Moments we carry

From playing the Little Mermaid in the 3rd grade to starting a theatre company that has continued since 2011, the arts are more than a career - they are some of the biggest memories in my life.

Pictured: Ash Singer (right) in IVP’s production of Censored on Final Approach at the Judson Theatre.

I always had a hard time in school. Reading and writing caused a lot of anxiety, and I was never a child who fit in easily with others. This is normally the part of the story where the theatre person says how they found comfort with the other theatre kids. I did not. I felt overwhelmed most of the time and was grateful when rehearsals began.

My comfort was found not in the room, but in the work.

I loved the process of creation. I loved the rehearsal process. I loved that moment in theatre when the audience and the artist are in dialogue, even though only one of those participants is talking during a show. There is a lot to be said about the creation of theatre and how I grew to be the artist I am today. But it is not only the times I was creating something that helped me grow as an artist. And it is not just the classes and teachings. Although both have affected me greatly, there is a whole other part of theatre that stays with me: the relationship between artist and audience member, and the bond between audience members in one moment that will never be recreated.

Pictured: Ash directing the workshop production of The Arena — when she realized how much history does actually repeat itself.

As I have been working on my play The Arena, which is about Hallie Flanagan and the Federal Theatre Project, a lot of my dramaturgical research has been about the lasting effects of the FTP and Hallie’s influence. It has brought me back to a question: Why and how does theatre stay with an audience member?

More than just, “It was a great show.”

My favorite memory is of a show where the actor not only affected me, but gave me an everlasting moment with a particular audience member that I will never forget.

My father.

Anyone who knew my dad knows he was a very loud person. He always seemed to make every moment a one-person show, even though he never stepped foot on a stage.

Many years ago, he and I went to see Les Misérables. It was a show we had seen together before, but when Ramin Karimloo sang “Bring Him Home,” it was so beautiful, filled with such vulnerability, talent, and emotion, that it was as if we had both heard that song for the first time.

We were not alone in our feelings, apparently, because when Ramin finished, the entire theatre was silent.

As a theatre person, I know that silence can mean more than applause. It is the moment when the entire audience does not know what to do because they are still catching their breath from what they just experienced.

Then, right in the moment when Ramin had finished, my dad leaned over and, in what he thought was a whisper but was still high volume, said:

“That was really good, right?”

I could not help but smile and almost laugh.

I will never forget that.

I will never forget how powerful Ramin’s performance was. I will never forget how he made me feel what his character felt. And even more than that, I will always smile when I recall my father’s ridiculous - and so him - moment with me that day. A moment only between him and myself.

There is power in performance. But live performance holds so many more layers of it. The performance, the audience, the person sitting next to you, and the memories you carry with you long after the curtain comes down.

Pictured: Ash with her audience.