The Lifeline of Life on Stage

MARCH 2020

You don’t realize how noisy a play about silence can be until you have to silence that play. There is a rhythmic buzz to every show—even the quiet ones—that resonates from the box office to backstage. All that beautiful noise came to a deafening halt last Friday, when we made the heartbreaking but necessary decision to silence, at least for the time being, Small Mouth Sounds, Bess Wohl’s play about six adults who embark on a silent retreat.        

Physical distancing set against the backdrop of Wohl’s exploration of the human experience through silence and isolation offers a poignant specimen of life imitating art. Our deserted theatre, with the beautiful set and lighting still in place, not only exposes our desperate need for art and each other—especially when we can’t have them—but also the real financial hardship that comes with empty seats, the same hardship faced by restaurant and small business owners across our city and country as we fight not only a terrible virus but our own fears as well.

As important as our accounting is—and it is—my mind has remained fixed on the pages of the script and a message it seems intent on delivering about sound and silence, audience and isolation, and now connection and quarantine. I keep thinking of an eerily prophetic monologue delivered by “Teacher”: “You are born. You are placed on a boat. And you sail out, into the vast and beautiful ocean. And then…

“The boat sinks.”

Just a few days ago, it did sort of feel like we were floating around in a dazzling pool of life. Busy and bustling and buzzing. Perhaps we were waiting for bad news, the crash, or the next virus. Or maybe, worse, we were blissful. Ignorant of impending danger. Nevertheless, the boat sank. Or was left floating with sick passengers on board unable to find a port that will take them in. 

From the page as well as last week’s backstage, Teacher throws a lifeline: “If you are scared of what’s to come, you are not alone. If you are hungry, you are not alone… If you are full of regret, or hope, or desire.” 

Basically, if you are human, you are not alone. I am not alone. 

We are in this together, in whatever shape “this” leaves us. 

I’m strangely comforted by Teacher and her notion that even my own experience of fear can keep me company. If we are able to connect with our shared struggles or, at times, rely solely on and trust our own emotional encounters, we will not be alone. We are enough, whether in isolation or together.

Teacher mentions homesickness, too. I am homesick for our community; you have been overwhelmingly supportive during this hard time when we know you are facing tremendous struggles of your own. Thank you. I’m hungry for the vital exchange we have with one another. I’m sated with gratitude knowing we still have each other.

While we right our listing ship—and we will—rescheduling Small Mouth Sounds and pivoting on our educational programming, I am deeply grateful for our incredible community and for the life we share on stage. We will be sending an update at the beginning of April. 

Even in silence, the stage does its work. It holds up a mirror—and sometimes a microphone—to our minds, our mouths, and our hearts, continuing to teach us, loudly and clearly, long after the curtain closes. 

— Laine Satterfield
Director, Small Mouth Sounds
Director of Education, Cadence Theatre Company