Tuesday, February 08, 2022

R.I.P. Joan Schirle

 

Update 2/16: Though North Coast media has so far failed to honor Joan's achievements and contributions, the San Francisco Chronicle Datebook has a long article here with quotes from former Dell'Arte students now in the Bay Area, following a tribute in the American Theatre magazine, here.

Joan Schirle died on February 1. Even though we hadn't been in touch the past few years, I miss her already.  The world was a better place knowing she was in it.

  There are others who can better chronicle her considerable achievements, here on the North Coast and elsewhere in the world, and I hope they will do so. But I can venture this much: In her roles as a creator of theater, a teacher and communicator, there is no one I know of who has been more important for a longer time to the arts and their character in this community.  I hope that this is recognized.

As its Founding Artistic Director, Joan was associated with Dell’Arte for nearly half a century.   As a creator and performer, she could excel at the robust, exaggerated commedia style, though even in the shows of that style that I saw, she added a more nuanced dimension.  A prime example in more recent years was her performance as Mary Jane in Dell Arte’s bravura show, Mary Jane: The Musical.  She commanded that stage as a star.

 But she was also adept at more subtle and delicate work, based on movement and music, gesture and image and poetry. Her work explored untold or little told stories of quiet heroism and love in dire or difficult circumstances, often instances of injustice. 

 In my experience, Joan was just as authentic as a person. In a context where relationships are so often largely transactional, she was genuine.  

I am grateful to her personally for two specific acts. She included me as performer and presenter in Dell Arte’s staged reading of the Sinclair Lewis play, It Can’t Happen Here, marking the 75th anniversary of that play’s opening in 18 theatres across America, produced by the Depression-era Federal Theatre Project.  Joan was a principal organizer of simultaneous readings in 20 other cities.  Apart from allowing me to participate in this meaningful event, she honored me with my only opportunity to be on the other side of the stage in my years on the North Coast.

 Then when I was unceremoniously fired without cause as theatre columnist, she was the first member of the theatre community to support me in public, by posting on the local theatre Facebook page, eliciting other such statements.

 I imagine there are many who have similar and better stories to tell about Joan’s kindness and courage, her openness and responsiveness, her humanity.

 It seems to me that Joan had a very full life.  She performed and taught and traveled all over the world. She was honored with awards in California and in Europe.  She had a family, a daughter, a granddaughter.  I hope that she felt that way about her life.

 Joan was born only a couple of years before me.  She said to me once, we’ve got ten good years left, don’t we?  Of course, being this age, I don’t remember how long ago she said this.  But I’d like to think that however many they were, that on balance, they were good years.  May she rest in peace.  Her work lives on. 

Monday, February 07, 2022

Home is where one starts from...


Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
 Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
 Isolated, with no before and after, 
But a lifetime burning in every moment
 And not the lifetime of one man only
 But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
 There is a time for the evening under starlight,
 A time for the evening under lamplight
 (The evening with the photograph album).
 Love is most nearly itself
 When here and now cease to matter. 
Old men ought to be explorers—
 Here and there does not matter
 We must be still and still moving
 Into another intensity 
For a further union, a deeper communication
 Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
 The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
 Of the petrel and the porpoise.      In my end is my beginning.

--T.S. Eliot

Last lines of "East Coker," the first of his Four Quartets. Photo: Samuel Beckett by Henri Cartier-Bresson.