Fabrics


My father passed away in March. It’s not over yet. This is about one of the ways.
I was waiting backstage on Sunday, Father’s Day, to go on for Act 3 of the current show I am in, Angel Street, at the Sammamish Valley Grange hall in Woodinville wine country.
The black cloth masking the nearby window was no match for the afternoon light. It filtered onto the sportcoat, overcoat, and bowler hat – costume pieces – lying over the back of a chair, waiting for me to hear a certain line on stage and put them on for my entrance.
My dad would have loved the show, and my character, if he had been able to see it. It’s a crime drama, melodrama really, with a suave yet snarling villain, pursued by a witty detective, with the victor to be determined by their ability or inability to gain the trust of a woman, the real hero of the piece. It’s noir, plus Sherlock Holmes plus a little bit of Columbo and Javert.
Act 3 is when my character wins. He finally has the goods on the lout and is just waiting for his moment to strike.
But I wasn’t feeling triumphant. The sun on the wool and houndstooth and the round, brown felt hat painted a picture of an older, quieter world. There was a stillness in the small triangle of space formed by the wall of the Grange and the black tube-and-drape curtain shielding me from the audience. I did begin to cry – not really good prep for an actor working to create “the moment before” going on stage.
It comes into those quiet spaces. And the thing is, I think, to listen. Then it was time to go on, play my part, step into my role, win the day. And that was Father’s Day.

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