I scrutinize the circle of faces, some new and eager, others older and experienced, all sunburned and smiling. In rapt silence, we sit contemplating the task at hand. From the center of our circle, Stacey has asked us to dig carefully through our memories to find that which we hold closest to our hearts. It can be “a picture, a treasured memento, an experience, a favorite sketch,” she says, encouraging us to reveal what we’ve chosen. We tangibly oblige, grasping in hand our precious belongings, which, though imaginary, seem so real. She points to one boy, inviting him to share what he is propping neatly in his lap. It’s a worn but precious photograph of his grandmother, who has just died. He keeps it on his bed stand so that he can wake up to the familiar comfort of her face. Suddenly, Stacey picks up an invisible can of paint from the floor and dumps it carelessly, maybe even intentionally, all over the picture. Sneering, she sets it back down. We know that this boy isn’t actually holding a photograph, that this woman is simply role-playing, that the paint isn’t real. And yet, every one of us is shocked by the scene that has just played out.

Some people call it being insensitive, belittling a sincere show of effort, scoffing at an earnest performance, stepping into a spotlight that’s meant to be on someone else. Stacey calls it “pouring paint.” Every August 1st she initiates our annual play production with this central lesson. Stacey is our director and we are her troupe—a ragtag group of would-be young actors from this seaside community, whoever shows up. We congregate year after year in the same dust-ridden old barn on the coast of Maine, knowing full well the daunting challenges that lie before us on the three-week road to opening night of the Small Point Summer School musical. There are lines and songs to be learned, costumes to be collected and sewed, sets to be painted, elaborate props to be constructed, and confidence to be built in each performer. Nine years of experience have taught me that these Herculean labors can only be accomplished by a team that understands the message of pouring paint.

Like the majority of the Small Point players, I am not a natural-born actress. I am drawn to participate mostly because I love to sing. But within the safe-haven that Stacey and the cast create for each production, I always feel comfortable playing any part. In my first substantial role, I had to step outside of my twelve year-old self to portray Oklahoma’s Gertie Cummins, a coquettish ditz with an absurd, braying laugh and a particular flair for making her love interests wince. Sarah Brown, the naïve, straitlaced, overly pious lead in Guys and Dolls, was my project for the following summer. Last year, I played the outwardly feisty, inwardly tenderhearted bookworm, Marian Paroo, in The Music Man.

It was no piece of cake concocting Gertie’s cringe-worthy laugh, finding the right balance of innocence and naughtiness as the inebriated Sarah Brown, or perfecting Marian’s longing stares and kisses with Harold Hill, a role taken on by my best friend Peter. But I played my parts with a whole-hearted confidence – not always impeccably but mostly without a hitch – and so did every other actor. The intricate synthesis and development of our characters on stage was possible only because the members of the cast knew that no one would pour paint.

Our experiences with Stacey and each other have taught us that the ideals of the paintless world we recreate each summer transcend our beloved stage. We’ve learned that when we make fun of a classmate at school, when we disrespect our teachers, when we dismiss a parent’s well-meaning advice, we’re pouring paint on people who may be trying to share their unique gifts. Although next year I won’t be in Stacey’s familiar circle because I’ll be leaving for college, it is reassuring to know that this lesson of love and sensitivity will always be with me.


 This essay was written by Elizabeth Vaughan, Garfield Class of 2004, Dartmouth Class of 2008.

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