To Comp or Not to Comp; or, Why We Now Have Season Tickets

Our artistic consultant teases me because I’m shy about asking for comps. One of the perks of working in a theater is the frequent occurrence of being offered free tickets to other theaters’ previews, openings, poorly selling performances, and just nights when fuller houses are desired. Many times a season, sign-up sheets will show up at our front desk: we sign our name with quiet glee because, voila, we just saved $20 on a show we wanted to see. Even when these invitations don’t go out, there is an agreement among many theaters in the Bay Area that you can call ahead, say you work at Blah Blah Blah Theater Company Group, and if the show is not sold out then you can probably sneak in. And, of course, because we work in a theater, we know people who work in other theaters, and many times those relationships are exploited to get free tickets. There are a number of ways.

Many of my colleagues are pros. They can get free tickets to just about anything, it seems. (They are also just generally better about putting themselves out there in the community; I have come to define my presence here almost entirely through writing—for one theater and this blog. I was unbelievably fortunate to land in the job I have so soon after I arrived here, but the disadvantage of this is that I’ve never truly been down in the dirt with the larger theater community: the community who cannot solely survive on income from the arts. In this respect, during my short 11-month stint in Chicago as an intern and freelancer, I, out of necessity, made more inroads than in my just-under three years here.) My colleagues know many more people here. For many theaters, they are also more desirable audience members because, for them, each show is an audition for local talent—actors, directors, designers. I give feedback about these elements, but I’m by no means a key player in hiring talent. If I’m auditioning anyone, its the wordsmith, but usually I’m just there to enjoy the show.

And so, if that’s true, if I’m not there on company business, why shouldn’t I pay for tickets? Why shouldn’t you? But, Dan, we’re there to support our friends and colleagues. Yes, as well you should. Certainly. But should you not also support them—and the theaters giving them homes—financially? But, Dan, we work in theater: we don’t make enough money to spend what little we make on seeing theater. Yes, you say that, and I don’t disagree . . . but then you spend $20 on drinks after the show. Hmm.

I like getting comps. I really do. And I especially love that interns get comps. As far as I’m concerned, they should get a free year-long pass to every nonprofit that employs an intern. Every nonprofit in the country, that is. I want them to be able to show up at The Arizona Museum of Natural History and say, “Hey, here’s my ID from Blah Blah Blah Theater Company Group in San Francisco,” and get free access. But is a system in which theater practitioners can rely on getting comps hurting nonprofit theater?

Some colleagues and I were under the impression that we had comps to Berkeley Rep tonight to see Mike Daisey’s The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs. We saw his Last Cargo Cult (which he is doing in rep with Steve Jobs) a month ago and enjoyed it and decided we wanted to go back. We thought a contact at the theater was setting it up, but miscommunications occurred and it turned out that we did not have tickets—and that the show was sold out, and that the walk-in list (the list of other theater practitioner hopefuls wanting comps) was long and full. And good for Berkeley Rep! I’m glad we didn’t take three tickets away from paying patrons. If I want to see the show before it closes this weekend, I better cough up the $19.50 and buy a ticket.

Right?

I faced this dilemma with Shotgun Players. I tried—and failed—to finagle comps or discounted tickets from them for both parts of The Salt Plays. “No,” they said about In the Wound. “We can put you on the list, but there’s no guarantee,” they said about Of the Earth. I’m reluctant to commute to a theater without tickets secured; of course, my intern was like, “Great. Put me on the list!” and she got in to see Mary Stuart no problem. I didn’t try because part of me felt guilty I was even asking. I had seen their Animal Farm the year before and really enjoyed it. I knew I liked their work. I knew I was going to enjoy these plays. So why shouldn’t I support them, which is what I ended up doing both times. I bought my ticket to In The Wound, and loved it. I bought my ticket to Of the Earth. And of course I loved it. (Do we like things more when we pay for them? Is that some psychological truth I am remembering from Psych 101?)

In their program for Of the Earth was the smartly designed insert you see at the bottom this page (their illustrator, R Black,  is off the hook amazing) announcing their 2011 season (their seasons run from March to January). It’s a sweet lineup. I immediately knew I was going to want to see all of them. Back home, I told Rachel about the show and told her about next season. She l asked the logical question, “You love them. Why don’t we subscribe and support them?” It didn’t hurt that they have two affordable options for young adults.

So, it’s because I couldn’t get comps that we have reached this milestone in our lives: our very first theater subscription package! It feels strangely momentous knowing where I am going to be on a specific Thursday night next January. I will even know exactly where I’ll be sitting, as soon as I call Shotgun back to choose our seats. I can still picture where my parents sat when they had subscriptions to the St. Louis Rep: house left around the thrust, towards the back of the orchestra, on the third aisle. I saw Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? from those seats. I saw Into the Woods from those seats. And a number of others.

And now I am going to see 5 Shotgun shows from these. Exciting!

Huckleberry Hostel Commission: Day 21 (When work is play)

If he had been a great and wise philosopher like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.

—Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer*

From the perspective of someone who both works and plays in theater, I find this quote fascinating. It is referencing the infamous whitewash scene, when Tom tricks the local boys into doing his work for him by using the following argument (translated into dramatic format):

TOM: What do you call work?
BEN: Why, aint that work?
Tom resumes his whitewashing.
TOM (answering carelessly): Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer.
BEN: Oh come, now, you don’t mean to let on that you like it?
The brush continues to move.
TOM: Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?

And with that, Ben begs Tom to hand over the brush. Even trades him an apple. Other gullible children filter in and take up the job, and three coats of paint later, Tom is heading to the town square to play. But are these boys conned? Tom’s argument seems legit: why should we not enjoy experiencing the rarely-experienced just because it’s labeled as “work” or “chore”? Should it not be the redundancy of experience that bores us? But then, we enjoy our pleasurable routines even though they are ordinary . . .

The idea of work and play in theater is an important conversation to have, because so often so many theater artists are practicing their crafts for free. When people ask me if they should move to Chicago to do theater, I tell them my impression is that it is easy to do theater in Chicago, it’s just hard to get paid to do it. A vibrant community of eager, hungry, brilliant theater artists isn’t going to wait around for a paycheck. That’s the supposition the off-loop scene is built on. This frustrates me because it means that a lot of talented people aren’t being compensated for those talents and to pay their bills are necessarily working often mind-numbing day jobs filled with a repetition that would have made Tom Sawyer explode. But it also excites me, because in this community an investment of creativity and energy trumps the investment of money. And because of this, things happen. Like what’s happening at The State Theatre. The State Theatre is still in its infancy, two or three years old, and started by a guy I interned with at the Goodman in 2007. But already, they’re airing their productions on the web, which is a direction many big theaters are probably considering since London’s National Theatre started broadcasting their productions. While the bigger theaters were considering it, The State Theatre just did it. No hesitation. No red tape. The actors signed a waiver (I assume) and off they went.

I watched their Chicago opening from my computer in California. In real time. How cool is that?

*I started rereading Huck Finn and quickly realized I needed to start with Tom Sawyer. Such a tragedy, let me tell you.

Having faith in (the fact that people will disobey) the system (when it is right to do so)

The good news is, I survived January. The bad news is, I am on day 19 of not having a day when I have not been in my office. But Saturday is soon and this Saturday, unlike the last two, I need not go into work. The problem with being busy and being honest about your business and being transparent about how that business sometimes makes you feel . . . sooner or later (like when you’ve worked a 61-hour week) someone is going to take something away from you, and when you work in theater and you like everything you are doing, no matter what is taken it is a personal loss. But more about that this later.

First Look. Our January of First Look was a success by all the measures we set for ourselves. Our playwrights were happy. Our students who participated in the workshops learned and grew a lot. Our 45-seat house was full or at least fullish for all 6 presentations. Could it have been smoother? Yes. Could some of the playwrights have used their time better? Sure. Did being the audience coordinator require more work than I expected? Absolutely.

But let me tell you when I got my payoff.

Friday night. 8:30. Second presentation of Christina Anderson’s Blacktop Sky, a play I am in love with and want to take back to U. City High and direct in the gym. For that same night, our students were invited to attend the dress rehearsal of a local opera, and the powers that be made it obligatory that they attend. At first it looked as though they weren’t going to be able to see Blacktop Sky at all, which infuriated me. Why would we prioritize ANYTHING over our own presentation of a play directed and performed by our own people, much less a play this good? But we moved our second performance to 8:30 so the students could see both. It was going to be tight, but they could just make it back. Friday night. 7:45. We learn the opera dress has started 30 minutes late. We freak out. Half our audience was to be comprised of our students. What do we do? Do we start the presentation without them and usher them in late? It should be said that we were in our tiny blackbox, and the disruption would have been substantial. So do we start the presentation 30 minutes late? But then what about the 20 punctual audience members?

I am not sure we ever came to a solution. We didn’t have to. 8:25 rolled around, and there were our students, soaking wet from the rain but otherwise in good spirits. They had left the unfinished opera to support their people. No one had told them to. They just did it, en masse. Because they knew it was right. And the show, which had been fine for the first presentation at 5:30, was infused with an energy and spirit that made it impossible to leave, which I was going to do. I was going to check names off my attendance sheet and be home to Rachel by 9:30. But I couldn’t. Moments like that don’t happen often, when the energy in the room is palpable and just keeps growing in intensity until the curtain comes down. They are not to be squandered.

That moment made the whole month worth the work. And I will still be saying that tomorrow, on day 20.

Possible posts to come:
What I have been asked to (“temporarily”) give up and how I’m coming to terms with it.
Two new writing projects: a hostel site-specific environment and Alice, a celebration of psychosis
How J. D. Salinger’s Nine Stories shaped my sophomore year of high school, and why I will revisit Teddy and Seymour throughout my life.