Did I ever tell you about the time I was scheduled to address a crowd at a museum and nobody showed up?
It’s true!
I was left sitting there by myself, waiting for an audience to appear with disappointment across my face.
Forget the hour’s drive or the publicity that surrounded the event. Forget all the preparation and expectation. Forget the refreshments that went virtually untouched at the hospitality table.
I did fill my bladder with coffee, more for nerve control than enjoyment. The cake wasn’t bad, either.
“This is so embarrassing,” remarked the curator. “I could have sworn you would have attracted a crowd, given your vast resume as a photographer.”
Fifty years worth, in the camera club circuit, judging, photojournalism, and weddings. I covered it all: exhibits, commissions, publications, even pets. One dog fined me a mouthful for taking too long.
I later found out the wrong date had appeared for my appearance and a more conducive crowd turned up at the rescheduled event. Not a word was mentioned to the audience. But every time it crosses my mind, I can’t escape a smile.
We live and die by audiences, whether it’s a concert, lecture, or theatre production. The more people show up, the more successful our venue becomes.
It did my heart good to see “Forest Gump” address thousands of observers during a peace rally at the Washington Monument. People were hollering and jumping for joy at his corny remarks. Anyway, it left me with an indelible imprint.
It bothers me when a sparse crowd turns out for a significant event in my church, like a genocide commemoration or independence day celebration. I won’t get into specifics or preach to a choir over it, but I’m left wondering about it, even appalled, when only a dozen people show up for an anniversary.
“Where is everyone?” you ask yourself.
I was assigned to cover the opening of a musical at a nearby dinner-theater one evening. My wife got herself all gussied up for the show like women usually do, and off we went.
We entered the restaurant and were escorted to our table in the front row. My camera was cocked, my notebook ready to review. We ordered a cocktail and considered the meal choices.
I looked around and discovered no one else in attendance. Perhaps we were just early. As time marched on, not a soul arrived at this establishment. Perhaps the inclement weather had something to do with it.
“Looks like a quiet dinner for two by candlelight,” I said, rather incredulously.
Not long thereafter, my suspicions were confirmed. The manager approached my table to apologize for the lack of an audience.
“That’s perfectly okay,” I shot back. “We’ll finish our dinner, pay the fare, and we’ll be on our way. Maybe another time.”
The manager wouldn’t hear of it, nor did his theater company.
“The show always goes on,” he proclaimed. “The cast has been rehearsing all week and in character. To cancel a performance would dash their spirit, kill their morale.”
So there we were that evening—an audience of two—enjoying a full-scale production of “West Side Story,” sets, lights, the whole enchilada. Our applause hardly filled the room.
As an amateur theater critic, you don’t get into specifics at the number of people attending a production, unless they’re turned away because it’s sold-out. I had the headline all prepared: “Two’s company for this playhouse.”
Given the preference, I seem to be more up front and personal with smaller gatherings than large ones. Much of my retirement these days is spent before audiences, whether it’s a classroom of students, a full-blown auditorium, or a house visit with a couple of home-schoolers.
One thing I’ve always learned from this: Never confuse the seating capacity of an auditorium with the sitting capacity of your audience.
I’ve heard priests admonish their congregations about the lack of attendance in church, only tofind that ironical. Why are they preaching to those in the pews and not reaching the absentees?
A captive audience is far more compatible than an audience in captivity. I remember once addressing a church audience and got far too wordy. One by one, I noticed people leaving until there were only two members remaining. One was the pastor.
After stepping down from the podium, I approached the bystander, who was visibly annoyed by my marathon presentation.I did not intend this to be a monopoly but got carried away that day.
“I would have left, too,” he divulged, “if I didn’t follow you in the program.”
Tom Vartabedian
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