The journey leading up to an opening night feels like a winding climb up a mountain. You start at the base of the heap; all the work is ahead of you. You have to double-back along the route sometimes when you make a mistake or discover a better avenue to get what you want. The longer you climb, the more tired you get, until you wonder if you’ll ever actually get to the top of the mountain and broadcast your show to the world, and sometimes you don’t care if you do or not as long as you can sleep or take a rest.
Until finally, you see the peak. Summiting the mountain is what it feels like on opening night. For a moment, as you step on to the stage and look out into the audience for the first time, your pulse spikes, your breath catches, and suddenly you can feel all of the hard work is behind you. You can now enjoy the view.
But then, as arduous and enduring the journey was to get up there in the first place, you’re tumbling down the mountain at break-neck speed, and you can’t look around fast enough to see all that you took for granted on the way up.
You land at the base of the other side of the mountain; the show is finished, and suddenly all of the effort, work, blood/sweat/tears feels significantly easier than when you were experiencing it. But you get to look back at the mountain, look to the summit, and learn that you grew just by doing it.
The peak–or the opening night, and the subsequent run of the show– feels so lofty and conceptual when you start out that when you’ve arrived, all of the hard work slips away. But the peak isn’t what it’s all about; yes, you want a successful run of the show and a great opening night, but to forget about the journey you took as an actor to get there cheapens the experience.
Building a theatre performance and climbing a mountain are the same in that they are ephemeral experiences; they last as long as they do and then they’re gone, they are not saved for later. But you can always climb another mountain, start working on the next show… but this time, your quads are stronger.