Odd coincidence of the week: found myself thinking quite intensely of a musical I directed for a school performance back in the last century. The show in question was Rogers and Hammerstein's Carousel and it's a corker. What happened was this: I carried out an acting activity I devised which I call Ghost Play with my drama guys, which is based on the sequence in which the dead protagonist of Carousel returns to earth to seek redemption. (See, I told you it was good stuff.) And then at the same time I was planning the drama session, two of the actual cast of the school show got in touch with me through the comments thingy at this very same Far Place you are currently reading. (And huge apologies from me, ladies, for taking so long to reply, which I now have, back under said comments.)
Thinking of the show as we performed it, and of a brilliant version I saw in London directed by Nicholas Hytner in the December prior to our version - from which I stole one or two neat details - I was struck, as I so often am, by how doing a show of any kind, even something pretty rough at the edges, has a way of transcending time for those involved in it. I mean, I can even remember being on stage in a pirate extravaganza we did when I was a ten-year-old in primary school and loving very moment.
When we create something, anything, and our hearts leave their imprint in that thing we partake of the divine. That's a pretty extravagant claim, but there's no point in underestimating the wonder of it all when it's so apparent to everyone who's ever made something up that manages to live.
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