Amidst the Orange Fog that is spreading across America, this light from George Santayana: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it" is hopefully growing brighter. It shines on the such dramatic periods as the founding of the United States and its Constituion, the Civil War, the post WWI period of the Red Scare, the Great Depression, the post WWII period of the banal '50s and McCarthyism. On a smaller scale, for me, it beams on a dreamlike, often nightmarish period in my artistic life.

In the early 70’s, the love of my then life and I brought The Ensemble to Chicago, Illinois, Midwest USA, North America. We had developed this first-ever combined theatre and dance company in San Francisco, which at the time was a rather remote region and annoyingly provincial. We were both New Yorkers, she a dancer-choreographer, me an actor-director and we spent three years in Northern California looking for sabor (she was Latin), some passion in the air, some fire in the eyes. The Bay Area was rather gray and tasteless. We figured it was time to get back East where dancers knew how to sweat and actors knew how to breathe. We figured we’d keep our act out of New York for a while and slide into a big city that was close enough to the Atlantic Ocean to feel the beat of Europe. So at the behest of the fledgling Illinois Arts Council  we took the offer to move which included a nearly new neatly designed theatre building and some funding. We were innocently and stupidly non-profit at that time.

Now Chicago has a problem... did then, still has today. It can’t get New York out of its craw. It desperately doesn’t want to be a “second” city to New York which is the first city in theatre, dance, music and visual art in the U.S. And by being a “not-wannabe” second city, it is... second rate. It also has some of the lousiest weather of any metropolitan area on the planet. And it was then the most racially segregated city in the states, dominated by a thick white power structure. I do say that to its credit it had one of the stunning collections of architecture in the country, even a Frank Lloyd Wright House.

It also had Richard J. Daley... hizzoner, the mayor for 20 years, heir to the Thompson-Capone political machine, the kingmaker who more than likely put Kennedy into the White House, The Man!... the man on the fifth floor (in City Hall) who never took a dime, lived modestly in a gray-white Chicago suburb and went to Mass every morning. The Man with no neck who danced a tightrope like a featherweight high-wire walker, stretched between the Mob on one end, and the Arch-Diocese and big Banks on the other. He kept the peace and they kept the pieces. He ruled the city with the motto: “Chicago is the city that works!”. And it did... Daley style.

After we set up shop, opened the training studios, fleshed out both companies... we began work on an experiment we had started in San Francisco. We were boldly going where no smart thinking theatre artist wanted to tread... we resurrected the “Living Newspaper”.  This powerful mixed-media form (in our incarnation it included acting, dance, jazz, and graphics) was among the sharpest instruments that were turned against and used to  bring down a golden era in U.S. performing arts... the WPA especially the Federal Theatre Project (which see if you want to see what dreams are made of). We did two of them – one on education, called “School Crisis: Where Have All The Children Gone?” and one on public housing, called: “Housing Crisis: Who The Hell Cares.” This was a preliminary  to our first full repertory season. The National Endowment funding hadn’t kicked in yet, so we were riding on a Leisure Time grant left over from the days of the “Great Society” and its “Model Cities Program”. We had patrons, but our white knight was the grant administrator, Clarence Cash, who was Black (I mention that because it comes into play later).

There’s an old saying in Chicago... “When it rains it pours and no umbrella or hip boots will keep you out of the shit!” And we were rained on... all buckets dumping our way. We were slammed by teachers, and parents, patriots and pigeons! But it was the housing piece that nearly done us in! We did some serious mixed-media theatre there, a hard-assed look at the city and The Man.  Absolutely not! Who do you think you are? We’re a theatre company. Then do your theatre and keep your mouth shut. Okay! But it was too late. Within days, our funding was cut. And then, this nearly new theatre building which had been designed by a leading architect as a class project with his Yale graduate students... suddenly developed more fire and building code violations than San Francisco the day after the 1906 earthquake.  In the coming months, we had so many inspection visits we considered selling tickets and running matinee performances.

We struggled through a lean, mean first season... it was pretty good. But we figured it was our first and last. So before the chickens and tar buckets showed up,  we decided to pull out the stops, go out in glory with another in-your-face theatre piece. We created another “newspaper”, and it was called: “The Screaming Yellow Chicago Blues, or, Dick Daley Won’t you Please Come Home!”  Theatre people are crazy... we were crazy. This cross between Brecht, Marat-Sade and the Cirque du Soleil was a romp, a party that even included a ballet-dancing full-sized gorilla in a tutu. On opening night, The Mayor’s daughter was in the audience along with her husband who was hizzoner’s right-hand man. She liked it! And the spies liked it! And the reports flowed back to Daley, and he liked it! Within days, our funding returned. A few days later, Clarence Cash (remember him?) paid us a visit. After nosing around for a couple of minutes, he came up to me and stuck his finger just below my sternum (he was a little guy) and said: “Jack, be cool... and you’ll be...  coool!” It took some time before that pearl of wisdom he pushed into my ear began to sing some sense.

