Inflection Point: Our Obligation to One Another As Artists….

My Quaker grandmother was the first teacher in my life. She would sit me down, rest her hand on my knotted curls, and teach me that my eyes and mouth could build stories. I didn’t need brick and mortar to build an empire; I just had to be willing to listen. She was so patient with me, always waiting for God to speak through one of my strange actions so she could sing with joy that I was following my intuition. She made me think like a teacher and an artist - she made me look for the deeper breathing in life.

An essential teaching of Zen Buddhism, and one my Grandmother espoused, is to embrace when students outperform their teachers. When a student exceeds what came before, a complete circle of education is achieved. To be a good leader, you must be willing to be humbled by those you have directly influenced and released into the world.

While teaching and directing theatre are different, albeit overlapping, practices, I always hope my collaborators will far exceed my talents. Actors are superheroes who fly onstage fearlessly and somehow link their bodies to the words they are given— it is a deep and wise form of translation that I am in awe of. Designers notice the rattling underneath time and space. Stage managers quietly create release valves and parameters that keep us all in play.

The sign of a good director is someone who knows the worth of those around them.

Recognition of others is increasingly absent in today’s industry. The me—the desperate, demanding ME—often fails to create space for others. It is the wild west, and everyone is ready for high noon.

Our industry is at a moral inflection point. Will we take care of each other or sever care and completely corporatize? Will we let capitalism beat the art out of us, or will we trust artists?

This moral tipping point feels close to home. I have recently witnessed artists I love become violent and vacant as their egos and influence expand. The violence of betraying long-term collaborators, of refusing to ask anyone else how they are for months at a time, of welcoming a predator with open arms back to Broadway, of making it clear that everyone is out there on their own, with no alliance kept sacred. The violence of telling someone that they are a friend when, in fact, they were just a step on the ladder.

As I write about releasing ego, I also worry that, because I’ve been socialized as a working-class woman, I lean towards putting my head down—sometimes in reverence, sometimes in fear.

I was raised Catholic and Quaker, and when I got older, I spun myself around Buddhism. I am no stranger to staying quiet for a myriad of reasons. The quiet in Catholicism is usually shame-based, while in Quakerism, it’s listening for God. In Buddhism, the quiet is a recognition that we are all God. And so when I receive a compliment, I usually find myself going silent. Somewhere in those kind words, there is God. (To be totally honest, I either go silent OR I find something wrong with what I’ve done and shamefully confess in detail). Religion makes us complicated.

Theatre is not religion, but it is ritual. And rituals are the temporal markers of life.

Without ritual, we would never know when we are evolving. We would never know when we have reached an inflection point. And without thresholds to cross, we are just floating in chaos.

This is why it’s so essential to be generous with one another as we build these rituals.

In a world where the planet is burning and billionaires are suppressing wages, somehow we hold a soft spot in our hearts for the artist-monster-genius who will save us with their singular work, that we must separate from their horrible personality. We continue to uphold the same systems that are killing us in the hopes of one day having power? of only taking black SVUs to rehearsal? Of winning?

Is life (and art) meant to be won?

But how, when so many are willing to do WHATEVER it takes to succeed, can we maintain integrity without falling behind? Are we giving up when we stop trying to be king for a day?

Breathe.

Wait.

Wait to judge.

Wait to fix.

Wait to be so sure of anything.

This is where time comes into play. We must reshape our understanding of time if we are to survive. Time must become like silly putty that can be stretched and shaped at will. We must no longer ascribe to “have a hit by 30 or give up” or “your best work is in your 40s” or “if you haven’t gotten on Broadway by 25, you probably won’t”. All of it has to be released, and we must slow down.

We must build stories rather than just pump out more data. Stories are embodied and need time to simmer. They are full of mystery and faith - there is never one way the story will end. The body does not lie, while our mouth is constantly starting shit. It takes patience to write a story —to actually see people, not just what they can do for you.

In the slowing and seeing, we become intentional. Our field does not degrade. No, no, we go underground and get all the nutrients. We take the longer route. We let the wind blow the sails in a new direction, one that doesn’t compromise our ability to give and receive compassion. We stop gripping to illusions of power that tell us we are more human or more deserving than others. We return to community—and not community as some idyllic utopia—but community as the people around you, deeply flawed yet sharing the value of our art form as essential to our society.

Slowing is hard.

I’ve recently made a conscious choice to slow down.

I feel the most adult I ever have and also the loneliest.

The world spins and sighs, and I’m refusing to be desperate.

I am in a very high-stakes game with trust.

By slowing down, I hope to listen to who I truly am, release my resentments, and focus on the art itself. And that quiet in me will make me much better for everyone else. I will show up to the party because looking after others is a more important marker of your mortality than any amount of self-care. This is scientifically true - fewer heart attacks occur when you hold the door open for others and speak their names in rooms that matter.

I hope those who write me off because I’m no longer sprinting will be long gone before I give a fuck. My grandmother is still patiently waiting somewhere for God to speak through me, and she is never in a rush, so why should I be?

Start there.

Repeat until you stop feeling that churning in your chest.

Repeat until you can sit still without all of the strings of identity.

Repeat until you aren’t trying to justify your existence.

Repeat until you find some peace.

Strategy is dead.

Long live spaciousness.

Katherine Wilkinson (she/they) is a director and theatremaker based in Brooklyn. She is reimagining the classics and creating new worlds for queer futures. Katherine creates physically adventurous, energetic, ensemble-driven work. She is obsessed with poetry, endurance, transformation, and the relationship between intimacy and spectacle. Learn more at https://www.katherinewilkinson.com/