Louis Heon, "Sentinelle de théâtre," 2012
The old music falls away, and the lights don’t come up—they dim. The rope that holds the counterweight to tiers of crushed red velvet curtains frays, worrying as it does against a roughened spot on the tie-down. There’s no one on the catwalk to change night into day, blue gel for gold. The actors—were there ever any actors? I can’t remember. And without cue cards or whispered prompts, all that’s left for me to do is to stand and wait quietly in the thin wavering moonbeam of a ghost light, hoping some passer-by will tug the stage door open and help me find my way outside.