Yesterday was my first Arts On Tour Salon. If I’m honest, I expected to feel a bit out of place. But instead, I made a new friend in the first five minutes—a playwright with a background in computer science, an insatiable curiosity, and a brilliant mind.
Meeting him reminded me of my NIDA writing class, and what real diversity in storytelling looks like—not just cultural background, but lived experience. Different careers, different questions, different reasons for making work. When we talk about “diverse voices,” these are also the people I think of. Not to diminish my own voice, but to acknowledge the risk of making work within an industry, for the industry. Not for people.
One thing that stayed with me: the pitches I connected with weren’t just about skills and talents that wow you for five minutes. They were about the presence of a person in the space with you. Someone whose artistry holds your attention.
Of course skill matters—but for me skills wear thin fast if they’re not anchored in something deeper: the live body holding a real question at the heart of the work. Even in puppetry—something inherently magical—it’s the artist behind the puppet that makes it sing. You could strip everything else away and still want to spend time with the person on stage.
Which leads me to a question I keep circling: what does it take to get an idea across? To hold attention and tell a story that lands?
I come from a multidisciplinary background—dance, like English, ingests other forms: theatre, text, projection, music. And when making live work, you’re constantly asking which of those elements will carry the moment best. What will deepen the experience? It’s not about using every tool but choosing the right one or combination—at the right time—to stay connected to the heartbeat of the work.
And always, it comes back to presence. That’s the glue that holds the whole thing together.
This Salon also reminded me: I’m not late. I’d worried An Ambivalent Woman of 37 had taken too long to finish—but most of the works pitched started pre-Covid. Many have toured once or twice and are looking for another window, another lifeline.
And they all have value. Because they exist.
And for a work to exist in this industry—to have made it to a stage, even once—it’s already achieved the impossible.
It means a creative team has jumped through countless hoops, held the doubt, spent the money they didn’t have, kept going without knowing if anyone would ever clap, come, or care. It’s thankless work. Often unpaid, uncertain, and built on faith.
So, if a show has made it that far, it’s already something extraordinary. The real question isn’t whether it’s worthy. It’s whether it can find an audience—that’s what presenters are grappling with.
One presenter said audiences have “long Covid.” I disagree. I think they have Streaming. They have bills. And not enough reason to take a risk.
Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking about more and more: art is an outing first. It has to be a moment, a date, an event. When I put on AAWO37 in Nashville in 2023, I framed the night so that friends could gather, drink, hear live music, and talk about something real, personal, complicated. It felt warm and generous. It wasn’t just a show—it was a shared experience.
Too often, theatre feels isolating. You show up alone or with one friend, buy a drink in the foyer, take your seat, watch in silence, and leave. That foyer drink isn’t connection—it’s a transaction. You spend more, the venue makes more. But where’s the real invitation?—The feeling that you’re part of something warm, shared, human?
So how do we bring the warmth?
Not necessarily by making audiences “participate” (I personally hate participating!) but by designing a night that’s generous from a heart place. A night that’s more than the work on stage and one that makes you feel like you’re part of something. Maybe it’s not just a handshake between producer and presenter—it’s a triangle. Perhaps a flexible, adaptable scalene triangle.
Artist. Presenter. Audience.
Presenters are the link. They live in the community. Artists dip in and out. So if connection is the goal, what can happen sooner?
It does start at places like Salon with early conversations. Not just what the show is/could be, but why it matters—who it’s for, what it offers. When artists and presenters talk early and honestly, it builds trust. And that trust helps presenters take risks, and audiences feel invited.
That’s the pipeline I’m interested in. Not just a product at the end—but a relationship from the start.
Which brings me back to the Salon. As thoughtfully run and beautifully curated as it was, I did miss one thing: the chance to properly meet presenters. I wished there’d been some structured opportunity—speed dating, table rounds, a visible handshake—between artists and presenters. Because while schilling yourself is part of the job, it’s a lot to ask in a crowded foyer over a cup of Nescafé. Be great to build that handshake into the room.
That said—hats off to the Arts On Tour team for a beautiful day. Full of heart, clarity, and connection. I left inspired.
NSW—you are making. You are presenting. I saw it. And I’m honoured to be part of it. Let’s keep building.