Look Back in Hope
Right now, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. The endless corruption, the fear for those we love, and the uncertainty of how to even begin to fight back—it can be paralyzing. The arts community, too, is weighed down by these same forces. But if there’s one thing history has shown us, it’s that those in power have always tried to control the work of artists. This is a fight as old as art itself. And though the current moment may be terrifying, the quote “history repeats itself” doesn’t always have to be a bad reminder. As a historian, sometimes looking back gives me the exact story I need to remind me that artists always find a way to resist.
Take, for example, the iconic story of The Cradle Will Rock. Written by Marc Blitzstein, the musical critiqued corporate greed and labor exploitation. I first discovered it while working on my thesis about Documentary Theatre.
Flyer for the 108th performance. Federal Theatre Project, 1937, Museum of the City of New York, Collection on Broadway Productions, F2011.41.58.
Directed by Orson Welles and produced by John Houseman as part of the Federal Theatre Project in 1937, the show told the story of a town controlled by a corrupt industrialist, following workers’ efforts to unionize. Just days before its Broadway debut, the production was abruptly shut down by the government (which funded the Federal Theatre Project through the WPA). The government pulled the plug, citing the show’s controversial content—too sympathetic to the working class and critical of capitalism. At the time, union strikes were happening across the country, and the government feared the show would incite even more unrest. Welles and Houseman were determined to continue, but they faced even more obstacles.
The Actors' Equity union informed Welles that, because the actors were still employed by the Federal Theatre Project, they couldn’t perform without government approval. Then, the musicians’ union stepped in, demanding full union pay if the show moved to a different venue, something Welles and Houseman couldn’t afford. The theater for the production was not only shut down, but the props and set (even a toupee for one of the actors) were not allowed to be moved. Yet, despite all of this, the show went on.
Cradle cast watching and performing from the audience. Friedman-Abeles, 1937, ©The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.
The audience was led to a new theater, hundreds of patrons marching down Broadway to get there. As the performance began, Marc Blitzstein, not part of the union, played the score on a piano, a single spotlight on him. As the night unfolded, the actors stood and joined in from their seats. The entire show continued this way, from within the audience. The night ended with an overwhelming reaction—cheers for the defiant spirit of the performance.
I’ve reread personal accounts of this event a lot in the past month. And although it doesn’t fix much by simply reading this story, every time I feel the weight of discouragement, I think back to that night in 1937—the crowd marching through Manhattan, defying the odds to witness something unstoppable—and I feel a sense of hope. Because that’s the heart of what we do as artists and supporters of the arts. No matter what they throw at us, we are artists. And no one—not the government, not society—can ever fully take that away from us.
