The What

Theatre Design is the only art form in which 99% of the artists’ creations are guaranteed to wind up in a dumpster: the brilliant productions you get thumped repeatedly on the back for as well as the ones you’d rather not have anyone you’re hoping to have children with find out about. This is a splendid thing - one’s mistakes invariably wind up as landfill, out of sight and out of mind. Now, most would instinctively think someone out of mind to relish a career in such labor-intensive garbage-making, but actually the rewards are many and the regrets few. It is when one’s show doesn’t close that the real nightmares begin, for the designer and the designer’s descendants will spend perpetuity redesigning touring versions of the production that are required to be ever smaller, increasingly cheaper and more mobile yet at the same time must never deviate one iota from the original. In the trade, this is called ‘success’.

Generally, theatre designers come in four basic flavors, with the occasional crushed nuts and cherries sprinkled on top. [Just kidding about that last bit: by the time one becomes a professional in this business, one’s cherries are long gone.] Most frequently you will encounter the Scenic Designer, the Costume Designer, the Lighting Designer and the Sound Designer, and it is sometimes not uncommon for one person to take on more than one of these categories at once for the same production. It is sometimes also not uncommon to get little dead fish on one’s pizza. One may also find Props Designers, Graphics Designers and Mask Designers, but these unfortunates have unfortunately not gotten themselves organized into huge frighteningly-powerful unions commanding decent working conditions, enviable health benefits, a living wage and an end to war in our lifetime. Upon reflection, neither have the others.

Theatre design was originally invented on a Thursday by a sadly-anonymous prehistoric showoff who stood up in front of the tribe to pray for supper, much like karaoke¹ today. The cave wall or smoking volcano behind served as an arresting backdrop, while the nearby ceremonial bonfire and sputtering Tiki™ lights provided dramatic lighting effects guaranteed to captivate the audience. The presence or absence of a loincloth or elsewhere-draped skin of a dead thing constituted costuming, and the vigorous waving about of a stick or bone took care of the prop department’s obligation, much to their relief. One can assume massive sound reinforcement with racks of ear-damaging amplifiers was not terribly necessary, what with the cave echoes and all, and likewise exceedingly difficult to plug in.

The Greeks refined these elements, as they did most things they got their hands on, and gave the world the proskenion², the amphitheater, declarative shouting, high-heeled shoes³ and deus ex machina⁴ - a staple of the modern panic-stricken writer. A few years later we notice that the Romans invented the vomitorium⁵ when they took a well-earned break from busily renaming everything they’d stolen. Since all performances in these historic times took place outdoors, it is a mystery why these and other ancient cultures never bothered to invent the umbrella for protection from angry gods and well-fed birds; an oversight which would have significant ramifications far into the future.

Speaking of Mystery Plays⁶, the Inquisition turned out to be a bit vomitorious too, eh? Those actor-priests running up and down the streets with the auto-de-fé wagons were simultaneously terribly busy painting their own scenery, making their own costumes and trying to toe the party line all at the same time. Amateurs and scabs - the lot of them. The actual designers of the period were merely too occupied with smiling and nodding and saying. “Yessir, Mr. Torquemada⁷, whatever you say, Captain Bossman, sir!” to get much of anything else done. In spite of these difficulties, the really pretty light from the burning of the heretics was considered one of the most spectacular stage effects of its day, captivating the15th century audience far and wide. Or else. Sales of Tiki™ lights plummeted.

Shakespeare also had design problem with umbrellas. The Globe Theatre, what with having no roof to speak of and all, allowed the rain to get in and soggy things up awfully. As it may have been somewhat distracting for Juliet to fall on the knife while protecting herself from the elements [assuming, of course, ‘she’⁸ didn’t mix up the props] [which might have been funny, actually], most performances in inclement weather were done in the nude⁹. This not only saved wear and tear on the costumes, it allowed the producers to charge higher ticket prices which, in turn, helped offset the lost income from paltry popcorn sales. Most scenery was either already there or stolen from the Irish.

Modern designers have far more sophisticated means of beseeching the gods for supper, such as state-of-the-art computers that turn the lights on and off and jolly crackerjack theatre technicians to turn the computers on and off. Radio-controlled scenery is becoming more and more popular in spite of its occasionally missing a cue because of an innocent backstage flirtation with the radiator. Small, intimate productions of scripts such as The Mousetrap and Uncle Vanya invariably benefit from sound and lighting technology developed by and borrowed from the Spice Girls, although costumes borrowed from the Spice Girls occur less frequently, possibly due to matters of size and taste. All in all it’s a glorious time in the history of things to be a famous theatre designer.

A closely-guarded trade secret revealed here for the first time ever is the fact that most people aspire to become famous theatre designers because of the money and the sex. Nothing arouses an attractive young innocent quite like an animated conversation into the wee hours concerning the design possibilities inherent in King Lear - all that blowing of wind and cracking of cheeks never fails to excite. And the money keeps pouring in in bucketfuls! You have never, one wagers, heard of any destitute designer slaving away at a dimly-lit drawing board in impoverishment and obscurity, ignoring sleep, food and getting the bills paid in a timely fashion all for 'Art’s' sake¹⁰. Perhaps because you’ve never heard of any designer, period, but someday you just might. Watch for it soon.