Something had happened! The Ensemble was a repertory theatre company that did O’Neill, Williams, Carlino and new plays, paired with a modern dance company that mounted full performance works  and sets of commissioned pieces: both supported by complete training programs that offered scholarships and apprenticeships. The company artists worked with fever... classes in the morning, rehearsals in the afternoon, performances at night... six days a week, sometimes seven. It was a committed time.

But something had happened! As we began to prepare for a second full bore 120-performance repertory season, the quiet hum of an awareness appeared.  It turned the head and tilted the ear and slowly asked for attention. It sweetly, and gently prodded us to take a few small steps, very small steps, down a path that led to Oz, that led to what became a rainbow of gold and a nightmare of naked dreams. If we had been crazy, we were about to become certifiably mad. And I was about to learn the meaning of...
“coool.”

The Ensemble was unlike any other performing company in Chicago and therefore not part of the mix... the Chicago’s “arts” community with its sulking, hang-dog attitude resented “outsiders” who had there own standards. We weren’t part of the social milieu because we didn’t have time in our 24/7 schedule and it also wasn’t very interesting. What Chicago theatre people (and I use the term loosely) called “bon vivant”, we called Midwest mundane. One little shocker was a meeting with the then diva of Chicago theatre critics, Richard Christenson, who told me and my PR director –  why should we bother covering you... we don’t know you, haven’t seen you around the circuit at any gatherings, you’re not part of the scene! First time I ever got that thrown at me... but not the last in Chicago, it was typical. Later, the press and the media had no choice but to give us full coverage, and it was good.

There was almost no dance in Chicago, or so we thought. The only group that could compare to our dance company was Maria Tallchief’s new Chicago ballet. As for theatre, Steppenwolf was in its early days (Mamet was learning how not to shave and Malkovich was perfecting his Brando imitation), Second City was in its early decline, there were a handful of other “Halsted Street” groups and the star of the Chicago theatre scene, the Organic Theatre, Stuart Gordon and his wife’s  rendition of “Pulp Fiction” meets Marvel Comics. It was a sellout venue and it was awful. Told us a lot about audience potential. The big gun, Goodman Theatre, did good work. John Rich, who directed Goodman at that time embraced our company and was as supportive as politics would allow. Enough of the carping, on to the good stuff.

The awareness I referred to, those voices in the distance led us to the Southside of Chicago. There we found better than 50% of the city’s population, almost entirely people of color, almost entirely Black. And there we found a “festival” of vibrant dance, music, theatre, and visual art. It was an exhilirating awakening! At the same time, we discovered our own neighborhood. We were based on the Northside in what was known as “Uptown”.  This district was a hotspot of social activism, a dumping ground when “they” cleared the mental hospitals around the country, a twilight zone of socially ostracized, disenfranchized, lower economic people. It also housed the largest urban population of American Indians off the reservation, representing over 100 tribes and nations, and the Indians were into the arts from tradition, history and the richness of their own culture. The light began to dawn over our heads. Here we were with a nearly new facility... a beautifully designed, three-quarter-round Greek-style (as in Epidaurus) theatre,  with dressing rooms, workshop, rehearsal studios, and an art gallery. The image became clearer, like a haunting coming to life. Even though we were receiving support from the Illinois Arts Council, the NEA, private patrons, and the city’s slush fund, we were at arm’s length from the downtown Chicago performing arts scene and its view of itself. It became clear that we should present our vision of the performing arts in a metropolitan (not too cosmopolitan) area. So we lit the pipe and smoked it (and it was a pipe!)

That summer after our first season, we invited performing groups and individual artists to a little festival. There was no money, no budget. The deal was: the participants took 75% of the gate, we took 25% to try to recoup any expenses.

21 straight days of theatre, dance, music, and art and photography exhibits. All of the organization and administration was impromptu, off-the cuff. Everyone in the company, actors, dancers, apprentices, staff worked the festival. The publicity and advertising was (to be kind) primitive and minimal. It was astonishing! The response was overwhelming. People, audiences, flowed out of the dark streets and filled the theatre and the gallery. We were invigorated, exhausted and somewhat redeemed. For us there were many treasured side-benefits – we found a promised land in Chicago with great art that touched people. Marvelous relationships developed with Southside artists who were virtually shut out from the Chicago mainstream.  The arts solstice we had launched gave birth to a new American Indian Art Studio and a new American Indian Ttheatre group – both of which we helped parent and drew me personally into a long journey in Indian Country.

