Thank you Dr. Siminovitch. Thank you to the founders of the Siminovitch Prize in Theatre, BMO Financial Group for sponsoring the prize and this evening, to Mary Adachi for nominating me, and thank you to the jury for their gigantic leap of faith.

I am thrilled to finally be invited to one of those elite cocktail parties our Prime Minister says artists go to all the time. I personally don’t know many working artists who crave putting on a suit, but maybe I just run with the wrong crowd. Nor do I call myself an artist, yet. Hopefully before I draw my last breath that word will escape my lips in a meaningful way, but for me, an artist is one who creates a piece of work that cannot be discussed, only felt. And I don’t think I’m there yet. However, the Siminovitch Prize in Theatre does make me think that perhaps I’m on the right track, so I thank you all for the vote of confidence.

It’s interesting being in the middle of a career, of life, of experience and understanding, of practice. In a world gone mad for all things young and new, I’ve been feeling somewhat invisible the past couple of years. Too old to be the hot new thing, too young to be the revered old master. It’s a beautiful place to be, actually; I’m quite content to just make new work without the annoyance of having to be the a press-mad bad boy drumming up my own persona. If anyone is lucky enough to stand mid-career, it can imply that the technical has been learned and mastered and the second part of that career is about exploration of ideas and content. That’s what excites me most, poised here in the middle of it all. I’m more surprised than anyone to be selected for this magnificent honour. But thank God, and the Founders, there is indeed a prize for simply being here, in the middle. And I can assure you that middle, in this case, means the beginning of the best part.

My chief mentor in puppetry, Martin Stevens, said that “art is the personal contribution to the ever-continuing conversation about life”. Here in the middle of my career, the Siminovitch Prize will allow me to continue that discussion in a significant way.

I think the jury has made a bold choice. An historic choice, that perhaps they are not even aware of. I am a designer; I’m also a writer, an actor, a producer, a roadie, a boss, a collaborator, a huckster and a hustler, a mold maker and a woodcarver, but more than anything, and first and foremost, I am a puppeteer. And there is no category in the Siminovitch Prize three year rotation for my kind. And yet here I am. I thank the jury for that, not only in a deeply personal way; I thank them for the message they send to my odd little sub-community in the arts that puppetry is an artform to be recognized in the theatre. I didn’t have that message when I began, so I hope it encourages some kid building puppets in their parents’ basement to dream large.

To the Founders, I thank you very personally for creating this Prize in honour of the Siminovitchs. I know what it is to want to keep a cherished spirit alive, a significant person remembered. The last time I spoke publicly was just over a week ago when I gave the eulogy at my Mother’s memorial service in Alberta. I learned about being this year’s recipient on the same day she died. She and my Dad, who passed away just last year, would have loved this. I wish they could have seen a bunch of bankers throwing me a party. They were the most loyal, spectacular, funny, simple people I’ve ever known and their support and pride in me was boundless. Not without condition, but endless. And in a world with lowered standards, I appreciate their expectations more than ever. When I was still a teenager, my Dad said to me: “Why is it that any horse’s ass in the room can say they’re an artist and no one challenges them on that? If you’re gonna say it, then prove it. And if they have to say it at all, there’s your proof they probably aren’t.” That, in a nutshell, explains my Dad…and all of Alberta.

What were the chances of a kid from the prairies becoming a puppeteer and having an international theatre career? Actually, the chances were pretty good. When I was emerging, and by emerging I mean young and interested, there was a lot of little money for the arts.

I got a thousand bucks from Alberta Culture when I was fourteen to go to a Puppeteers of America Festival in Lansing, Michigan. The total madness of my parents putting me on a plane and allowing me to cross the border alone to associate with a bunch of old dolly wigglers is one thing; but even better, Alberta said go. Listen. Learn. Bring it home. And I did. I met the masters of marionette craft at that Festival and they took me in. And I, in my own way, brought them home.

When I was eighteen I quit university and with another small grant from Alberta Culture I went to an international puppet congress and festival in Moscow. I can still tell you images I saw in those theatres that changed my life, changed my view of design and performance. And, in my own way, I brought them home, and in another way, I’ve been taking them back to the world on tour with a Canadian perspective.

And several years later, when I had a crazy idea to do marionette theatre for adults, the Canada Council had a little Explorations grant that allowed me to do it. And Theatre of Marionettes has been touring for twenty-three years because of that first investment in a small arts business by my country.

What was the chance that a puppet mad kid from the prairies would ever have an international theatre career? Chances were good. And simply because I was from Canada and part of a generation that was able to not only go into the world and experience my artform there in order to bring it home, but also because the Canada I grew up in had touring theatre and dance and music criss-crossing this country when I was being formed.

I saw the play Ten Lost Years and realized for the first time we were actually interesting onstage. I saw The Canadian Opera Company’s La Boheme. I saw Danny Grossman perform “Higher”. I saw all of that and so much more in Medicine Hat, Alberta.

I agree with our Prime Minister. The arts in Canada are elite. Unlike the Canada of my youth, now, unless you live in a major city and have a lot of disposable income, you can’t see ballet and opera and theatre or hear a symphony orchestra. And while other countries have identified that the very best way to brand yourself as distinct and vibrant in the global marketplace is through the ongoing export of culture, our current government has cut the international cultural export program altogether. Our audacious, unique, new-world voice has been silenced on the world stage. So, even when the kids from Abbottsford, Wawa, Antigosh and Medicine Hat manage to get themselves to a point of international attention, Canada says no. So, in a year of death and destruction, in a year when I looked seriously at the prospect of my little touring company having to fold, and when I was hearing no no no from my country, I’d really like to say thank you to the Siminovitch Prize in Theatre for saying yes so loudly.

