A Moment

©clinton brandhagen

Hours before our first preview on Broadway, Tyne recalls our terrifying first preview in DC. She asks me to come down to her dressing room to run our lines together in an "Italianne"-- a run of the lines at increased speed. Italiannes are like calisthenic warm-ups for your brain, and with so much talking and nerves high, they are a great tool in moments such as these.

We settle down, bags placed, cardigans zipped, and sit down in her room--not yet moved into, not yet her own.

And then, without ceremony, we begin.

There is no music. There is no one else. It is just us and the words.

One might  think that in this cozy dressing room--flourescently lit and unceremoniously dressed--that  this little exercise the run would be dry, hollow.  But the truth is, the words are so powerful, and our feelings for those words and above all, for each other, so untterably potent, we both go directly "there."

Tears fall.
Hands are grasped. It is our own little theatre, our own alchemical magic, right there in a sterile little room.

"... I want you to imagine you are Amina. This is opera Sophie. You're alone on a great stage. Make us feel what you feel. Show us that truth..."

That's it.
We finish.
There is a silence and in it, we both look away.
Then she leans in, holds my hand and utters,

     "I love this. And you."