When I go to see theater, I'm consumed with professional

"When I go to see theater, I'm consumed with professional jealousy." These words of Brad Hall, actor, comedian, and writer, carry a truth that resonates far beyond the stage. On the surface, they may seem a confession of envy, but within them lies something nobler—a glimpse into the restless fire that drives the creative soul. When Hall speaks of being “consumed,” he does not mean consumed by bitterness, but by admiration, longing, and the unquenchable desire to create. His jealousy is not a poison; it is a hunger—the ache of an artist who witnesses beauty and burns to match it, to join it, to make his own mark upon the same divine canvas.

To understand his words, one must first understand the nature of the artist’s heart. The true creator is never content. Every great performance, every perfect line, every moment of grace in another’s work is both inspiration and torment. Inspiration, because it proves what art can be; torment, because it reminds the artist of the distance still to travel within himself. Professional jealousy, in this sense, is not the envy of possession—it is the envy of expression. The artist does not want to take from another; he longs to feel what they felt, to reach the same summit of creation. This jealousy is the shadow of passion itself—the proof that one still cares deeply, still dreams fiercely.

In the ancient world, even the greatest creators were haunted by this same feeling. Michelangelo, upon seeing the sculpted works of Donatello, was said to have been driven to sleepless nights, not with bitterness, but with resolve. The beauty he beheld in another man’s hand awakened a fire within him that could not rest until he had forged his own masterpieces in marble. In this way, jealousy became the chisel that shaped his genius. So too with Brad Hall, whose theater envy is the cry of every artist who loves his craft too deeply to ever be satisfied with watching alone. For when passion burns bright, to witness creation without partaking in it is its own exquisite agony.

There is also humility in Hall’s confession. To admit such jealousy is to acknowledge the greatness of others. It is to stand before art with reverence, not pride. The lesser man feels envy and despises what he cannot do; the greater man feels jealousy and learns from it. He studies the rhythm, the tone, the life within the work, and from that spark, he builds his own flame. Thus, professional jealousy—when purified by admiration—becomes a sacred teacher. It teaches the artist to honor others even as he strives to surpass them, to recognize that greatness in another is proof that greatness is possible for all who labor with courage and honesty.

This emotion, though painful, is essential to progress. Complacency is the death of art; jealousy, when noble, is its resurrection. It reminds the creator that his journey is not finished, that there is still more to feel, more to say, more to become. Every time Brad Hall sits in a theater and feels that sting of envy, he is reminded of his own purpose—to return to his craft renewed, sharpened, and hungry. Such feelings are not weakness; they are signs of life. The soul that can still burn with longing has not yet grown cold.

Consider, too, that this truth extends beyond art. The scientist who marvels at another’s discovery, the athlete who admires a rival’s strength, the teacher who reads a colleague’s brilliant lesson—all share in this sacred jealousy. It is the force that keeps humanity reaching higher, generation after generation. To see greatness in others and yearn to match it—that is the seed of all progress. Without that tension between admiration and ambition, the world would stagnate, and no new light would ever dawn.

Let this then be the lesson for all who dream: when you feel the fire of professional jealousy, do not quench it—purify it. Let it drive you to work harder, to study deeper, to love your craft more fiercely. Do not despise the greatness you see in others; let it remind you of the greatness that lies sleeping within yourself. As Brad Hall reveals, the artist’s envy is not a curse but a calling—a whisper from the heart that says, “You too were born to create.” For the day you no longer feel that burning ache, that divine restlessness, is the day your education as an artist—and as a human being—truly ends.