Day 9 - Mr. Harris

Chris Harris was my high school drama teacher. I owe him a great deal for my love of theater and film. He was picky and stubborn, occasionally hot-tempered, always passionate and surprisingly funny. He would berate us, praise us, reward us and insult us, preparing us for a fraction of the real performing arts world. You could tell by the intensity of his rants how close we were to showtime. "How was rehearsal?" my father would ask, setting up a joke he'd heard the punch-line to over and over again. "Well, we just got the 'you don't care enough' speech about two weeks before showtime," I would say, and my father would smile and close with, "Right on schedule then."

Harris was many things, but most of all he was a good man. A person who cared about his medium and was a shockingly good teacher as I switch on my powers of hindsight. He thought in pictures that everyone could access. On a shoe string budget he would create beautiful set pieces and reuse them until they'd disintegrated and ceased being anything. He'd pull a professional level performance (usually) out of 14-18 year olds and we'd pack a house every night.

Of note, he had a knack for the simple and subtle. It's because of him that I love the plays Our Town and especially The White Rose, my all-time favorite show.

Respectively, those two shows are about life and belief, which I have been known to obsess about and research the possibilities therein. They are shows that, when allowed, breathe life into the actors and then the audience. Usually its the actors taking a script and giving it life for the folks in the bleachers to enjoy, but those shows just don't need that much help. Even the set pieces are usually a simple black stage with a couple of chairs, maybe a table here and there, and the simplest of lighting cues. They let your imagination do the rest, as it should, filling the stage on its own while the minute details lull you into the story without calling attention to themselves (a personal favorite being Mr. Webb's hand bandage. When done right, it's around his palm, as it would be if you were cutting an apple and the knife slipped). It's about honesty, integrity and heart and what is true to the words and world in those pages. They're smart shows without being heavy handed about their messages (well...in terms of theater). They allow you to draw conclusions and formulate your own ideas and while there is a definitive ending to both, they don't tell you what is right and wrong. Those two shows are what sealed the deal for me as an actor and writer. They are minimalist, well written shows about two things that everyone relates too at their core, life and belief.

I did those shows in high school, playing Doc Gibbs and Anton Mahler. They are still two of my favorite characters I've found, and are both stories that I wan't my kids to know. White Rose will be the first play that I ever direct (unless a boat load of cash says otherwise). Mr. Harris brought them both to us, taking a chance on a group of brats madly obsessed about theater and story-telling, giving at least one teen a real view of the art form he loves.

I lost track of Mr. Harris over the years, only popping in once or twice to say "Hi" and check on his new crop of kids (which were dicks the last time I was around). I'm assuming he retired a year or two ago and is living with the dreams he wanted to fulfill. I'll probably track him down when I get my next big project up and running. I think he'd like it. I've always had this fantasy of him speaking or doing a workshop if he was interested. Might be cool.

I've shied away from theater and acting in general, for the most part, for about 5 years. A stupid decision, if you ask me. People say that nature should take its course and that eventually you'll find what it is you want to do/be when you grow up. Grown, I'm back to acting, film, theater, all around performing, and I damn sure regret taking those years off. I'm not bitter or anything, just craving the last 1825 days be returned to me. That being an impossibility, I turn my energy to making up for lost time. I've been and done many things, and with my sights set finally on a future I can see so clearly, I can only imagine the next things that I'll do.

My vision is clear and focused, and on the horizon where which I point my gaze, I see nothing that isn't opportunity, shared and enriched by friends and family.