Colin Graham

Last Tuesday I flew back to St. Louis to attend the memorial service for Colin Grahm, the former Artistic Director of Opera Theatre. Those of you reading this from St. Louis know him well, and I'm sure many if not most of you know him by reputation. I've been mulling what I could possibly say--in a way mulling about my right to say it--since then. I didn't know Colin well, though in a business as small as ours, we crossed paths a number of times. That being said, by the end of the evening I felt that I knew him better than I ever thought, not from the details of his life, but by seeing the effect he has had on the singers, musicians and audience members he has worked with and for over the past half century.

At the memorial friends and colleagues who had known Colin for years shared memories of their collaborations, each funnier and more inspiring than the next. All in all it reinforced what I have believed for years--that Colin is the model that every director should aspire to follow. I don' t have quite the depth or breadth of interaction that many folks have with him, but I thought I would mention a few important moments.

The first time I met Colin was in the late 1990's in Santa Fe. I had flown out for a round of "get to know you" interviews, and during a free afternoon I sat in the audience while Colin staged some scenes from the operatic version of "A Dream Play." My initial interest was as much in the piece as in Colin, having performed in the source play many years ago, but I was soon mesmerized by watching him work. What I remember most is him getting up up onstage with the singers and helping them feel the essence of what he was asking them to do--not demonstrating in the crude sense, but embodying something deeper, something which he felt in the music. He showed not what they should do, but how it felt channeled through him, and then gave them the room to make it their own. I was also impressed by his physical grace, and his sheer fitness. He looked like he could break me in half. This was during his competitive body-building years, I would guess.

A few years after that we started a rhythm of just missing each other at Yale. He would direct the Fall show and I would direct the Spring show, so I heard lots of stories from the singers. I remember them telling me about a doorknob falling off a door during a performance of Figaro (a show about doors) and their description of him trying to fix it from behind, during the show. Mainly I was a bit nervous about having to live up to the standard he set, but hopefully I came close.

Three years ago when I was in Hartford working on a Barber, I received an email from Colin asking me to come to St. Louis and direct Mikado. It was completely surreal. I called him up and we chatted about designers, the piece, working at Yale and other schools. I felt like a young baseball player casually chatting to Babe Ruth about my swing. He was such a gentleman on the phone, that really struck me. He suggested a few designers, including Cameron Anderson, with whom I have now worked twice and who designed last season's Barber at OTSL. He also asked me to lean towards a non-traditional production, as OTSL's last version had been very traditional.

The following year I hired designers and started thinking about the show, having meetings, etc. Two summers ago was the moment of truth. Having found a direction I thought was fun and funny and true to the piece, my set designer Mikiko Suzuki and I travelled to St. Louis to present the ideas and research. I would be lying if I didn't admit to having a back-up plan if he had hated our ideas, but fortunately he seemed interested, and off we went. I saw him on and off over the next two years, but short of a lovely conversation over dinner last Christmas, I never got the chance to pick his brain, or ask his opinion about the work. It makes me very sad that he never got to see the finished show. His legacy is clear and secure at OTSL, and I think his challenge is equally clear. He gave his entire life to his art form. It is all too easy to do less than that, to skate, to coast, to take the easy way, to accept mediocrity. No one sets out to be merely a good artist, the only goal is to be a great one. Few of us succeed, though, and the temptation to put less thought and effort into your fifth Boheme than you put into your first is always there. So I am thankful to have examples like his to follow. I may never direct as many world premieres (I'm at 2 and counting--a long way to go to his 57), I may never run a company as successful or ground breaking as his. When I am gone, who knows if the singers and students I've worked with will look back with the sort of fondness and gratitude in evidence last Tuesday.

What is clear is that the path is not to set a goal and then say "done", but to approach each day of rehearsal, each project with a full commitment to the piece, to your colleagues, to your audience and art. And on the many days where it seems easier to just let something go, to let it slide, my new goal is to ask myself would Colin let that go? Would he accept it? Or would he keep working at it, pondering, posing questions, trying to make the work the best it can possibly be. As Bernstein said in Candide, and as sung at Colin's tribute, "we're neither pure nor wise nor good, we'll do the best we know." I won't get into my personal metaphysics, but I don't think it would be a bad thing to imagine him sitting a few rows behind me, as I did during Mikado rehearsals. At any moment, I should be able to turn around, look him in the eye, and say I'm doing the best I know.