Amanda Wilson knew that life in the theater might mean dealing with a few metaphorical wolves, but she didnât know it would mean sharing the stage with literal coyotes.
âWe discovered pretty early on that there was a family of coyotes, super harmless, but definitely not something that you want to encounter at dusk by yourself,â Wilson said. The co-founder and artistic director of Boulder theatre troupe, The Catamounts, was staging a production of the show âThe Roughâ on a golf course. It was part of a site-specific experience in line with their motto: âTheater for an adventurous palate.â
âWe really want to be able to push boundaries,â Wilson said. âBut we recognize that in doing so, a lot of times we're asking actors and crew and designers to work in circumstances that they don't necessarily have a lot of experience in.â
Some in the cast werenât entirely comfortable being stationed along the course alone. Wilson was able to find a way to make sure actors felt safe thanks to the organizationâs adoption of the .
Based on the Chicago Theatre Standards created more than a decade ago as part of the , CST addresses things like basic safety, sexual harassment and diversity and accessibility inclusion.
âOne of the biggest things that we advocate for is just transparency and clear communication at every step of the process, removing the ambiguity that makes people feel unsafe,â said Amanda Rose Villarreal. Sheâs the co-founder of the Rocky Mountain Artistsâ Safety Alliance, which created the CST. Sheâs also a faculty member for theatrical intimacy education at the University of Colorado Boulder.
âIf I'm going into a space and I don't know what I'm going to be asked to do and the director can just add anything at any point in time and say, âOh, now this is in the nude,â that makes me feel very unsafe,â Villarreal said.
As an equity actor for more than 25 years, Tamara Meneghini knows that feeling all too well. Now a co-founder of the Rocky Mountain Artistsâ Safety Alliance, as well as an associate professor in musical theater at the University of Colorado Boulder, Meneghini started her career out as a âhoofer,â or tap dancer, in musical theatre.
She remembers performing with blisters on her feet and sprained ankles, even a dress with a broken zipper that left her exposed.
âYou don't even think of saying something's wrong,â Meneghini said. âOne show I had a guy break my rib.â
She kept performing. That was just the business, she says.
âTheatre is notoriously a grind,â Meneghini said. âIt's deeply rooted in this grind culture. It came out of â in the United States anyway â vaudeville. These immigrants that were trying to make money to get food on their table, it was like just working, working, working. And that sort of mentality and that ethic, that, âI'll do anything for a little bit,â that's kind of ingrained in us.â
Meneghini says she hopes that, with the help of the CST and the Rocky Mountain Artistsâ Safety Alliance, they can help artists and theatre troupes move away from that kind of mentality. Theyâre already seeing it in the young artists they work with at CU.
But the idea that artists and theatre crews should be able to advocate for themselves when they donât feel safe is still a huge cultural shift. And it's one Villarreal says will take time amongst those whoâve been in the scene awhile. Itâs also one that not everyone has embraced.
âWe've seen quite a bit of people being reticent to look at new practices because looking at new practices acknowledges that something's wrong and that makes people uncomfortable,â she said. âA lot of people out there are like, âBut I'm a good person.â And there is a disconnect where you can be a really good, caring, empathetic, wonderful person and the system can still be causing harm.â
Still, for some artists, the year and a half spent figuring out how to create work in a pandemic has also given them time to think about how to make that work safer and more equitable.
âWhen COVID broke out, it was just like a sign, one that we needed to do it (because) there's no one looking out for us,â said Aidan Pagnani, a longtime Denver musician and the co-founder of the Denver Musicians Union. The organization began in the midst of the pandemic, but the issues it addresses have been around for a while.
âI know a lot of people had to move home who are still screwed over from those first few months,â Pagnani said. âAnd, I think what the pandemic did was just give us time to organize. I mean, we weren't doing anything. We were losing money every day. But still, it was like, we've got to do something.â
The first step was to ask area musicians to commit to a demand that venues pay them a minimum of $100 per night, per band member. Pagnani says itâs the absolute minimum a musician needs to make a living in Denver.
It was a small step, but it led to a larger conversation about the overall treatment of musicians. The union later organized a boycott of venues owned by or associated with concert booker Jay Bianchi. Bianchi has denied the allegations.
âThis is just our response and our way of creating accountability culture,â said Sarah Mount, a musician and DMU co-founder. She says efforts to call out abusive behavior in the music scene are a long time coming.
âEven if it's more closed doors, we are making moves that are basically just our actions to show people that we're not going to put up with this anymore,â Mount said.
For years, artists have put up with notoriously lousy pay and abusive conditions. Itâs almost an expectation that being an artist is inherently tied to the idea of struggle, says Andrew Knight.
âRight now, they're trying to do something for a profession that the rest of the people in the world are supposed to be doing on Saturday for fun â get together and sing with a friend or go to a painting night,â said Knight, an associate professor of music therapy at Colorado State University who teaches the course, the Artistâs Guide to Wellness.
The class works to change that perception, teaching young artists to advocate for their own financial, physical and mental health.
It also analyzes things students can do now, including how for a musician, protecting their posture at age 20 will pay off when theyâre still playing at 40. And how understanding variable income as a student will help them budget better as a professional when gigs might be far between.
Still, no matter the amount of preparation, you just never know whatâs around the corner. Like a global pandemic that wipes out your entire season â or coyotes roaming around your set.
âI have felt disempowered as an actor often and not wanting to ruffle feathers, wanting to make sure that I was being a âgood hire,ââ Wilson said. âBut I also felt disempowered like I didn't have the space to sort of be like, I'm not I'm not sure that that feels safe, and not just physically safe, but sometimes kind of emotionally safe, too.â
So in the case of those coyotes, the theatre took a page from the Community Theatre Standards. Utilizing a go-between hired to improve communication between cast and crew and the directors and producers, they were able to come up with a solution. A âcoyote babysitterâ was implemented to be on the lookout and stay with cast members who were stationed alone on the golf course.
An odd casting choice? Maybe. But Wilson says it was worth it.
âI just think that on some level, it's tied to our mission, which is, if we're going to push boundaries, we need to be able to do so safely,â she said.
So the show can indeed go on.
