Theatre Design Students Need to See Themselves in the Work

Introduction

I didn’t know a prop could make someone cry. But that’s what happened.

Leilani was a high school senior in rural Texas—Native Hawaiian, and one of the only Pacific Islander students in the entire district. For most of her schooling, her culture existed outside the classroom. But in my technical theatre class, I assigned a props project that invited students to design an item with narrative significance. She chose to create a book based on Hawaiian mythology. It was a simple task: Create a prop book that could be used on stage.

She crafted every detail with intention. The cover was adorned with floral motifs inspired by her family’s art back home. It was deeply personal, and when she presented it, her voice trembled. I asked her how it felt to bring her culture into the work. “It’s freeing,” she said. “No one’s ever asked me to include my heritage in school before.”

From that moment on, she centered her Hawaiian identity in every project—set models shaped by volcanic textures, costumes inspired by traditional patterns, lighting concepts drawn from firelight and dance. She wasn’t just a student anymore. She was designing as a whole person.

When it came time for the final, students had to select a published play and develop a full design concept. I had just read Hula Heart by Velina Hasu Houston—a story of generational legacy and diasporic identity. I offered it as an option. Her eyes lit up. It was the first time a teacher had actively brought her culture into the curriculum. Not just tolerated it. Invited it.

That moment changed how I teach technical theatre.

In a field often dominated by so-called “neutral” skills and standardized aesthetics, this experience reminded me: Every prompt, every reading, every project structure either reinforces exclusion or opens the door to belonging.

“Just Teach the Content” Isn’t Neutral

It’s easy to fall back on the idea that technical theatre is objective. That educators are just here to teach skills: how to build a platform, how to draft a light plot, how to create a rendering. That design is about the “right” materials, the “best” techniques, the “professional” way.

But nothing about this work is neutral.

What gets taught—what gets framed as standard, rigorous, or industry-ready—is always shaped by culture. In many programs, particularly those modeled on traditional conservatory or Euro-American training pipelines, dominant aesthetics still carry disproportionate weight. Realism, restraint, minimalism—these values are too often presented as universal, when in fact they’re rooted in specific cultural histories: industrialized Europe, white modernism, and Western storytelling conventions.

That narrow frame isn’t the whole story. It never was.

In my own training, I was taught to revere the big three: Adolphe Appia, Edward Gordon Craig, Josef Svoboda. I absorbed a design language that prized abstraction, geometry, and white space. But I never saw the layered visual symbolism I knew from my own queer community. I didn’t learn about Toni-Leslie James, or about Afro-Caribbean ritual performance, or about Indigenous relationships to space and light. I’ve had to unlearn and reimagine—and I’m still doing that work.

Thankfully, I’m not doing it alone.

The movement toward culturally responsive, identity-conscious design education is alive and ongoing. Scholars like Kathy A. Perkins, Armando Huipe, and Dr. Kelsey Mesa have expanded our understanding of what design can be—and who it’s for. Organizations like Design Action and Groundwater Arts have offered frameworks for decolonizing theatrical production. I’m deeply indebted to their work, as well as to the foundations laid by Gloria Ladson-Billings and Geneva Gay, whose research on culturally responsive pedagogy reshapes how I think about the classroom.

Their work helped me see what I wasn’t taught:

• That “professionalism” often reflects assimilation, not excellence.
• That aesthetic value is not fixed—it’s contextual, cultural, and contested.
• That neutrality is a myth that protects dominant norms.

So instead of asking students to conform to an existing canon, I now ask new questions:

• Who defines what counts as excellence in design?
• Whose aesthetics dominate the conversation—and why?
• How do you, as a designer, claim space for your cultural lens?

Culturally responsive pedagogy isn’t about replacing one standard with another. It’s about making room—real, expansive room—for many ways of seeing, making, and telling stories.

There isn’t one “right” aesthetic or one “professional” standard. There are thousands of traditions, techniques, and perspectives, and each of them is valid.

Expanding the Canon

I started with the syllabus.

For years, I taught what I was taught—what most of us were taught. The syllabus centered a narrow tradition of Euro-American scenographers and production styles. It celebrated the abstraction of Adolphe Appia, the shadow play of Edward Gordon Craig, the multimedia futurism of Josef Svoboda. These figures weren’t without value—but they weren’t the whole story. They certainly weren’t my students’ stories.

So I expanded the canon.

Not by erasing the traditional figures, but by refusing to let them dominate the narrative. I layered in Afro-Caribbean ritual design, and I introduced Chinese opera costuming and the scenography of Indigenous Australian performance. We looked at the opulent maximalism of Nollywood and the intricacy of Andean textiles. We studied designers like Toni-Leslie James, whose costumes honor Black history with elegance and depth; Eiko Ishioka, whose fantastical designs fuse Eastern and Western cultures into dreamlike visions; and Marina Toybina, whose genre-blending work pushes the boundaries of pop spectacle.

We talked about how color is used differently across cultures—not just in terms of palette, but also meaning. We studied sacred architecture, communal storytelling, and performance practices that prioritize ancestry over artifice.

Students began to see that design doesn’t have to conform to a single lineage of thought. There isn’t one “right” aesthetic or one “professional” standard. There are thousands of traditions, techniques, and perspectives, and each of them is valid.

