Tech and Dress
AKA Tech Week Broke Me. Dress Week Buried the Body. (A Love Letter)
Let’s get one thing straight: putting on a show is a miracle.
Not the kind of miracle where everything glows and sparkles and angels sing—no. More like the kind where 50 sleep-deprived humans throw lights, sound, props, costumes, emotions, and gaff tape into a blender and somehow a beautiful, polished production emerges.
Welcome to the two-week crucible known as Tech Week and Dress Week—also known as “Hell Week” and “Even More Hell Week.”
Let’s walk through the sacred chaos, shall we?
TECH WEEK: THE HUNGER GAMES OF THEATRE
It all begins with the famous lie:
“Ok, we’ll start with a cue-to-cue.”
Translation: “We’ll be here until someone cries.”
Actors stand in place for hours while designers fine-tune light levels and sound cues. Scene transitions take 40 minutes. The thunder effect sounds like a microwave slamming. Someone misplaces a prop that isn’t even in the show.
Coffee becomes a food group. The stage manager is the only thing holding the universe together. The cast, frozen in spotlight limbo, contemplates their life choices. Every cue is adjusted. Every line is second-guessed. Meanwhile, someone yells, “Where’s the chicken?” No one blinks. There is no chicken.
This. Is. Tech Week.
DRESS WEEK: WHERE THE STAKES (AND HEELS) GET HIGHER
Just when you think you’ve survived, Dress Week arrives—ready to finish what Tech Week started.
Now we add:
Mic packs
Quick changes
Wigs, lashes, corsets, and, of course, tears
Quick changes are now athletic events. Costume pieces multiply and vanish without warning. Someone is definitely crying in the dressing room, and someone else is sewing their pants shut. Actors start every scene in full costume panic mode and end it in full adrenaline blackout.
Wigs fall off. Shoes break. Mic batteries die at the peak of a ballad. A fog machine goes rogue. And yet—the magic starts to click. Despite the disasters, the cast locks in. The crew finds its rhythm. The story begins to breathe. You still don’t feel ready. You never do. But the show says, “It’s time,” and you listen.
OPENING NIGHT: IT SHOULDN’T WORK—AND YET IT DOES
The lights go down. The audience leans forward. And everything that broke, bent, and burst into flames over the last two weeks… disappears. You feel it. The hush before a cue. The laughter where you prayed it would land. The silence when hearts are caught in a scene.
This is why we endure the madness. Not for perfection—but for connection.
A SALUTE TO THE SURVIVORS
To the actors running in blackout with swords and tear-away pants.
To the crew members who pinned a dress mid-scene change.
To the stage managers with five pencils, one headset, and no patience left.
To the parents who delivered snacks and prayers.
To the audiences who have no idea what it took to get here.
Thank you. We did it. Together.
Tech Week broke me. Dress Week buried the body. And the show? The show made it all worth it.
Now please return your costumes, hydrate, and maybe sleep for 3 to 5 business days, and then we start week two!
Want to be part of the chaos next time? Volunteer backstage. Donate snacks. Bring coffee. Or just cheer from the front row—we need you more than you know. And while you’re at it, throw a few bucks our way so we can keep this chaos on the rails as long as possible.
www.wvcarts.org/donate
Because the show must go on. (But only after a nap.)