At the same time, we were preparing our first full-blown repertory season... four new works, two theatre, two dance in rotating repertory, 120 performances. Our children’s program, The Marblecake Kids, blossomed with classes in theatre, dance, and graphics, staffed by company members. And we expected to tour.

It was a hell of a season! Funding kicked in like a storm surge in high winds. The NEA commissioned the first ever Latin dance-work by a Latin choreographer . They also provided substantial funding (for the time) for the theatre company. Ford came thru, so did Borg-Warner and other foundations. And there was our growing subscription base. We even had our own graphics unit that printed all of our materials and did commercial job printing to produce additional revenue. What kept it tight was the commitment of the actors and the dancers (the money wasn’t great!), and the company’s own training program. Classes in the morning (six days a week), maintenance rehearsals in the afternoon, performances at night. It was an immersion in joy or horror depending on the individual artist. To almost everyone in this company, it was joy... on a tight budget.

Mid-season, I was visited by a rep from the NEA. They were about to launch a new program, called – Expansion Arts. They offered some substantial funding if we would take our little wonder-child of the past summer and develop it into a large-scale event, a real “festival” for the coming summer... as a pilot for their program of Regional Arts Festivals. “You’ll be the Director!” I told them we weren’t in the festival business, and I’m a director of theatre not public events. Lots of discussion and communication followed. The question was – what was in it for The Ensemble. Additional funding, of course. It would provide company salaries on a 12-month basis. And it presented a wonderful opportunity to participate in a vision of interrelated arts on a much larger scale. On the downside... the company wouldn’t perform in the festival (with the blessing of hindsight, that was a bad mistake!). It would also curtail much of our touring plans and it would be energy draining.  It took some time for the madness to take hold, but it did. We agreed to do it. It proved to be everything I had envisioned and it unmasked a nightmare that eventually shattered the company. Good dreams, my mother used to say, have two faces. Make sure you wake up after you see the smiley one!

That next summer, The Ensemble produced the Chicago Poor Arts Festival, subtitled – “Poor in Money, Rich in Talent”.  Not a great name, but hey those were the in-your-face halcyon days of the early ‘70s and I told you we were a little crazy. Again it was a 75-25 split of the gate with the participating artists, but this time with a minimum guarantee. 51 days of theatre, dance, music, art exhibits, photography exhibits, films, “happenings”,  “jam” sessions with musicians, actors, dancers. It went six nights a week with Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Again, everyone in the company worked it, at least this time with some compensation. On opening day, July 4th, the city blocked off the streets around the theatre and we had an opening day bash. Over 5000 people came. Pepsi provided free drinks, many of the Festival artists performed on a special stage outside the theatre to an oo-la-la audience. NBC News had nothing to do that day so they covered the event and featured it on their Nightly News.

It was a huge, marvelous party and the publicity  was terrific.

We had every theatre company in the area except for the group from downtown who couldn’t bring themselves to associate with something they hadn’t created. We had every dance company. We had the best of of the area’s music – jazz, blues, folk, even some classical. The art exhibits were outstanding – our American Indian Artists sold every piece they hung in the gallery. The cross-arts jam sessions (performing artists improving between art forms) were revelations. The happenings, spontaneous arts events on the grounds outside the theatre that included visitors to the festival were a delight. And we added some creative financing. I was struck with the idea of approaching potential donors in a different way. We sent a letter to every bank and financial institution’s president in the area that said : “This is not a request for money.” We simply asked for their endorsement of the concept of the festival and their approval to list them on a billboard on the lobby. One respondent, the president of the large First National Bank of Chicago wrote back and said this was was the most refreshing request he had received in years... and he included a check for $1000. Another series of responses came from the banks themselves. Four of them sent representatives (unsolicited) to ask... how much do you need? They simply made grants and two of them offered to provide direct loans to the company for its next theatre season. Who would ever loan money to a non-profit arts organization? One of those offers came from a fat bank in our neighborhood that everyone knew was one of the “outfit’s” banks. Muses do work in mysterious ways, don’t they!

