I was interested in theatre, and the only experience that I had

Host: The backstage was dark — not the kind of darkness that frightens, but the kind that hums with possibility. The stage lights beyond the curtains spilled faint golden beams across the floor, cutting through the dust that hung in the air like the memory of applause. The smell of paint, wood, and warm cables filled the space — the perfume of theatre after the crowd has gone home.

Jack sat on a crate, a coil of microphone wire resting beside him, a wrench in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his forearms smudged with black dust. Jeeny stood center stage, her bare feet tracing faint chalk lines meant for blocking. She looked out into the empty seats, her eyes reflecting the faint light from the rig above.

It was past midnight. The show had ended hours ago. But the theatre — that ancient heartbeat of human emotion — refused to sleep.

Jeeny: “You know, I read a quote by Robert Lepage earlier. He said, ‘I was interested in theatre, and the only experience that I had in high school was as an actor. But when I got in Conservatoire, my teachers would give me a lot of flack because I wasn’t rehearsing my lines; I’d be doing stage management. I was interested in sound. I was interested in architecture. I was interested in every aspect of theatre.’”

Jack: (smirks) “So, a man who couldn’t sit still.”

Host: His voice was low, rough, but touched with amusement — like the rumble of an old motor that still had life in it. Jeeny turned toward him, the stage light catching the curve of her face, her hair loose, her expression alive with thought.

Jeeny: “No — a man who wanted to understand everything. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “There’s also a word for that — distraction.”

Jeeny: “Or curiosity. Depends on whether you measure life by depth or breadth.”

Host: Jack leaned back, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling, where it curled, catching the faint glimmer of the lights like a ghostly dance.

Jack: “People who try to understand everything usually end up understanding nothing deeply. Theatre, like life, needs obsession. You pick one craft, and you master it. The rest is noise.”

Jeeny: (walking toward him, her footsteps soft on the wood) “You think mastery comes from isolation? You think an actor can be great without knowing the sound that carries their voice, or the light that shapes their shadow?”

Jack: “Actors act. Architects build. Sound designers listen. Trying to do it all just makes you an amateur in every language.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But Lepage wasn’t talking about doing everything — he was talking about seeing everything. That’s what makes his theatre alive. Every light, every set, every sound — all breathing in harmony. That’s not amateurism, Jack. That’s synthesis.”

Host: Jack put out his cigarette against a piece of metal, the sound — a faint hiss — slicing through the thick quiet. He looked up at her, half-smiling, half-tired, as if her idealism both irritated and intrigued him.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing chaos.”

Jeeny: “And you’re afraid of it.”

Host: The words hit him, not sharply but with accuracy — like a dart finding its target in the dark. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his hands fidgeting with the wire.

Jack: “I’m not afraid of chaos. I’ve lived in it. I just learned that not all chaos creates art. Some of it just makes noise.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t chaos — maybe it’s fear of composition. You can’t orchestrate something alive if you don’t understand its parts.”

Host: A spotlight above flickered once, then steadied, casting a soft glow over the stage. Dust danced through it, turning the air itself into part of the performance.

Jeeny stepped into the circle of light, her face calm, her voice soft, but filled with the same passion Lepage had described — the hunger to know.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Lepage? He didn’t want to just perform theatre. He wanted to become it. Every nail, every echo, every silence — he wanted to understand how they breathe together. That’s not distraction, Jack. That’s reverence.”

Jack: “Reverence for everything is reverence for nothing. You can’t worship the entire cathedral. Eventually, you have to kneel at one altar.”

Jeeny: “Or realize that the cathedral itself is the altar.”

Host: A long silence fell — not empty, but charged. Jack stared at her, as if the weight of her words had disarmed him in some quiet way.

He stood, stretching his back, walking toward the edge of the stage.

Jack: “You always talk like art’s a religion.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it?”

Jack: “No. It’s labor. Craft. Sweat. Repetition. Art is a job you do with your hands while pretending it’s for your soul.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s forgotten what the soul feels like.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from anger but from empathy. Jack turned, his eyes sharp, but behind them, a flicker of something vulnerable — memory, maybe. The ghosts of all the unfinished plays, the lost applause, the long nights when creation felt like punishment.

Jack: “I used to build sets. Twenty hours a day. Measuring wood, climbing rafters, adjusting light cues until dawn. I thought if I learned enough about the mechanics, I’d earn the right to feel the art. But all I did was break my back and lose the part of me that dreamed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Lepage’s words matter. He didn’t separate dreaming from doing. He wanted to understand the architecture of the dream. That’s what true creation is — not dividing the work from the wonder.”

Host: The rain outside had started again — faint, rhythmic, like an orchestra tuning up before a performance. Jack walked toward the soundboard, his fingers brushing over the switches, sliding a fader up.

From the speakers, a low hum filled the space — the kind of sound that wasn’t quite music, not yet, but promised to be.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: “You hear that? That’s what he meant — every aspect of theatre. Even this hum. It’s the beginning of emotion before words.”

Jack: (quietly) “You really believe all this, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Completely.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what separates artists from workers. You still believe sound has a soul.”

Host: The hum deepened, resonating through the wooden floor, through their bones. Jeeny smiled faintly, walking toward the soundboard, standing beside him.

Jeeny: “And maybe you still do too. You just call it by another name.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe. Maybe I just stopped listening for it.”

Host: She reached out, turned a second dial — the sound shifted, soft piano notes emerging, faint but pure. They stood side by side in the pale light, surrounded by the heartbeat of invisible machinery, the ghosts of old performances breathing around them.

Jack looked at the empty stage — at the ropes, the curtains, the flicker of light across the dust — and something changed in his gaze.

Jack: “You know, maybe Lepage had it right. Maybe art isn’t about knowing your part. Maybe it’s about never finding where the part ends.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Exactly. That’s where the magic lives — in the overlap.”

Host: The camera of the mind panned back — the two figures, one grounded in logic, the other in faith, both bathed in soft light and surrounded by silence that hummed with potential.

The stage — once empty — now felt alive again, as if it remembered what it was built for.

And in that moment, under the trembling warmth of light and sound, the truth of Lepage’s words took form — that creation is not about mastery or control, but about the endless hunger to understand what holds the whole together: the wood, the light, the voice, the silence — and the soul that binds them all.