“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honourable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
The afternoon promising rain. The Roxy hushed and all ours. The crew of builders and painters and designers, quietly busy. Building something magic out of wood. The stage is lit and laid with plastic. On the plastic , a jigsaw of white boards, almost as long and wide as the stage itself. Tape, tape measures, pencil lines. Voluptuous tins of paint – reds and blues. Measurements and rollers on long handles. The lights. The hum. The smell.
Slowly over many quiet hours, the quiet hush of concentration, discussing the scope of the thing, the techniques and approaches, and making decisions together, painting, making, building. The skilled tradesmen. The designers. The artists. The workers. The watchers. All bringing their hands together and their minds and making something beautiful and powerful. The vision, underneath the hallowed rafters.
And the piano man at the Grand Piano in the wings, singing his songs. And the afternoon, promising rain…