Throwback to 1992: Seeing the World Like Feste

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the ways our early creative experiences quietly shape who we become. This photo — a grainy backstage self-portrait from 1992 — always brings me right back to that moment. I was a junior at Allegheny College playing Feste in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, in a production our director set in the 1940s. My version of Feste was a Marlene-Dietrich-meets-lounge-singer character: smoky, sly, a little glamorous, and very much the offbeat observer who threads the story together.

I remember feeling so serious and nervous when I took this picture. (You can’t see my camera — it’s tucked just below that can of Aqua Net in the mirror.) I loved being on stage, but Feste carried a lot of lines, a lot of songs, and a lot of emotional tone. There’s a stillness in my expression here that, to me, perfectly captures that mix of excitement and fear — the private moment just before stepping into someone else’s skin.

What I didn’t understand then, but absolutely see now, is how deeply I connected with Feste’s way of moving through the world. Feste is the one who notices everything. They’re playful, offbeat, wise in a sideways sort of way — the person who understands the emotional undercurrents even when no one else is paying attention. They witness, interpret, and see people as they are.

That lens has stayed with me far beyond the stage.

All these years later, when I photograph musicians and performers, I recognize the same quiet truths: the nerves under the glitter, and the discipline behind the ease. The deep breath and intense focus before the moment. I think my stage experience gave me a kind of empathy that lives behind the camera — a respect for what it takes to step into the light, and a curiosity about the story beneath the surface.

Feste taught me that there is always more happening than what the audience sees and maybe that’s why I still reach for that playful, observant, compassionate point of view as I navigate the world.