In the aforementioned world of modern theatre, designers must be fluent in working with a variety of stage/audience relationships. Since no one has ever agreed on the best presentation format, theatres come in an eye-popping array of shapes and sizes much like all the different sizes of ‘one-size-fits-all’. Most often, the average theatre-going audience finds itself in a Proscenium Theatre. This familiar setup has the stage at one end of a room full of people who paid good money to see what’s going on at that end and so spend the evening peering around the head of the person in front of them. The action onstage is normally surrounded by a frame - the proscenium itself - which is often called the ‘fourth wall’ because of the designers’ habit of banging their heads against it. A Thrust Stage, however, ‘thrusts’ itself out into the room full of people so that the audience can better see up the actors’ nostrils. With people on three sides looking up their nostrils all evening, actors try to hide behind the scenery only to discover that it is all still lurking back over at the far end of the room specifically so that no one can hide behind it. There is no truth to the popular story that the name derives from the designers’ habit of ‘thrusting’ [wink, wink, nudge, nudge] their assistants into the producer's office to deal with problems while the designer pops down to the street for a smoke. Then there is Arena¹¹ or Theatre-In-The-Round; so called because everyone is always running ‘round in circles going, “Where’s all the scenery got to?” and where the cast is forever twirling around during the acting bits so that the audience on all sides can get a good look at the spinach in the performers’ teeth. Finally, there is the flexible Black Box [often occurring in an abandoned storefront, thus earning the cryptic name Storefront Theatre] where no one can make up their mind about where the stage goes, so they come up with the stunningly brilliant plan that the space will be reconfigured for each production uniquely. This is a load of dingo’s kidneys. Physics knows of no more immovable object than a movable theatre space. Better they should return to selling the knishes and hot pretzels that put the former deli out of business in the first place.

In spite of this vast diversity of venues that designers must struggle to overfill with their work, most people nowadays [thanks to television commercials, music videos and deteriorating cognitive functions] commonly think scenery and costumes come in a box you pick up at the corner market or order discretely on the Internet, complete with ‘intelligent’ lighting equipment and prerecorded CD including bonus tracks. This is exactly true. No one has shamefully debased him or herself by groveling for a bigger budget, adequate respect and correct spelling of their name in the publicity materials, nor tried to cram ten pounds of production elements into a five pound theatre. That never happens. Ever. And no playwright/director/producer has ever come up with an entirely new concept that will doubtless save the show the day before opening, either. Nonetheless, despite the astonishing lack of justification for the career choice, the different categories of design responsibility can be intimidatingly complex, breathtakingly diverse and follow immediately after this sentence.

The Scenic Designer

The scenic designer is undoubtably the sexiest person you will ever meet. Much of this irresistible appeal results from the fact that, having not been able to afford new clothes for several years, the designer’s wardrobe has shrunk into body-revealing tightness. You may notice a certain subtle care taken when they sit down because of this. Luckily, it is common knowledge that most set designers like their knickers as tight as possible and encourage through frequent inspection that their assistants do likewise. One would think that an SD’s days and nights would be filled with such vital and artistic stuff as reading and analyzing scripts and looking up the really big words; holding long and deeply intellectual conferences with the director and other designers about who wants little dead fish on their pizza; sketching and drafting scenic ideas that no one likes and nobody can afford; preparing dozens of color renderings of each scene and its innumerably improbable variations which the dog will eat; building complete working models in microscopic detail of the same scenery that no one likes and nobody can afford; and pleading for respect or simply mercy from the snickering scene shop. But these activities are often overshadowed by the deciding of the proper feng shui¹² of the many well-deserved design awards on the mantle. In some rare instances, these awards are in actuality stolen props from a production of That Championship Season that the designer nicked while carefully explaining the differences between a 15th century Norwegian nobleman’s goblet and a 19th century Bolivian hairpin to the slower members of the props staff on a past project. Because the set establishes irrefutably¹³ the overall conceptual ‘look’ of a show - often dictating choices in the other design areas - and because such seeming power is a mesmerizing aphrodisiac, the scenic designer is often savagely fought over and plied with gifts of chocolate and bootleg CAD software by the cast, chorus, crew and their significant others. It's bitterly lonely at the top, but somebody has to do it.