We did something else. We billed the Chicago Poor Arts Festival as an “unRavinia Festival.” That was a kicker, a gigantic no-no! “Ravinia” was one of the top music festivals (including some other performing arts) in America. Very high class, very special.  James Levine, the Artistic Director of the Metropolitan Opera in New York was Ravinia’s director at the time. It sits in an expensive suburb of Chicago and it’s equally expensive to attend. But it’s worth every nickel.

Our “unRavinia” billing bent a whole row of noses out of shape. First we received a nasty cease&desist letter from the Executive Director. Then we received a resolution-cease&desist letter from the Ravinia Board of Directors. Then we received a classic grease-ball cease&desist letter from Ravinia’s legal counsel. But remember, I was learning to be “cool.” So I ignored it... which was probably more infuriating. Now these White folks from this upscale White suburb had lots of political muscle. They exercised it quickly with Chicago’s political machine. This prompted a call from my now friendly politicos in city hall who said... “do what you do and be cool!”... which I was. Political muscle is political muscle – the fury continued. I was now summoned to the citadel – the NEA wanted to discuss a troubling issue. “What issue?” I smoothly asked. “We’ll talk about it when you get here.” Oh, that kind of issue. Three weeks before the Festival was to open, I squeezed out some unavailable time and flew to Washington, D.C. to meet with the guardians of American arts patronage. It was another step in my educational evolution.

The “issue” was not the “unravinia” thing! It was a serious complaint from highly-responsible sources about our Board of Directors. Who filed the complaint?, asked I. That was irrelevant, answered they. The problem was this – though we had a large, respectable Board of Advisors, our non-profit corporation had a controlling Board of Directors comprising the legal minimum – three... me, my wife, and a mad playwright in San Francisco. It was quite intentional... it gave us maximumn artistic control over the activities of The Ensemble. We had an honorable legal counsel, a respected CPA, and our books were as clean as a sleeping baby’s cheeks.

It was acknowledged that our structure met the minimal requirements. It was acknowledged and understood that we were organized to maintain artistic control. It was further acknowledged that there was no question or shadow of any wrong-doing. However, it was suggested, recommended, and then demanded that we immediately expand our Board of Directors to include a broader representation of the community. And which community is that?, asked I. Why, the arts and business community in Chicago, answered they... and they gave me a list of interested parties to choose from. It took serious effort to muster the “cool” I had brought along with me on the plane.  I sat there silently for 15 minutes or more staring at the piece of paper and then at the collection of faces around the conference table, a collection of bureaucrats who knew little about what I was doing and cared even less. Inside, it churned. Instead of making a speech, instead of crumbling up the paper and throwing down the table, instead dropping my pants and mooning their pale faces, I simply stood up, layed the paper on the table, and silently walked out... taxied to the airport and flew home.

It was an unaccustomed “cool” artistic moment for me. You see, I knew and they knew that three weeks before a major, publicized event that they were funding, no axe was going to fall!

The Festival was a triumph though in its last week it became a painful yoke and almost unmanageable. And it was costly... it not only depleted our energies, it had a resounding effect on the company and its vision of itself. But it was the series of after-shocks that began to exact a deadly toll. As we prepared for our third rotating-repertory season with four new works the hits began to increase. We found ourselves more and more laden with administrative tasks, paperwork, troubling roadblocks that threatened the art of the company. Then the gloves came off, and the hits came in with bare knuckles. It was... Show&Tell time!

So there we were... exhausted but glowing! We’d staged a pilot for the NEA’s regional arts festivals and it was a huge but individually costly success. We opened a wide door to the rich and often neglected arts talent in bovine Chicago. We were about to embark on a new repertory season, our most complex and original to
date. But the air around us was troubling. Little signs, little indications that our “patronage “ still wanted a bigger piece of us. Mildly paranoid, we waited for the hits. The first knock on the door was a big one.

Though our grant of facilities was under the aegis of the NEA and the state arts council, it was administered by the board of the social service organization that owned and shared the building. This board of community-spirited folks had managed to acquire control of the facilities grant and now they wanted to play a major role in our work. Some of them weren’t too happy about the Chicago Poor Arts Festival... it didn’t quite relate to their view of “community”. Particularly true of the wealthy muck-a-muck who had donated all the money to build the theatre a few years before. His “community” was the community of his friends and fellow country-clubbers. They also didn’t like the kind of theatre we did, all of that avant garde, original stuff! They wanted to see more Neil Simon, maybe a musical or two, how about “Time Out for Ginger”? They also wanted to review our repertory before we announced it and they wanted their special executive committee to meet with our executive committee (that was moi!) on a regular basis, say, once a week. They wanted – and this time, sadly and joyfully, I lost my “cool”.  All of those years and months of dealing with issues and concerns that had little or nothing to do with the art of it all and the colossal pressure of the recent festival summer erupted, rather exploded in that smug room full of smug people. My tirade lasted about a half hour. And I ended it on a high note (no I didn’t moon them, my tush was reserved for more discerning eyes!). I announced that we (the company) were leaving and then I left!