More importantly, they began to see their own cultures not as something to work around, but something to work from.

One student designed a set inspired by their abuela’s ofrenda. Another developed a sound design grounded in the rhythms of Eid celebrations. A third assembled a lighting plot that reflected the shifting light patterns of Hanukkah. These weren’t “diversity projects.” They were rigorous, intentional, and deeply personal works of design that not only held true to the intent of the plays, but also invited my students to bring their own creativity and perspective to the work.

Expanding the canon didn’t dilute the standards. It made them richer, more relevant, and more reflective of the world my students are navigating.

Structural Shifts in the Classroom

Changing what I taught was only part of the work. I also had to change how I taught it.

Culturally responsive pedagogy can’t thrive in a classroom structured around rigid hierarchy, fixed rubrics, or one-size-fits-all outcomes. It asks us to reconsider our expectations, our timelines, and our definitions of success. For me, that meant shifting the very bones of how I ran a technical theatre course.

Student Choice as Standard Practice

Rather than assigning the same script to every student, I began offering a menu of global plays, devised works, and nontraditional texts; and I invited students to bring in stories from their own communities or interests. The designs that followed became richer, more specific, and more connected.

One student, fascinated by the intersection of mythology and music, chose to design costumes for Epic, a concept album and musical adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey. Their renderings brought an anachronistic beauty to the project—mixing ancient Greek motifs with rock aesthetics, layered symbolism, and a bit of queer fantasy.

Another student, who had recently immigrated from Bangladesh, chose Kobor by Munier Chowdhury—a play deeply rooted in Bangladeshi resistance and history. They developed a full costume, hair, and makeup design for the production, drawing on traditional attire and political iconography. Their presentation was deeply personal, connecting their family's history of activism to the visual language they built on the page.

These weren’t just assignments. They were acts of cultural reclamation. They turned the classroom into a site of affirmation and creative agency.

In many cultures, storytelling is not an individual act. It’s shared. Collective. My classroom now mirrors that truth.

Collaboration, Not Competition

I also began challenging the traditional production model we often replicate in theatre classrooms. Too often, we assign rigid roles—lead designer, assistant, technician—in ways that reinforce hierarchy rather than collaboration. Instead, I began organizing students into design teams for each area, reflecting ensemble-based practices and community-led creation.

These teams worked across disciplines—scenic, props, costumes, lighting, and sound—learning how to co-create a unified vision while respecting each team member’s voice and perspective. Collaboration wasn’t just a means to an end; it became part of the pedagogy.

One design team, made up of students from varying cultural backgrounds, took inspiration from campfire storytelling traditions rooted in Indigenous ritual. They reimagined Sweeney Todd not as a Gothic melodrama, but as an acoustic, fireside folk tale. Their concept included hand percussion, shadow puppetry, and a carved wooden set meant to resemble a forest clearing. It was eerie, intimate, and deeply original.

They didn’t just redesign a show—they decolonized it.

In many cultures, storytelling is not an individual act. It’s shared. Collective. My classroom now mirrors that truth.

Structural change is not limited to what we assign; it is reflected in how we listen, how we pose questions, and how we honor the stories embedded in every design decision.

Critique with Cultural Context

In traditional design education, critique is often structured around Western principles: symmetry, cohesion, restraint, balance. While those ideas can be valuable, they’re not universal—and when presented without context, they reinforce a narrow idea of what “good” design looks like.

Now, I ask students to articulate the cultural logic behind their choices. If someone uses asymmetry, we explore whether it reflects a storytelling form, a ceremonial structure, or a visual tradition from their community. If the work is visually dense, we talk about maximalism in Carnival, Bollywood, or Black church aesthetics—not as exceptions to the rule, but as valid and powerful design traditions.

When students understand that critique is not about conforming but about communicating, they begin to offer each other more thoughtful, respectful, and culturally responsive feedback. They also begin to defend their own work not with apology—but with clarity and pride.

This kind of feedback culture does not merely shape individual projects; it reorients the entire classroom. It becomes a space where students learn to trust their instincts, articulate their influences, and design with intention. Structural change is not limited to what we assign; it is reflected in how we listen, how we pose questions, and how we honor the stories embedded in every design decision.

Centering Student Voice and Experience

When students are invited to bring their cultures, identities, and histories into the design process, something shifts.

They stop designing to please. They start designing to speak.

I’ve seen students who once whispered their ideas start advocating for their visions with clarity and conviction. Students who believed they weren’t “creative enough” now submit renderings that vibrate with story and specificity. When we treat student identity as an artistic asset, we give them permission to see themselves as artists—not just students completing assignments.

One student told me, “Before this, I thought design was just copying someone else’s idea. Now I know I have something to say.”

Another, after presenting a lighting design rooted in the colors and emotions of their first Pride parade, said, “I never thought I could show this side of myself in school. Now I don’t want to hide it.”

That’s the power of culturally responsive design education. It doesn’t just generate better projects—it cultivates self-trust. It expands what students believe is possible for themselves. It turns the classroom into a space where identity and artistry meet.

When students feel that freedom, they don’t just learn. They thrive. They take up space. They imagine futures. They become collaborators, not just consumers of a curriculum.

Design, at its best, is an act of self-expression and cultural memory. When we center student voice, we stop asking them to fit into our frameworks—and start helping them build their own.