The Costume Designer

It is an unfortunate and completely erroneous myth that many costumers are former actors who got too large to be considered actors anymore. This is total slander, spurious and false. [The fact is, as long established by legal precedent, that casting directors are not allowed to hire anyone larger than themselves.] Never mention that you heard this unfounded rumor when keeping an appointment in a costume shop, or your trousers will be sure to fall down in the middle of your amazingly memorable death scene the night your mother comes to see the show. Contrariwise, the costume designer is often your very best friend. They can make you fatter or thinner, shorter or taller, funnier and now able to dance the Carioca and Rumba brilliantly as well as cover up that embarrassing skin condition for at least a couple of hours every night. They are also the sexiest people you are likely to meet, and usually wear breakaway clothing just in case. Like the scenic designer, costumers are required to become certified experts in the applicable historical period[s]; prepare hundreds of color sketches that are first oohed and aahed over by actors - who are convinced the costumes will make them thinner and funnier and get them laid - and then thrown away; find $30.00 a yard fabric for $2.00 a yard; work with a costume shop wherein all the drapers and stitchers and cutters have hair-trigger personality disorders; and sincerely believe that each and every performer who says so will unfailingly lose weight before the show opens. In spite of these pressures, meticulous attention to cut and detail is never shirked during costume fitting after costume fitting, since all the designers are at heart voyeurs dressed in fabulous clothes.

The Lighting Designer

Despite anything you may have heard otherwise, the lighting designer is the sexiest person you will ever meet. These are the magicians of light and dark, and master manipulators of the shadows inbetween. This is called chiaroscuro, and was invented by that famous lighting person Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio¹⁴ one night when a fuse blew and half the lights in his studio went out. For people who create art from the most ethereal of elements, lighting designers require an astounding array of very heavy equipment - dimmer racks and patch panels the size of trucks; color media that melts when it gets hot as well as color media that doesn’t but looks like the stuff that does; countless lighting units in a bewildering variety of configurations¹⁵ all resulting in making sure the light itself comes out of only one end; control boards with eight-language instruction manuals only available online; programming boards; programming board programmers; programming board programmer assistants; and mile upon mile of various types of cable hooking everything up in a Gordian knot¹⁶ of intimidating scope. And the only existing copy of the paperwork that explains how everything is supposed to work is on a napkin under a half-eaten burger in a sodden bag under a seat somewhere in the back row of one of the balconies. Lighting designers can be easily recognized by their deathly pallor; by their repetitious muttering of, “Light is a wave. Light is a particle. Light is a wave. Light is...; and by their continual attempts to find interesting porn sites on the lightboard’s monitors.

The Sound Designer

The Sound Designer may sometimes also be known as the Sound Guy; or, in those instances where things are turning out not quite the way one expected, the Silence Guy. Probably the sexiest person you will ever meet, particularly if an experienced former 'associate' for an incredibly sexy rock band. Besides collaborating on the creation and recording of the show’s sound effects and underscoring, the sound designer is responsible for carefully determining into which body cavity the wireless microphone’s battery pack must be placed since the %#$**!!@ costumer designer built everything out of spandex. In productions with more, shall we say, modest budgets, the sound designer will cheerfully install the reliable tin-can-on-a-string amplification system connecting each actor to each audience member. Dope sometimes helps in these situations, but is not talked of outside of the Green Room¹⁷. They are also adept at installing gigantic playback systems overnight in which the volume is stuck on ‘Curdle Milk’. Sound designers are becoming more and more respected as artists in their own right in recent years, and this has a great deal to do with producers beginning to realize the jaw-dropping effect of playing the Sex Pistols and/or Marilyn Manson very loudly during the 'Gentleman Caller' scene of The Glass Menagerie

The Why

It may appear that becoming a designer in the theatre is as smashing a career choice as deciding to clean out the elephant house at the zoo for the rest of one’s life, but appearances, like padded bras and codpieces, can be deceiving. Of course the frustration level normally spikes in the red, and of course it’s galling to realize that none of the thousands of audience members who have admired your work over the years have the dimmest clue about whatever it is you do¹⁸, but that has nothing at all to do with the reason for choosing this life. On extremely rare occasions, as likely as finding a dodo in your living room rolling a joint one morning, there happens a moment during the show in which everything falls totally into place: the actors don’t bump into the scenery or fall out of their costumes or forget the lines, and the audience actually understands - really and truly gets it deep in their hearts - all of the everything that’s taking place in front of their eyes. The entire space, whether a Broadway/West End auditorium or the backyard in front of a blanket strung between two trees, flashes and crackles with the gestalt¹⁹ and the hair on the back of your neck and all over everywhere else stands up in the synchronicity of the event. Angels rush in and fools fear to tread and the rest of us remember why television is furniture. Then it’s over and gone like last week’s breakfast. But you - the designer of some small overlooked bit of it - have been an absolutely essential particle of the experience, and you will hunger to recreate that sublime jolt again and again for the rest of your days. You’ve been over the rainbow.

In summation, it has been preposterous folly to fully skim over in exhaustive detail the mind-bending frustrations, unappreciated talents, exhaustive skills and impossible rewards of being a theatre designer in such a short entry. Entire sentences can be, have been and will be written on the subject, and these descriptions only scratch at the surface like a mosquito bite. But as Shakespeare himself might well have said when asked about theatre designers, the universe and everything: You’ll be swell, you’ll be great. Gonna have the whole world on a plate!²⁰ But it must always be exactly the right plate. With exactly the right napkin complimenting the little dead fish on the pizza just so.