The Telltale Lilac Bush at Marshall University
The incredible students at Marshall University Theatre have been hard at work on this show, from their opening performance to their time on the road as they take the show to local schools!
Check out their amazing work here:
www.facebook.com/MUTheatreETC
www.instagram.com/mu_theatreetc/
Check out their amazing work here:
www.facebook.com/MUTheatreETC
www.instagram.com/mu_theatreetc/
Coming 2021: The Telltale Lilac Bush
Adapted for the Stage by A.E. Gill
Directed by Leah Turley
Plays With Appalachian Artists Collective
Photo Credit: Emily Basile
Plays with Ars Creo
About the Shows
Photo Credit: Mary Wood
Once a theatre kid, always a theatre kid.
Like lots of the people in the photos above, my friend Zack (front row left) and I grew up in an amazing children's theatre program called Summers County Kids in Dramatic Studies (K.I.D.S), based in our hometown of Hinton, WV. The program continues to this day. The baton has passed from its founder, Patty Jeffries, to former K.I.D.S. who grew up to be directors and organizers in their own right.
In my day, students from second grade upward prepared one big musical every spring, along with a separate winter show, and several smaller recitals and appearances throughout the year. We were little, but we knew this was a big responsibility - not just because of all the work and hours, but because the whole community was so excited to support us. The yearly musical was big news. When the cast list was posted on the hallway bulletin board, the school dissolved into an excited frenzy.
Like lots of the people in the photos above, my friend Zack (front row left) and I grew up in an amazing children's theatre program called Summers County Kids in Dramatic Studies (K.I.D.S), based in our hometown of Hinton, WV. The program continues to this day. The baton has passed from its founder, Patty Jeffries, to former K.I.D.S. who grew up to be directors and organizers in their own right.
In my day, students from second grade upward prepared one big musical every spring, along with a separate winter show, and several smaller recitals and appearances throughout the year. We were little, but we knew this was a big responsibility - not just because of all the work and hours, but because the whole community was so excited to support us. The yearly musical was big news. When the cast list was posted on the hallway bulletin board, the school dissolved into an excited frenzy.
Me as Tiny Thumbelina. Photo Credit: Patty Stacklin
My first impression of theatre, in my entire life, was seeing the velvet curtains of our small community stage pull back to reveal the most intricately imagined Peter Pan set you've ever seen, lovingly crafted by artist Carol Jackson (who later became our set designer for Ars Creo). She designed that set to contain secret passages for special effects. She included details the audience would never see, just to help the young actors immerse themselves in this imaginary world. I remember looking up at the girl - a girl! playing Peter! - who somehow really seemed to fly, without a wire or pully; at a pirate ship that really seemed to float; at a hidden chimney that really seemed to set Captain Hook's pants on fire when he sat on it. And I thought, whatever this is, I want it, more than anything.
The year I got to play the lead and see my name at the top of that bulletin board (also lovingly designed by Carol) was the first time in school that I felt like somebody special, somebody talented, somebody other people noticed. I was shy and terrified - but I got through it. I sang and danced and wore a leotard. I learned I had a compulsive skill for memorizing not only all of my lines overnight, but everyone else's - so I could pick up roles at the drop of a hat, or save a scene from disaster. I'd never had something to be that confident about before.
And even better, I suddenly had free reign to do exactly what I did best: pretend, like the fairy tale was alive around me. Pretend hard enough, I learned, and everybody else will believe it's alive too.
The year I got to play the lead and see my name at the top of that bulletin board (also lovingly designed by Carol) was the first time in school that I felt like somebody special, somebody talented, somebody other people noticed. I was shy and terrified - but I got through it. I sang and danced and wore a leotard. I learned I had a compulsive skill for memorizing not only all of my lines overnight, but everyone else's - so I could pick up roles at the drop of a hat, or save a scene from disaster. I'd never had something to be that confident about before.
And even better, I suddenly had free reign to do exactly what I did best: pretend, like the fairy tale was alive around me. Pretend hard enough, I learned, and everybody else will believe it's alive too.
Photo Credit: Mary Wood
That's where we found our voices, and apprenticed in the great group effort of a show's machinery. It's where we learned the ways a community can come together and build something beautiful.
I stuck with that program through my whole school career. In middle and high school, I was stage crew and crowd control for the younger kids. I skipped senior prom to play one of the grandparents in Willie Wonka.
In 2008, Zack called me with the idea to start up our own troupe. I'd write the book and lyrics. Zack would write and conduct the music, and plan the choreography. Carol Jackson - who I've seen build a completely believable grand piano from cardboard, among other miracles - would design our sets, and be our stage manager. Ars Creo was born.
The name itself is kind of a nonsense Latin phrase. We originally intended for it to mean 'The Art of Creation,' but it more loosely translates to something along the lines of 'I, who am Art, create.' Honestly, that's perfect, too, because the whole idea behind Ars Creo was, 'By the Community, For the Community.' We were the ones making art for ourselves, and for our neighbors.