In the next days, this upheaval prompted a series of calls from our funding sources. They wanted to assure me that this matter could be arbitrated and that the facilities grant could be co-administered. But I had a “Plan B”.

Our American Indian friends had a huge building nearby. It was a former Masonic temple left to them by a little old lady who thumbed her nose at her neighbors and willed this marvelous property to the “savages”. We negotiated a deal, took over the upper floors including the former Masonic ritual hall (lots of vibes and late night moans and whispers!)  and built ourselves a theatre from scratch. It delayed our season, but it was worth it. We packed up our equipment, our costuming, our tools, our props, our champagne corks and our music... and  moved into our new quarters. Then came the second loud knock.

The NEA had teamed with three of our major funding sources and they all decided and demanded that we accept technical advisors on our board. With voting rights, asked I. Well, said they, not quite, a kind of oversight. They wanted to control our activities and planning because they saw the Festival as a major “feather” in their bonnets and they didn’t want us to move away from producing it again. I simply refused. They simply began to turn the screws. Paperwork rained down on us as if it came from a giant dustmop. Checks were delayed. Payments were agonizingly slow. Again, there was never any question of wrong-doing, just a question of conformity, a question in baseball terms, of playing hardball!

We had a very good season, some of the best work we ever did. The audiences were good, the reviews were good but the late opening and the relocation took its toll. We hadn’t toured in over a year, and we had to forgo our children’s program in the new facility. Along with this, and the continuous administrative harassment, cracks began to appear in the company. Everyone was weary, wary, and wan. The core of the company had worked together for seven years, had developed a performing ensemble and a unique vision of actor and audience. But they, rather I, had lost hold of the delicate thread that defines art and an artist’s life. It was time to go back to the real world.  That was our last season. I announced that we would no longer apply for support and we turned down the next year’s budget.

The Ensemble became part of my theatre history and evolved into the Atlantis Theatre Company, a for-profit touring group which evolved into four later incarnations up to the present. I swore I would never touch patronage money or stick the tip of my nose into the non-profit circus again. Well, as any good Gypsy knows, if you’re going to swear an oath, you need to sign it in blood. I must have forgotten about that part. Some years later, I found myself in the midst of another non-profit imbroglio, this time with the New Vision Theatre, an innovative company of blind and visually-impaired actors. It was again a situation of social politics unrelated to the art. After kicking that monkey off my back for the second time, I’ve been clean ever since.

One final touch. About three weeks after I announced we were getting off the dole, the NEA asked for a meeting. They flew in a smiling assistant director who took me out for a drink and a steak at the Palmer House. After we got warm and chummy, he opened up an envelope and spread a bevy of papers in front of me. It was an application for funding for the coming year. It already had panel approval and was signed by the executive staff. What was missing was the budget. Just fill in the numbers, he said with a laugh, within reason, of course. Knowing the NEA and the bureaucracy, I asked him, “Gordon, how is that possible.”  He winked, that Chicago-style wink, and said, the director has certain discretionary powers, she can exercise a special budget. I winked back and said (pre-dating Mel Brooks), “It’s good to be a
director!”. “To each his own”, he said as he got into a taxi to the airport. That about summed it up!

Promised you a point. Here it is. Let me begin by saying that I believe the National Endowment for the Arts is critically important to American society. It provides the impetus to bring arts from the periphery into the American mainstream in a young country with a shallow arts history. It has spurred a flood of public, corporate, foundation and individual support for the arts. My only complaint about the NEA is that it never has enough money to do what it wants to do. It is forever on its knees to political yahoos. And today, in the Fog of Orange, it is sorely and agonizingly in trouble.

For all of the good the born-again arts support did... there was a price to pay. It actually began somewhat before the 1970’s gush of gold. The price was, and still is... mediocrity! It is a malady of non-profit, especially non-profit theatre. It exalts the community, the boards of directors, the “friends of...” and too often takes art out of the hands and mouths of the artists. The audience becomes the show!

There’s a wonderful scene in Tom Stoppard’s “Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead” (the film). The two dimwits are on the road and come across a traveling band of players. The players’ manager looks at them and says: “Aha, an audience!” With that, the stage unfolds, the actors jump into costume, and the performance begins.

As Sir Lenny says: “And that’s that!”.