I have a Blackbox. I love my Blackbox. This Blackbox has been hoe to most of my classes and many of the favorite plays that I have directed here. It was my antarctic wasteland for Terra Nova. It is my den of coach roaches in Metamorphoses, it was my jeuvinal deletion hall for
Cinders, it was my hospice for The Shadow Box. Water sprang all over the floor and up into the halls from my swimming pool set for Zimmerman’s Metamorphosis. It has been configured for proscenium, 3/4, thrust and in-the-round. This room has frozen me and baked me. It has killed my spirit for this art and re-inspired me the very next day. I have felt very alone and most connected in this space. I have lost countless coffee mugs in this space. I have never been able to keep any chair with castors in this space. I have given up trying to fix the locks to lock this space. But it is my space.
But my space is making me real sad. Look at my floor. My black floor is now black floor, white floor, scuffed floor, scraped floor. My floor is sad. It needs love. It wants to be black again. Please help.