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“Lewis, seriously, you should write this one.” “Maybe, yeah. But probably not.” “Why?” “It’s going to be a very busy semester.” And then Lewis caved, as usual, to the chatter of resistance, the recitation of his very important responsibilities, the weighty things that would require all his life force, attention, and creative energy, why he should not do the thing that was, deep down, most important to him.
Lewis began by softening his students into a new play, telling them all about the human significance of the work, its writer, and the trials they experienced while writing the play; how, in performing it, they became a part of its legacy; it was an honor, he said, to take lines, the playwright’s distilled vulnerability, and make them one’s own. He would say acting is paying homage to the visionaries who had the courage to go for it; acting is freeing the parts of oneself living secretly, ashamedly, in memory and regret; acting is living at the height of one’s emotional possibilities; acting is
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As a grown man comfortable with his own vulnerability, he inspired his students to enter an uncommon domain, a place where fear, sadness, and rage were worthwhile experiences rather than things to smile through or tuck away.
Marcos drew an outline of a person who was generous, wise, and kind, and Angela’s longing animated his image with life and color. This two-dimensional Marcos, the one she imagined, was never real.
