Last night, due to my early release from the hospital, I was able to attend a cabaret in LaCrosse that my brother completely envisioned from nothing and created: I’m talking promoted/produced/directed/choreographed/starred. He procured funding from patrons. He asked old college friends to come back and star, and they turned out in full force—trekking across country to join in. He asked my dad and sister to play guitar and drums, and another childhood friend to lend her talents on the keyboard, and I got to sit in the front row and watch this magic come together.
It was called Turning Point.
I watched him take these disparate songs and people and ideas and meld them into a cohesive show. There wasn’t a “plot”—just songs from different musicals performed in rapid-fire succession—but the intention and purpose was clear all the same. This was a show with a message.
And it spoke to me.
I heard it almost subliminally, through waves of emotion and buzzes of energy. The spirit of the show was raw and beautiful, like a fresh wound soothed by balm. That spirit infused everything, too—it was obvious in the love the performers shared for each other, for their craft, for these songs. I felt like I was watching something so intimate, so personal, that I was almost embarrassed—like I had walked in on something I wasn’t meant to see. And yet…there it was: laid bare on a stage, that display of emotion, ugly yet pure, to let those who watched it know that they are not alone.
Art is born of suffering. It must be so to connect. Suffering does connect us—I learned that this past year.
The purpose of art is to let others know that they are not alone. It gives hope. It comforts. It uncovers darkness and shines its light upon it.
I hope to someday create something that beautiful, with a message so powerful that it radiates and suffuses the darkness in hints and suggestions, through tiny cracks, much like sunlight.
Let the sunshine in.