that has never before existed in the history of Erie theatre. It’s called mission creep, and it’s deadly to nonprofits. 

Is it getting too dark? I’ll try to lighten it up a little. 

I’ll be the first to admit, I haven’t always been overly receptive to collaborating with other theatres, and it isn’t because I don’t play nice with others. It’s because I’ve been focused on our mission. On our circle on that Venn diagram. On how we, Dramashop, fit in to the overall picture, and, frankly, on protecting that piece of the market we’ve carved out for ourselves. 

Theatre is a collaborative sport, there’s no doubt about that. Collaboration makes for great art. Some of the best-received shows we’ve done have been driven by collaboration – a team of artists working toward a common vision. 

But collaboration in name only, collaboration that makes Dramashop appear “less than,” or collaboration that doesn’t benefit all the collaborators – I have no interest in that. “Smaller than” does not equal “less than.” Give me ‘stronger together’ every day of the week, as long as it truly makes us – all of us – stronger together.

I know there’s been some speculation about whether my departure might create an opportunity for someone else to hone in on that corner of the market we’ve worked so hard to serve. I certainly hope not. And it’s not because of my own ego or anything like that. I believe there are ways we can and should work together, support each other, share resources. 

But I would argue that the existence of so many different theatres in Erie has made us all have to work harder and be better. In this non-competitive market, we can each be the best at the thing we do. 

If any one theatre – Dramashop or anyone else – thinks they can be the best at everything, they will fail. Instead of being excellent at one or two things, they’ll be mediocre at lots of things. 

We’ve tried different things at Dramashop, and that’s good. We’ve realized there are things we’re good at, and there are things that others are better at. 

We need a strong Dramashop. We need a strong Playhouse. We need all of our local theatres to do well. We are at our best when everyone is at their best – When we commit to doing what we do, well. 

When we commit to doing what we do, well.

I would be a terrible person if I let this night go by without acknowledging at least some of the people who are responsible for getting me here. Some of the biggest influences on my artistic career are in this room. Others are not. My parents, though not theatre people themselves, are probably more responsible for the work I’ve done here than they realize. 

My mom encouraged my creativity every step of the way, from taking me to my first audition at Greensburg Civic Theatre when I was 12 to walking the Schuster Theatre with me on my college visit. 

My dad would have probably preferred to see me in a football uniform than my CABARET kickline fishnets and heels, but there he was, laughing and clapping along. You can thank him for the work ethic he instilled in me. If not for that, none of us would be here today. 

Then there are my theatre parents. Shawn Clerkin and Paula Barrett. Shawn sees the forest. Paula sees the trees. Thanks to them, I try to remember to see both. We all know the horrible saying, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” That’s crap. Shawn and Paula can do. And they can teach. They are my mentors, they are my friends. We’ve laughed together. We’ve cried together. I am profoundly grateful for the impact they have had on me as an artist, and as a human. 

And then there’s my theatre wife, which might be weird to say, because my wife does theatre, and my wife has been instrumental to Dramashop’s success, but that’s not who I’m talking about and she knows it. I’m talking about Alaina Manchester, an unofficial founding board member and someone who has been trying to shed the mantle of “associate artistic director” from the moment she received it. Alaina is my partner in crime – the crime being theatre. 

We are polar opposites as directors and performers, and yet in social situations, we are completely redundant. To quote the Wizard of Oz, “Scarecrow, I think I’ll miss you most of all.” 

Alaina is the scarecrow in this example. Also, what a crappy thing for Dorothy to say when the Tin Man and Lion are standing right there. 

And to my actual wife, what can I say? Who else would put up with what you have? Hours spent waiting for me to finish “one more thing” before I come home from the theatre. The last 11 years of our lives planned around a production calendar. 

But truly, what people need to know about me and Jess is that we are quite literally perfectly matched. It’s easy to look at the challenges she’s faced and pat me on the back for being there for her, but holy crap has she been there for me. Every step of the way. Every stressful tech week. Every tearful conversation (me, not her) where I said I don’t think I can do this – Dramashop – any more.

And four months ago, when I struggled to make a really big decision that would affect the rest of our lives, she was the one saying “You have to take this. You have to do this. We’re doing this.” 

While I may have been more visible as the face of Dramashop, Jess has been my partner from the very beginning, and every step along the way. Today should be for her as much as it is for me, and probably moreso. Jess, thank you.

Now, Dramashop enters this new era with a dedicated board, with an exceptional, visionary new artistic director, a hard-working and laser-focused creative team, and with a loyal base of volunteers and patrons. 

Don’t give that up. Stay focused on the work we do here, and don’t let anybody steer you off that course. Others may tempt you with the promise of unlimited resources and larger audiences. It sounds good, I’ll admit. But don’t lose sight of who we are. When in doubt, go back to that mission. Call FastSigns. Have them put it up there on that wall. 

Those of you who have circled up with me in green room know what I always say. In fact, I’d like you to indulge me one last time. Do me a favor – cross your arms, right over left, and join hands with the people next to you. Take moment, think about the work we have to do and the story we have to tell.

Usually, somebody giggles, somebody whispers, and I wait for a true moment of silence. For that “Silent Mouth Sounds” level silence where we’re truly forced to think – or at least stay quiet for a moment. 

Then I say end the silence by saying “Give ‘em a great one, Dream-shop on three, and check your fly.” 

This is my version of David Matthews’ famous “give them love and they’ll give it back,” and Jeff Shiffman’s less eloquent but more direct “Let’s rip this shit up” from Gannon. 

In fact, “think about the work we have to do and the story we have to tell” comes from my Gannon education, from Shawn, and mostly from Paula, who would simply say “Tell the story.” 

Do the work. Tell the story. And in the immortal words of Almi Clerkin, “Do something. Do anything. For the love of God, do something.”

I’m wrapping up, I swear.

It’s awkward to stand here today. I act like I seek the spotlight, but in reality, I much prefer standing in the back of the theatre watching a show – or better yet, sitting on the couch and not watching most of the show. I’m grateful for the recognition from you all, truly. It’s nice. It’s appreciated. 

It’s not why I do this, though. I’ve considered my role here to be that of a public servant. You entrusted me to run this place, to direct and produce shows, to spend your money. I hope I served you well. 

It’s your turn now. All of you. Dramashop is in your hands. 

So, I end with a charge to each and every one of you, as artists, as patrons, as humans: 

• Never stop being bold. Never stop innovating.

• Always stay true to who and what you are.

• Welcome others. Depend on others. Listen to others. And listen to that voice inside you that tells you what is right and what is good. 

• Keep telling stories that matter – stories that can change minds. Stories that can change the country and change the world.

• Think about the work we have to do, and the stories we have to tell. Because if we don’t, no one will.

Put another way: be an artist.

Thank you for for this incredible opportunity. Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk. I love you all. Goodnight – and check your fly.