Drive My Car?

I’m not sure if I’m ever going to be able to do what I do again; at least not in the same way. I’m an arts administrator and performing arts presenter. My whole professional purpose is bringing people together to see art, to be entertained, to build community, to witness beauty and to share that experience with each other.

We’ve all read countless essays, articles, and stories about how profoundly the arts and entertainment world has been impacted by the COVID-19 pandemic. And, I know it’s not just the arts, or restaurants, or retail, or … (insert one of many devastated sectors). Let’s face it, almost every nook and cranny of our economy is feeling the pain.

So far, I feel lucky. I run the arts program of a suburban city, so my arts job is more stable than many. But now state and local governments are falling into deeper and deeper deficits. Each day I hear about another city in our region that has cut millions of dollars, laid off employees, and decimated arts, music, and park programs. In this new reality, it feels like stability is slipping away, like a car in an action movie teetering on the edge of a cliff after a hairpin switch-back chase scene. Time stops as the protagonist sits frozen in the driver’s seat, simultaneously thrilled that she is still alive and terrified that she soon won’t be. The car lurches, then stills before lurching several more inches toward the drop below. It’s silent except for the sounds of slipping rocks and creaking metal. Should she try to climb out? Should she lean one way or the other? Should she remain motionless until someone comes to rescue her? Every minuscule decision, every tiny action seems to matter immensely and not matter at all.

Every day, when I get up and turn on my laptop to tackle another day of working from home, I’m in that doomed car…

Bad-ass Paul Walker (R.I.P.) as Brian O'Conner in Furious 7 (Universal Pictures) 

Some days I’m all adrenaline and focused confidence. I’m leaning. I’m shifting my weight. I’m wriggling slowly toward the shattered window. I’m going to climb onto the hood and leap to the safety of solid ground as the car gives way and sails through the air before crashing in a spectacular explosion on the rocks below. “Well that car is destroyed,” I think, “but we’ll create a brand-new car!” If there is anyone who can do it, it’s artists and people who work in the arts and culture sector. I’ve spent my entire career in this field and have always counted myself lucky to work with smart, creative, hard-working and committed people. We can do it. We’ll build a new car. So many of my colleagues – those I don’t know and those I do – across the country and world are showing inspiring creativity in coming up with ways to keep making and sharing art. Live streaming performances with audience interaction, murals on the boarded-up windows of neighborhood businesses, online platforms for sharing art, virtual museum tours, socially distanced events of all different kinds. This is a brand-new car, a completely different car. Maybe even an exciting car!

Other days, I’m lost and hopeless. I’m frozen behind the wheel and I feel like it doesn’t matter what I do. I can hold my breath. I can shimmy and crawl. It doesn’t matter because I’m either going down with that beat-up car or hanging onto the edge of the cliff by my fingertips. Maybe I’ll muster the strength and get a foothold. Maybe I’ll drag myself to the top and limp to a new car. But it feels like this new car isn’t nearly as fun as the old car. I’m not racing around corners with the windows down, my hair blowing in the breeze and the sun on my face. It’s a driving simulator – it looks like a car, it offers all the key components of driving a car, but none of the essence, none of life, none of that magic that happens when you’re speeding down a real road.

I’m spending my days working on Plan B’s, and Plan C’s, and even Plan D’s. Sometimes it’s exciting to flex my creative muscles a little more than usual, to feel like maybe this whole thing has jostled me out of a “this is how we’ve always done things” rut. But there’s always a niggling doubt… Are people even going to want to watch a live-streamed version of this show? One where they can’t hear the reactions and applause of the people sitting next to them. Are people going to go out of their way to take a virtual tour of a museum or gallery? Is seeing Starry Night on video that much different than seeing it in the book sitting on the coffee table? Aren’t we missing the essence of the thing if we can’t share it? If we can’t see our own wonder and emotion reflected on the faces of those around us?   

Here’s the thing… I don’t want to have those kinds of arts experiences. No matter how clever and how many technological bells and whistles, they seem a little empty. I immediately appreciate the ingenuity, but that wears off and then… it’s a driving simulator and not a Ferrari. So, if I don’t want them, why am I knocking myself out to plan them for others? Does anyone want them? Is all my leaning and wiggling and trying to pull myself and my work up from that cliff worth it? Can I deliver a car that anyone wants to drive?