PROCESS, PATIENCE, & A KID IN A CARDBOARD BOX, BY GEOFF SHORT

Endless imagination. Possibility. Pure, uninhibited play.   

Remember being a kid when a new washing machine or fridge arrived, and suddenly—there it was—a giant, empty box? Instantly, it transformed into a fortress, a castle, a rocket ship. Inside those cardboard walls lived a world of endless imagination and possibility, a place where nothing from the outside could touch you. It was safety and adventure all at once. 

Theater has always been like that for me. When I was a kid first discovering my passion for the art, being in a theater was like a hiding place. A place where troubles from the outside world couldn’t get to me. A fortress against the mundanity of everyday life. A place where I could lose myself for a few hours during rehearsals.  

I could hide in a character and the worlds of the stories we were telling. I wished we had rehearsals every day. I wished they would last forever and runs would never end. 

I remember showing up at rehearsals even when I wasn’t called, just so I could be in the building where it smelled like...theater. Where I could bask in the fluorescent lights of a studio or classroom or a city hall basement. Where other cast members were toiling away on scenes or songs or dance numbers I had nothing to do with just so I could be in my safe cardboard box fort that was full of creativity and music and risk. Safe from the outside world.  

But then I grew up. 

Creating theater gradually (suddenly?) became about economics, deadlines, and productivity. Efficiency. How fast can we block this show?  How much is this show costing us? Am I really needed at this rehearsal? I have to work in the morning.  

Of course, I know these concerns were always a part of producing theater. “Producing”. Yes. “Creating” became “producing”. A business.  

SOMEONE had to worry about these things, I guess. But I just always saved my concern for immersing myself in the magic of my cardboard box. 

It reminds me of the differences between elementary school and high school. When I was a little kid in primary school, everything was warm and colorful. Little wooden cubbies filled with galoshes and mittens. We were all in the same classroom, together, with Elmer’s glue and musical instruments and picture books. 

Then we grew up a little and high school became steel, clanging lockers with locks on them. Institutional shuffling from different class to different class. On our own. 

Seat of the Pants is a process-driven company. For us, that means we take the “time and space for developing artists to take risks, flee perfectionism, and pursue curiosity in collaborations where everyone contributes to a shared way of working.” 

One of the biggest privileges of being a part of a process-driven company is that it helps me (forces me?) to slow down and find ways back into my magic cardboard box. We take the time to explore and experiment and discover the worlds of the plays we create.  

Of course, we have “real-world” business concerns as all theater companies do. But being “process-driven” means we intentionally take the time to build our forts and PLAY with the plays we put on stage. This process is an extended time that is separate from our traditional rehearsal schedules. The process allows us to build our fortresses and play inside them together. And audiences get to see the fruits of that play when we crawl out of them and show them what we dreamed up. 

The outside world always finds ways to creep into our world of theater. My own ever-shortening attention span, impatience and habitual need to quantify unquantifiable things in a neatly organized calendar sometimes threatens the joy I’ve always found in theater. But I’m grateful that my experience with SotP has helped me try to be more patient and present and playful. 

So, if anyone is looking for me, check that empty cardboard box. I'm in there looking for magic.