
Richard Engling in rehearsal
I’m engrossed in the concept of time lately. Part of it is my own aging and having an increasing number of the important people in my life dead. As we work on The Good Harvest, I’m also writing a play about the legacy of two of my dearest friends, both artists, one a fiction-writer and the other a visual artist and former actor, both of whom died without their work being much recognized by the outside world. What does that mean? I’m drawn in to thoughts of why we do this work.
In my own work as an artist, I’ve gone through long cycles of moving from one form to another. I first worked and trained as an actor, then a playwright and a fiction writer. When you work as a performer, time moves quickly. Your art exists in the moment, and then it’s gone. By the time I was in my thirties, I’d shifted to novel writing and spent decades always working on one novel or the next. To satisfy my need to perform, I played jazz drums. My novels took years to write. As a novelist, it feels like you are building something large and permanent, like the pyramids. You imagine your works sitting on shelves hundreds of years from now, next to Dostoyevsky and Faulkner. (Well, you imagine that when you are a young writer anyway).
For this past decade I’ve been back working in the theatre: acting, directing, writing plays and adaptations, founding and running a theatre company. Why do we do this work? Will it matter after we are dead? Does anything matter after we are dead?
Right now I’m directing The Good Harvest in its world premiere. The process has been exceptional. Last week one of the actors took me aside and warned me that he might have to miss a rehearsal. He needs to have a growth removed and tested. The potential that the growth might be cancerous seemed to bother him less than that fact that he might have to miss rehearsal. “This is my play,” he told me. “I enjoy the work so much, the exploration, I hate to miss a minute of it. It’s been years since I’ve enjoyed a process so much.”
For the actor, it’s always about the process, the moment, and the performance. They are more comfortable in that temporal space. Perhaps actors are more capable of following the command to “be here now.”
Is it my novelist side that draws me to thoughts of legacy? I first conceived of the play I am writing as a tribute to my friend Fern. Even in the moments before she died, before she killed herself, Fern regretted that she would never write a novel she had planned. On the day he died my friend Dean was talking about making arrangements for some of his artwork—different arrangements than the way he’d left it in his will just a week before. Do they care now about the legacy of their work? Will anything I write change it?
Does legacy matter? Or is the only thing that matters the way we live our lives moment to moment?
As artists, we answer a vocation. For most of us, there is something of a vow of poverty involved. Because we devote so much of our time to a pursuit that pays poorly (or not at all) our finances suffer. But we find a value in it. We work at other jobs during the day and give up our nights and weekends to rehearse and memorize lines, design, build and plan. And when the project feels worthy, it feels like a privilege to be involved—even if we spend more on gas or public transportation to get to rehearsals than the pay the project offers.
And when it’s over, all that remains are the memories.
Is that legacy enough?
I asked the actor if he minded being mentioned in this blog. He wrote back a beautiful email. Here is part of what he said:
“I, myself, have struggled with the idea of legacy. This has been going on for years with me. Wondering if any one thing would be remembered after I am gone. Though I have never hit the level that I had dreamed of, or made an addition to society that is recognized, I do know that my legacy exists. I learned early in life that being true to yourself is a legacy. All of my adult life, I’ve witnessed people living with something missing or not enough of something. Sometimes it was as simple as not following a dream, other times it was living with the question of themselves being ”enough” or doing what they do for guilt or necessity or just being ordinary. My father was a wonderful man that was hard working, poor, uneducated and a bit stubborn on some subjects. I could talk for hours on what he did accomplish or overcame, though the rest of the world doesn’t know he even existed. His legacy was simple. A simple man who didn’t need or take a lot but gave everything. He was the epitome of a good man. When he died I knew the world was different for me. At his funeral I discovered his legacy was bigger than what I even imagined as in the evidence of each person that came to honor him and reveal a personal story about him and/or a shared event. The word used to describe my father by each person was simple. It was the word good.
“Through this I learned that fame or awards or a big house or what I’ve accomplished by witness or films or plays, won’t be the important part of a legacy. It’s that one personal moment for each person that does remember me in years gone by that will be the legacy in either a positive or negative memory. Shakespeare’s writing, Monet’s paintings, although beautiful, have no effect of legacy to me. I find their art more of proof of their existence and with great merit but without the personal experience of knowing them I don’t feel the connection of what is important to me. I know that I will remember a personal interaction with a stranger foremost than the words of Iago from Othello on my deathbed. So my feeling is that if I can place it on a shelf it is a trophy but if I can remember it in my heart and take it with me, it is then legacy.”
The actor asked to remain anonymous for the moment, but I want to give my thanks to him for allowing me to share his words. And we all look forward to sharing the fruits of our work with you in The Good Harvest.
Best,
Richard Engling, Artistic Director
For The Good Harvest company and Polarity Ensemble Theatre









Ensemble Member Lauren Cerkiewicz recently visited the new Modern Art wing at The Art Institute of Chicago. Here are her thoughts on this newest edition to Chicago’s art scene.




