The eternal value of stolen props

(Photo: Charmaine Castanos)

In my parent’s house, there is a room, tucked away in the back-right corner of the old Edwardian building. It’s a room that sits somewhere below freezing in the winter months and has noisy water pipes running down by the door that all too often sound like monsters in the dark. It’s an old room in an old house.

But it’s mine.

That room has been mine for my entire life, and so my entire life can be seen in that room. Many decorations and periods of growth later, the years of my life are still etched onto the walls and piled in every corner (metaphorically, of course).

In that room, my room, there is a bed, and under that bed there is a box filled with the most magical items known to mankind. Items of such monuments emotional power that their mere presence can command laughter or draw tears in the blink of an eye.

Props.

Or to be more specific, props, programmes, costumes, and presents from countless years of shows, performances, casts, and crews.

Oh… and it’s more than one box…

Theatre, thou art a fickle mistress

Theatre is a notoriously short-lived art form. It is the burden of live performance that it cannot be rewound once it has passed. Unlike its recorded cousins on the silver screen, theatre is ethereal and oh-so fickle. Every moment on stage is unique and will never be seen again. That is the magic of live performance, but that is also its curse.

Memories, therefore, are the only lasting impression of theatre. The only place where a live performance can be reviewed over and over again is in our minds. Sure, you could watch a recording (as long as it’s not a bloody bootleg), but that live magic will be missing. You can’t laugh along with a digital audience, or catch your castmates out of the corner of your eye as they make mischief in the wings. If a live performance is like a painting, then a recording of that performance is like viewing that painting through a thick fog. You can make out the shapes and general intention of the piece, but the details and the nuances that make it beautiful are lost.

For actors, and indeed all theatre professionals, the transitory nature of theatre is felt even more acutely. Unlike our audiences, we do get to relive some moments over and over again. We form attachments to our stories and characters that go far beyond the temporary investment felt by our audiences. They become part of us, part of our lives, from the moment we begin rehearsals until the fall of the final curtain on closing night. We learn so much about ourselves and experience so much joy and raw emotion during a production that shows and their players become woven into our souls.

We lose so much more than just a story and its characters when that curtain falls.

We lose our castmates and crew.

We lose family and friends.

Memories and Fellowship

A good cast will form bonds between them during a run that are generally unseen in other professions. The emotional vulnerability and heightened pressure of theatre lends itself to the very tightest of platonic bonds (and sometimes beyond).

To say that casts form families is not beyond reason. Theatre has long been a place for the outcasts of the world, and so for some theatre professionals, the people with whom they work may even become more of a family to them than their real relatives ever were or could be.

And yet, at that final fall of that final curtain, everything changes.

New jobs need to be found, new rehearsals need to be attended. Time becomes short once again and new bonds are formed with new family, often to the detriment of those who came before.

Theatre is a fickle mistress. She will give and she will take. Bonds of fellowship mean little to her, and to carry such relationships beyond the confines of a single cast in a single production is an impressive feat.

So… when everything comes to an end, what do we have left?

When all is said and done, our memories of productions, and of their casts and crews, are all that we have to cling on to.

Slide into a conversation between actors and I guarantee that, within a matter of minutes, one of them will mention a past production. Their eyes might mist over as they stare off into the middle distance, or perhaps they will begin to turn red with anger if the story demands it. Either way, the response will be an emotional one.

But memories are all the more visceral if they have an anchor of some kind. An item, perhaps, that triggers floods of recollection in spectacular technicolour.

 Now, how might you come across items like that?

Theatrical Kleptomania

In my room at my parents’ house, in the boxes under the bed, lives my collection of just those kinds of items. Among their number I have the egg of an elephantbird, the sword of a white knight, the baseball cap of a young pianist, and the wooden cross of a pious monk, alongside more programmes, ticket stubs, scripts and posters than I dare to count.

Some of my souvenirs were stolen, a few were begrudgingly given under duress, and a couple were gifts, freely given at the end of a run. 

All of them mean the world to me.

In an industry as changeable and brutal as theatre, memories and the items that enhance them are worth their weight in gold, not only to keep us connected to the shows and people in our past, but also to remind us during the darker days of our careers why we do what we do.

I am sure that our prop masters, stage managers, and directors know full well that we steal from them. A lot of the time they probably let us, turning a sympathetic blind eye to our emotional kleptomania. In fact, I would bet money that they swipe the odd souvenir too.

Permission should always be sought, where possible, of course. I am not in the habit of condoning all out thievery in the ranks. The goal of maintaining memories with souvenirs is a noble one, as long as it doesn’t cause too much grief for our colleagues in the props cupboards and wings. If sticky fingers are necessary, something small, easily replaceable, and without too much value should be your target. Stealing the gold-plated cutlery or the paintings that were borrowed from an outside source might just be a touch over the top, and could cause significant issues for your crewmates. Don’t forget, they are part of the family too, so try not to leave them high and dry.

Theatre is a profession that requires total emotional investment. In every character we play, in every show we help create, we must pour all of our available reserves of feeling and empathy. In the course of a run, we become one with our character, and with our cast and crew. The story we act out becomes an indelible chapter in the pages of our own lives.

Losing that is devastating, and so we need memories to hold on to as we weather the emotional rapids of a show coming to its close.

Memories are ethereal, just like theatre herself. But, just as we bring theatre to life by dragging it into the physical world night after night, so too can our memories be sustained by items and souvenirs.

So, the next time you find yourself at the closing night of a show, consider this article and know that, though it is not my place to absolve you of wrongdoing, I won’t hold it against you if that little prop finds its way into your bag. Keep in mind the effects of what you are doing and minimise them as much as possible, but if you are sure no one will miss it, then I won't rat you out.

We all need talismans of memory in our lives, to guide us back through the years and remind us of times gone by. To remember with feeling is the most human of traits, and the shows and relationships in an actor’s past will forever help them form their present.

So, if you do ever get caught with a small prop sticking out of your pocket that you perhaps shouldn’t have, just turn to your captor say that you’re preparing for all the roles you are yet to have.

At the very least, their confusion will give you a chance to run.