voices from yesteryear

By: SJM

I am moved by how they retreated into the profound silence of the wilderness, surrendering to the transformative power of the unknown. In that vast, untamed expanse, they unburdened their spirits and allowed their souls to dance in the pure, uninhibited light of play.

In Harold Clurman’s “The Fervent Years”, we learn about the beginning of the group theater.

The memoir chronicles the history of the Group Theatre in the 1930s, highlighting Clurman's vision of a permanent, collective company. This ensemble was dedicated to socially relevant, ensemble-based acting that prioritized artistic truth over commercial success.

However, the collective faced immense hurdles, including persistent financial instability that threatened their survival and intense internal debates over the application of the Stanislavski method. ( I still think the method is stupid ) These divisions, coupled with the difficult tension between their uncompromising commitment to art and the stifling pressures of the commercial theatre world, ultimately defined their fervent but turbulent journey.

They sought to create a “theatre for the people,” a sanctuary where the stage reflected the pulsing heart of a society in upheaval. Yet, this ideological purity was constantly besieged by the harsh economic realities of the 1930s.

There is a haunting irony in their struggle: while they sought to liberate the spirit through socially relevant performance, they were often enslaved by the simple, agonizing need to keep the lights on. It was a cycle of creation fueled by exhaustion, a testament to the pervasive stigma that true art must be born of deprivation.

In my own journey as a coach and performer, I find myself standing at the crossroads of this historical legacy. We have long romanticized the image of the starving artist, as if the quality of the work is somehow measured by the depth of the creator’s suffering. But after facing my own mortality (surviving six strokes and the long, long, silent road of recovery) I have come to realize that for art to be truly revolutionary, it must first be sustainable. We cannot advocate for the human experience if we are systematically destroying our own. I want to shift the narrative from a culture of self-attrition to one of resilience, where the vulnerability required for the stage is protected by a foundation of professional respect and physical well-being.

They did not know what they were going to discover together in training together. They had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

I really respect that. I feel like we’ve lost some of that sense of adventure and discovery today. We have become lazy in some ways and it feels (at least to me) that we have this overall feeling that we have discovered everything we are going to. I think we have lost contact with that part of the human experience.

Not to get incredibly woo woo but I think with the evolution of technology came a sense of convenience. Like think about it, with the creation of cameras and the popularity and usefulness of them through nature pictures and documentaries, there is obviously still an urge to see it but there is not an urge to discover anything new.

I feel like the only way in which people have that sense of discovery is when they are putting themselves to make a new friend or make a new partner. There is a kind of vulnerability that is required.

Modern convenience has acted as a slow-acting sedative on our collective curiosity. When every answer is a click away and every vista can be viewed through a high-definition lens from the safety of a sofa, the muscles of our imagination begin to atrophy. We have traded the grit of the unknown for the slick surface of instant gratification. (stop me if this sounds too gay lol) Technology gives us the world in fragments, curated and clean, but it denies us the transformative power of the "slow, agonizing, beautiful work" that defines the ensemble experience.

Training together in a basement or a drafty hall for months on end is not efficient. It is not "convenient." It is a grueling process of stripping away the ego, of sitting in the discomfort of not knowing until something honest finally emerges. This is the antithesis of our digital age. In a world of "likes" and immediate feedback, the patience required to build a shared language with other artists—to breathe together and fail together—feels almost counter-cultural. Yet, it is in that very slowness that the most profound discoveries are made.

As I look toward the future, I see the Group Theatre’s collective spirit not as a relic of the 1930s, but as a blueprint for a new kind of community. We need places where we can be vulnerable without being exploited, where the thrill of discovery is matched by a commitment to each other’s humanity. By bridging the fervent devotion of the past with a modern dedication to sustainability, we can build a theatre that doesn’t just burn brightly for a moment, but sustains the fire for generations to come. We are still training; we are still discovering; and truly, we have everything to gain.