All of our shows were performed free of charge to the public, for the sake of making something that brought us all together for two summer nights.
I stuck with that program through my whole school career. In middle and high school, I was stage crew and crowd control for the younger kids. I skipped senior prom to play one of the grandparents in Willie Wonka.
In 2008, Zack called me with the idea to start up our own troupe. I'd write the book and lyrics. Zack would write and conduct the music, and plan the choreography. Carol Jackson - who I've seen build a completely believable grand piano from cardboard, among other miracles - would design our sets, and be our stage manager. Ars Creo was born.
The name itself is kind of a nonsense Latin phrase. We originally intended for it to mean 'The Art of Creation,' but it more loosely translates to something along the lines of 'I, who am Art, create.' Honestly, that's perfect, too, because the whole idea behind Ars Creo was, 'By the Community, For the Community.' We were the ones making art for ourselves, and for our neighbors.
All of our shows were performed free of charge to the public, for the sake of making something that brought us all together for two summer nights.
Hinton, West Virginia is a small town. If you want to see live theatre, you'll have to drive at least an hour in any given direction, on winding roads, uphill both ways. Not everyone has that kind of gas money, that kind of time, or a reliable vehicle - not to mention the cost of tickets themselves. Then there's the mental barrier: "Theatre? That's for other people." There were some in our audience who had never seen a play before - and that's understandable.
The arts are underfunded, and under-served in the mountains. People don't tend to think of WV as creative place. Artists aren't supposed to live in towns like ours.
But we do. And we're everywhere.
Students, and their younger siblings. Lawyers. Teachers. Retail workers. Nurses. Social workers. Parents. They answered our call.
People came out of the woodwork. They put on ridiculous costumes, rehearsed grueling routines for hours, constructed unbelievable sets, invented beautiful costumes. They sang - some of them for the first time. They danced, and sculpted, and painted, and built. Zack even brought together an orchestra, all of them scattered states away, arriving in time for dress rehearsal.
We borrowed rehearsal spaces, and rigged our own lighting. We performed outdoors and indoors. Sometimes we were still on-book up to opening night - because, hey, real life doesn't pause. The posters? We printed them, and canvased the town. We applied for grants, managed the accounts, raided thrift stores for costumes - all while learning how to make a man disappear on stage with no special effects, or change a character from a bear into a human in the space of a dance number, or have the residents of a morgue dance blindfolded.
All for two performances. Two brilliant nights in August, every year. Then, the sets came down, and we started over. Nobody got paid, except in the roses we gave out at curtain call. Why?
The arts are underfunded, and under-served in the mountains. People don't tend to think of WV as creative place. Artists aren't supposed to live in towns like ours.
But we do. And we're everywhere.
Students, and their younger siblings. Lawyers. Teachers. Retail workers. Nurses. Social workers. Parents. They answered our call.
People came out of the woodwork. They put on ridiculous costumes, rehearsed grueling routines for hours, constructed unbelievable sets, invented beautiful costumes. They sang - some of them for the first time. They danced, and sculpted, and painted, and built. Zack even brought together an orchestra, all of them scattered states away, arriving in time for dress rehearsal.
We borrowed rehearsal spaces, and rigged our own lighting. We performed outdoors and indoors. Sometimes we were still on-book up to opening night - because, hey, real life doesn't pause. The posters? We printed them, and canvased the town. We applied for grants, managed the accounts, raided thrift stores for costumes - all while learning how to make a man disappear on stage with no special effects, or change a character from a bear into a human in the space of a dance number, or have the residents of a morgue dance blindfolded.
All for two performances. Two brilliant nights in August, every year. Then, the sets came down, and we started over. Nobody got paid, except in the roses we gave out at curtain call. Why?
Because I've experienced how much one community can impact its individuals. All those women leading backstage. All those scrambling parents, sewing and running lines and showing up. All that artistry. All that time - for a handful of small children, stumbling over each other, forgetting our lines. I know how easy it would've been for them to not try, and how much that would have dimmed our lives.
But at the core, I know they never would've left us wanting, because I believe that in the mountains, we make. If we don't have the supplies, we use what we find. If we don't have the space, we borrow it, and if we don't have the community, we build it. We make, even if no one ever sees it happen - even if, in the space of a summer thunderstorm, it's gone.
It's what we've always done, and continue to do. It's how we grow. It's how we survive.
We, who are Art, create.
But at the core, I know they never would've left us wanting, because I believe that in the mountains, we make. If we don't have the supplies, we use what we find. If we don't have the space, we borrow it, and if we don't have the community, we build it. We make, even if no one ever sees it happen - even if, in the space of a summer thunderstorm, it's gone.
It's what we've always done, and continue to do. It's how we grow. It's how we survive.
We, who are Art, create.