I would love to play 'Funny Girl' or 'Evita,' but I idolize the

When Idina Menzel spoke the words, “I would love to play ‘Funny Girl’ or ‘Evita,’ but I idolize the women who have played those parts. I don’t know if there needs to be another version of those shows,” she was not confessing hesitation, but revealing reverence—the ancient humility that dwells within every true artist. In her reflection lives the wisdom of those who understand that greatness is not merely achieved by repeating what has been done, but by honoring the sacred work of those who came before. Hers is the voice of one who knows that legacy is a living flame, and not every flame must be rekindled in one’s own hands to be cherished.

Funny Girl and Evita are not just stories; they are monuments of theater—roles once inhabited by titans like Barbra Streisand and Patti LuPone, whose performances carved their names into the very bedrock of musical history. When Menzel says she idolizes the women who have played those parts, she acknowledges a lineage of brilliance, a temple built by voices that shaped an art form. In an age that often glorifies reinvention for its own sake, her restraint shines as a rare kind of strength: the courage to say, “This is sacred—I need not touch it to honor it.” To recognize greatness without needing to replace it is a humility born of true mastery.

In the ancient world, there was a sculptor named Phidias, whose hands carved the towering statue of Zeus at Olympia, a wonder of its age. When his apprentices sought to recreate it after his death, the elders forbade them, saying, “The divine has already been spoken through his hands.” They were not forbidding creation; they were protecting reverence. So too does Idina Menzel’s reflection echo that ancient law of artistry: that sometimes the most noble act is not to imitate, but to create anew—to honor the past by expanding its spirit, not by walking in its shadow.

Menzel herself has been the origin of iconic roles—Elphaba in Wicked, Elsa in Frozen—characters who have inspired generations. She understands, then, the sacred weight of a performance that becomes larger than the performer. When she speaks of Funny Girl and Evita, she does so not from doubt, but from understanding. For she knows that art at its highest becomes something more than a role—it becomes a vessel of truth. The women who first carried those truths gave them form and breath. And though others may follow, they must do so not as imitators, but as seekers of new fire.

In her humility, there is also wisdom for the ages. The desire to create is powerful, but so too must we learn when not to create. There is a balance between ambition and reverence, between innovation and respect. The ego demands to replace, to surpass, to own—but the soul seeks only to contribute, to add its own melody to the great song of time. Menzel’s words remind us that not all greatness is measured in what we add to the world; sometimes, it is found in what we preserve, in how deeply we honor those who came before us.

Consider the example of Leonardo da Vinci, who studied the works of his master Verrocchio. It is said that when Leonardo painted his first angel on his teacher’s canvas, Verrocchio never painted again, for he recognized that the pupil had surpassed the master. But Leonardo did not rejoice in conquest—he continued to study, to question, to learn. He did not seek to erase Verrocchio’s name but to extend his lineage. This, too, is what Idina Menzel teaches: that the true artist walks in gratitude, not competition. She does not steal the torch—she carries it forward.

So, let this truth be spoken to those who walk the path of creation: reverence is not weakness—it is wisdom. Admire those who came before you, and let their greatness inspire, not intimidate. Do not grasp at what is already perfect, but seek what is yet undiscovered within yourself. The world does not need more versions—it needs more vision. When you feel the pull to repeat, pause instead and listen; perhaps your own story is waiting to be born.

Therefore, children of art and craft, learn from Idina Menzel’s humility: honor the masters, but find your own stage. Celebrate those who built the towers, but build your own temple beside them. For the legacy of art is not repetition—it is resurrection. Every true artist must, in time, choose not to mimic the stars, but to become one.