A moment

There's a moment in the awesome project I don't want to forget.  The show has a great, rousing opening number - my character isn't in it, but there's a black curtain dividing the opening scene from the rest of the stage, and everyone who is in the second number (myself included) waits behind the curtain as the opening scene works to a close.  The lights dim out front as between-scene music plays and a whole row of benches then slide off stage in the dark as the black curtain goes up.  It's dark on stage, s the audience can't see us, but as the curtain rises, the muffled, underwater quality of being hidden from the audience clears suddenly, like wiping an arm across a fogged mirror.  We can hear the orchestra first hand instead of through the monitors, we can see the faint lights in the aisles or the flashlights as ushers seat latecomers, the exit signs come into focus.  The veil is lifted, and we actors move down into the space, set ourselves, and wait in place for the lights to come up, revealing the town and townspeople, including a beautiful painted backdrop of a landscape.

It's thrilling.  It's the moment before, the here-we-go-we're-doing-a-show electricity.  The music swells in an upward pattern, and presto!  Lights up! We're on!  We start singing.

It's a magical few seconds, mostly because being behind a black curtain and then being revealed gives me time to invest all my being into that time, that experience.  I love it.  It's rare that the staging of a play gives you that kind of space to breathe into it.  Often you're on when you're on and you have to throw yourself at it.  These few moments in the dark feel like an inhalation.  Every night I take a deep breath and try to hold in the thrill of looking out across 1800 full seats, all eagerly awaiting what we're about to show them.