Where Do You Start? (Akiva Fox, Emily Hill & Dan VanHoozer)

In the summer of 2010, we were tired of fooling ourselves. We had small dreams in comparison to most—we wanted to make our own work together and live well. But it seemed like there was always something getting in our way…

“Ugh. Fucking government arts funding. I wish we were in the Netherlands.”
“Ugh. Fucking regional theaters. A million on a set?”
“Ugh. Fucking DC. Only cares about power.”

And then, mid-drink and mid-complaint, one of us said, “What are you afraid of? I’m afraid of not doing what we want. Let’s just do it.” Really?

Okay. Yes. Let’s do this.

We had worked for big-name theatre companies in big cities. But we realized that, again and again, the work that meant the most to us had been built with a small group over months of steady work. We wanted to spend our time working that way, and to clear away the clutter.

But where could we do that? Not in Washington: we had too much baggage there, and the rent was too damn high. So we started to look at where we might want to land. Where our small but potent dreams could grow. Most of the usual suspect cities were stuffed too full with other companies; how would we develop our own style?

Then one of us remembered the orgasmic experience at Sunrise Biscuit Kitchen on a visit to Chapel Hill, and a great article in the New York Times, “36 Hours in the Research Triangle.” What’s a Research Triangle? The third-fastest-growing combined statistical area in the United States. Overflowing with under-40s and retirees, educated to the gills, amazing restaurants, numerous James Beard Award-winning chefs, the prettiest minor league baseball stadium around, a world-class performing arts center, a great music scene (uh, hello Merge Records), food trucks, and cheap rent. So we visited, just to be sure.

We went to all three points of the Triangle, and we had no idea. And then, on our last night, we stumbled out of Dos Perros restaurant in Durham full and drunk and just happy to be considering this thing with each other, and that’s when Emily found a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. “Holy shit. This is amazing! This is where we’re supposed to be.” Maybe we’d spent too long in DC, because when Durham bribed us, we moved here.

Okay. Yes. Let’s do this.

So you know—we’re all in our 30s and well into careers that don’t include specific training in devising theatre, but our plan was to move to Durham and devise the hell out of our imaginations for ten-to-fifteen years together. When we landed in March of 2011, we found ourselves and all our worldly possessions dumped in a new city where we knew next to no one. We had left the friends and collaborators we’d spent years cultivating, and we needed to start from scratch. We needed to find new jobs, new friends, new homes, and a new artistic community. Oh, and now, thanks to our small dreams, we needed to make the play (or rather devise it), fundraise for it, publicize it, and coordinate the design. Just us. And Durham isn’t a magical island; it was hard to find work (suffice it to say that burgers were flipped), social cliques from high school persist into adulthood, and although rent is cheap, rehearsal space isn’t. And did you know that in a small city in the South, there aren’t a lot of options for entertainment on a Sunday night?

It’s been lonely at times. And a twenty-dollar bill—anywhere in America—doesn’t last that long. Now we remembered what we were afraid of.

But we’ve discovered that Durham is in a lot of ways like us: stubborn, resourceful, desirous to transform itself into something amazing, and full of faith that the Universe will provide if you put the work in every day. And Durham also taught us something about process…

Be generous.

Trust us, it’s easier to be generous in the rehearsal room if an entire city keeps reminding you about it.

For the first year, it seemed like wherever we went, someone wanted to say yes to us before we even asked. We would introduce ourselves to new people, and tell them about the kind of work we wanted to do and how we needed their help to do it, and they would say yes. Manbites Dog Theater—yes. Fullsteam Brewery—yes. Duke Performances—yes. Durham Arts Council—yes. PlayMakers Repertory Company—yes. When we had a question about business, or lights to hang, or photographs to take, we were overwhelmed with yeses. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

Trust us, it’s easier to be generous in the rehearsal room if an entire city keeps reminding you about it. Maybe a bribe is actually just a gift?

Okay. Yes. Let’s do that.