Once in a while you find a piece of art that speaks directly to your heart
(as if it has always been inside of you, noodling away in the back of your brain)
then
POW!
It has shape and words, completely tangible before you.
That’s what finding Delappe’s The Wolves was like.
From the first page alone the room I read in was filled with nine teenage girls:
sweating, swearing, chatting about politics and periods and so alive. They leaned over my shoulders while I read.
How could I resist this play?
Its haunting nostalgia, its humour, its life…
These girls are an extension of myself at seventeen. All the beautiful quirks and traits that time is pulling away from me.
Afternoons of lying on sun-washed porches after school, wondering who I would be… who I could be… who I wanted to be...
Coming back to this show after a year and a half away was a profoundly joyful experience.
A bit like going on a long trip and opening the door to your home: the still air, the sun shining through the windows, and clean sheets on the bed waiting for you.
So much has changed in the world (and in us) over this last year, while so much has stayed the same.
To quote Naomi Wadler:
"People have said I am a tool of some nameless adult. It's not true. My friends and I might still be 11, and we might still be in elementary school, but we know. We know life isn't equal for everyone and we know what is right and wrong."
As we move together into the stages of "What Next?" All I can think is to ask for more like this.
More plays about girls being intelligent and petty and oblivious and overachieving and shy and funny and rude and caring.
More art that shows our flaws and our triumphs.
More art that just shows us.
A glimpse of a future that we are just beginning to explore.
Thank you for being here.
we
are
the wolves
we are all The Wolves.
-Jamie King, Director
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