Jane E. Unger

My father's death fourteen years ago embodies the collision of life and art. It wasn't a collision with flying sparks, noise, and commotion. It was a quiet collision that occurred deep inside of me and dislocated my inner life, as if a lynchpin piece had been pulled out of a puzzle. I continue to try to fit the pieces together, to make sense of it.

In October 2007, as the Artistic Director of Profile Theatre Project in Portland, Oregon, I was opening our John Guare season (featuring his plays exclusively) with a production of Six Degrees of Separation. Guare was to be Profile's guest of honor for opening weekend. My personal guests of honor were to be my parents, who enthusiastically attended every show I directed and especially loved meeting the playwrights I brought to Portland.

My dad was a depression era Brooklyn boy who, rather than pursue his love of drawing, chose the more practical and lucrative profession of dentistry to put his talented hands to work. He was a successful provider for a large family of six and as such, he was able to do for his children what was not done for him. He encouraged us to pursue our dreams and to do work that made us happy. And thanks to my dad, I am one of those lucky ones that get to work at what I love—a new concept for a new generation. 

Like many Jews who witnessed the atrocities of WWII my dad was a devout atheist. He abandoned belief in a higher power but was a devout theatregoer. My siblings and I were never taken to shul. But, we were always taken to the theatre. I don't know whether my dad would have acknowledged theatre as his religion, but I think of it as mine and I thank my dad for that. My father's reverence for great writers like Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams and for great performances like Laurette Taylor's in The Glass Menagerie put me on a path to live theatre. As treacherous a path as a profession in live theatre is, I knew my dad was proud of my choice and quietly revering the world in which I was making a career.

By 2007, our John Guare season, my parents were living in Victoria, B.C., and my father who had turned 90 earlier that year, was battling various health problems. However, he was determined to meet this renowned playwright and to see the latest production I was directing. Too difficult for him to be driven or flown on a commercial plane, my mother rented a private plane to transport them. They arrived at the Portland airport the same day Guare arrived. I met Guare. My sister met my parents.

From the moment of their arrivals, I was in meetings during the day, then preview performances followed by note sessions at night. I planned to see my parents the next morning but learned that my dad had been up all night with internal pain and was finally sleeping. The same scenario repeated itself for the next two days with me working all afternoon and night, and my dad sleeping during the day, and in pain all night.

And so, during that compressed time, I never saw my father alive. After three sleepless nights, my mother insisted on getting him to the hospital. Later she told me she was so worried, she got lost on her way there and he took the opportunity to tease her about her driving. It pleases me to know that even in his final hours, my father's wicked sense of humor never left him. He died in the hospital later that day. I was finally able to be with him, althouogh he was no longer conscience.

I am frozen in a time-loop of October, 2007. I can picture myself at the second preview, sitting next to Guare, taking my notes, taking the verbal notes he whispered to me, and assuring him that a sound level was off. Fine-tuning and more fine-tuning. I wasn't thinking about my dad then. I fully expected to see him the next morning. I fully expected him and my mother to be in the audience opening night.

In my job as a director, I get to be a master storyteller and create an experience that captures the imagination of a roomful of strangers. And when my parents were in the audience, I knew I was also capturing the imagination and love of my father whom I adored and who, with my mother, introduced me to this world in which I found stimulation, solace, acceptance, and ultimately my home.

Yet, what do I do with the irony that the thing that I love and bonded me to my dad, is the very thing that kept me from being with him in his final days and hours in this world? I agonize over not being with him during those moments. What would our conversation have consisted of? He would, of course, have been full of questions about the production and about Guare. He would have been looking forward to opening night with great excitement and joy. That joy is what got him on a plane to Portland and that joy is what I must believe was with him, along with the pain, during those days in October.