in the cramped space offered to a single mother. Adrienne’s
courage inspired me to write when I later found myself at
home with Jim and my two young children, our son Henry lost
in autism. And it was Joe Chaikin who helped me understand
that Henry, who at that point was non-communicative, was a
whole person, nonetheless. Joe’s brilliance had been threatened by aphasia. A previously razor-sharp speaker, he now
struggled for one word at a time. But each word was worth a
paragraph. He stopped me once during a rehearsal for Movie
Star and explained:
“Not . . . bread. Not . . . coffee. Not . . . groceries. Poetry!”
Best note I ever got.
The theatre community sustained me during those difficult
early years. All our babysitters were actors, and a rehearsal
visit was always a possibility. John Guare would always hold
a baby. Edward Albee would call to make sure we were okay.
Sam Shepard assured Jim and I as we struggled that “you
will hit a vein.” I got to know the brilliant photographer Inge
Morath, married to Arthur Miller, who is still the most radiant
woman I have ever met. She wore no make-up, just a camera
around her neck as she sat impossibly in yoga poses, sending light throughout the room. Romulus was family. Horton
Foote’s family was family. Board members were friends.
Opening nights were family reunions. Nothing has changed.
That has been Jim’s and my journey with Signature.
We have no secret power except for the artists and community
surrounding us. And we have each other. Jim buoys me with
his crazy devotion, optimism, and kindness, while exasperating
me with his maddening leadership qualities and irrepressible
mission of goodness. Frequently I really dislike him.
But I always change my mind.
(this page, top to bottom) Jim Houghton and
Joyce O’Connor, 1990; Sanaa Lathan, Michael Early,
Joyce O’Connor, and Joseph Chaikin in rehearsal
for Adrienne Kennedy’s A Movie Star Has to Star in
Black and White, 1995. (opposite page, clockwise
from top left) Joyce O’Connor and Hallie Foote,
2012; Joyce O’Connor and Bill Irwin, Opening Night
of Sam Shepard’s A Particle of Dread, 2015;
Joyce O’Connor and Tom Proehl, 1998.
I meet friends in the lobby and sit in the dark
as the play begins and it all shrinks down to
the size of that little black box on Bond Street.
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