Maybe You’re a Lighting Designer and Don’t Know It Yet

Webster University

by Chris Peterson

I’ve been stuck on this lately: theatre people will spend hours debating a tempo change, a costume hem, whether a character “would” sit or stand in that beat… and then we all walk right past the one department that literally tells us what to look at.

Lighting.

Not in the vague, “oh wow, pretty” way either. I mean the actual architecture of a moment. The glow that makes a stage feel like a kitchen at 7 a.m. The harsh white that turns a smile into something suspicious. The soft wash that makes a goodbye feel like it’s happening underwater. We talk about storytelling nonstop in this industry, and somehow the folks who paint with light still sit in the corner like they’re doing a magic trick nobody wants to acknowledge.

So yes, I’m saying it: more people should try lighting design. Like, genuinely. Not just “help hang a few instruments once and call it a day,” but actually learn it. Sit in a cueing session. Watch how a show gets built in inches and seconds.

Because lighting is one of the only parts of theatre that takes a feeling and gives it bones.

You’ll hear people describe it like it’s purely technical. Like it’s all math and cables and an endless sea of labels. And sure, there’s plenty of that. But what makes lighting design addictive is the emotional side of it. The part where someone nudges an angle two degrees and suddenly a performer’s face reads as brave instead of scared. The part where a color shift makes the room tighten. Where a blackout lands like a punchline or a gut punch. Lighting designers aren’t just “making it visible.” They’re deciding how the audience experiences the air in the room.

And once you get near it, it’s not nearly as intimidating as people pretend.

The first time you sit through a cue-to-cue, you realize it’s weirdly communal. Directors toss out feelings like they’re ordering at a coffee shop. Stage managers are calling numbers like it’s a sport. Designers are translating half-formed adjectives into something real. Someone will say, “Can we make this feel warmer, but lonely?” and you’ll watch the board op and the designer chase it until it clicks. And when it clicks, everybody feels it at the same time, even if nobody says anything. That’s the job. That’s the fun.

Also, if you think you’re “not a tech person,” I’m going to gently call nonsense.

If you’ve ever noticed how the world looks different at 5:30 p.m. versus 2:00 p.m., you’re already halfway in. If you’ve ever sat in a room and thought, this overhead light is making everyone look like a ghost, your brain is doing the lighting designer thing. If you’ve ever been caught by that golden hour haze and thought, why does this feel like the ending of a movie, you’re not just being dramatic. You’re noticing how light changes story.

Theatre needs more of that. More people who care about mood. More people who hear “lavender” and don’t just think “purple,” but think “what does lavender mean here?” More people who get excited by the difference between a clean front wash and a side light that makes the stage feel like a confession. More designers who can make actors look like they belong in the world they’re standing in, not just lit enough to be seen.

And the entry point is simpler than people realize. Wander into the booth at your school. Ask if you can shadow. Volunteer to run lights at a community theatre where someone will absolutely be thrilled to have you. Be the person who stays after rehearsal and says, “Hey, can you show me what those cues are doing?” Ask the lighting designer after a show how they pulled off that one moment you can’t stop thinking about. Most of them have been waiting their whole lives for someone to ask.

So if you’ve been looking for your way into theatre, the door you didn’t know was there might be glowing right in front of you.