This is not the only loud voice I’ve heard recently. The other day I was in the Roncesvalles Starbucks when a woman came in, sat down, and started talking to herself, to the customers, to ghosts, to God, to whoever. She was, for lack of a better description, a Burkett marionette waiting to happen. Toothless, ancient, with that mysterious drape of skin that occurs when lips, chin and neck become one. Blunt cut white hair, far too many shopping bags, asking various young women in Starbucks if they worked at the home she lived in. I tried to ignore her, but my perverse puppet maker desire to study her face, her ankles, her hosiery, the contents of her bags, willed me to look. And she caught me.

She looked right at me and screamed, “You didn’t need the surgery in the first place!” I tried to ignore her, focusing all my attention on my grande skinny vanilla latte. She screamed again, “You didn’t need the surgery in the first place!” This was incredible. Who was she? Witch? Psychic? Madwoman? “You didn’t need the surgery in the first place!” Who told her? How could she know my plan to spend the Siminovitch money on so much cosmetic surgery that by next April my face would be as tight as a Marine Corps cot? Damn the gossiping theatre community!

I fled Starbucks and found refuge on a bench outside. But she followed me. Standing there on the steps of Starbucks she stared at me and yelled, “You’re the finest dentist there ever was!” What an odd thing to say. She yelled it again, “You’re the finest dentist there ever was!” This was awkward. This was crazy. This was potentially dangerous. I mean, what if the Siminovitch jury got wind of this? What if they heard I was a dentist, not a designer? They’d strip me of the prize before I even had it in my grasp. “You’re the finest dentist there ever was!”

Standing to leave, I looked at her and said, “You know full well I am not a dentist.” She replied, “You’re the finest dentist there ever was!” Staring back at her for a split second, I realized two things. One, who was I to argue with her? I can assure you I’ve never dabbled in amateur dentistry, nor do the letters DDS appear anywhere alongside my name. But if she wanted to scream to the world that I was the finest denist there ever was, what harm was there in that? Who knows, maybe there’s a prize for being the finest dentist there ever was too. I could double my windfall!

The second thing I realized was that she was not a witch, or psychic or a madwoman. She was that strange, magical being I search for on the streetcar, in airports, in coffee shops. This beautiful, screaming, flawed creature of inspiration was my muse.

For years, people have said to me, “Geez Ron, how do you think up your characters?” Well, I do keep a cauldron of BS and invention simmering in my studio, but the source of my characters is us. Many puppeteers build fantastic creatures, gargoyles and monsters, angels and devils, elves and talking animals. But I build little people, smaller representations of all of us; for within my species are angels and demons enough.

So that glorious, mad, damaged woman who proclaimed me the greatest dentist there ever was, will no doubt find her way onstage in my next show, a shrunken wooden icon whose madness and despair speak of the human condition. An iconic vision of us onstage who perhaps cannot be discussed, only felt.

I am the product of my mentors and their belief in me. The grand, flawed, beautiful bullies of puppetry who taught me to draw and sculpt and carve and see, but moreso, who insisted I stretch my craft beyond the facile, the cute, the mindless babysitting diversion it had become. I am also the product of my country and its belief in me. And while English Canada might actually not be one of the best places to try and create theatre right now, I still believe I stand here this evening simply because I was a puppet mad kid from Canada. I think perhaps we all have a responsibility to leave our world one step better than we found it; I hope as a puppeteer, as a son, and as a Canadian I will indeed do that in return for huge favours rendered.

I owe a huge debt to the colleagues and artisans who have worked with me over the years to create my marionettes. Their friendship, passion and attention to detail have repeatedly made me better than I am, and kept me going when I found myself sitting in a pile of sawdust facing yet another impossible deadline. I am also grateful and indebted to countless designers, writers, actors, dancers, technicians and musicians who have inspired me, challenged me and moreso, extended their genenoristy of spirit to me. No one has been the recipient of more kindness.

To quote my mentor Martin Stevens again, who, aside from my Dad was the most influential man in my life and certainly one of the most quotable, his definition of a puppet was “the shape of an idea in motion”. He insisted that all three parts be present in order to make a puppet; the physical form, the thought or impulse for the character and the movement of it onstage. I realized the other day it’s a pretty good description of a person’s life too. So I’m grateful for the Siminovitch Prize in Theatre and the promise it brings to keep me thinking and moving along. I have been touring my shows since the age of fourteen. I’ve had a longer career than any prime minister, so this insane act of goodwill and continued belief in the puppet mad kid which the Siminovitch Prize in Theatre represents will only ensure that this audacious, unique, new-world, and very Canadian voice will continue.

Thank you.

I’m pleased that, in return, I get to extend my vote of confidence and a portion of this spectacular prize to a young Canadian puppet designer and performer. A young woman who is probably a thoroughbred; who happened upon a puppet show by a Canadian – this Canadian – a few years ago and thought, hey, I want to do that. Who got herself to the International School of Puppetry in France, graduated and brought it back home. A young woman who, when I phoned to tell her that she was winning part of this prize, started crying and said “I can build a new show”. I couldn’t have chosen better than her. She is Clea Minaker, and I am so happy to introduce her to you as the protégé of this year’s Siminovitch Prize in Theatre.

I would like to begin with thanks.

• To Joe Rotman and the other Founding Donors, for their vision and generosity in establishing this prize.
• To Andrew Auerbach and the staff at BMO, for orchestrating this fine evening.
• And to Lou and Elinore Siminovitch: I’m sure that Elinore would be delighted with the legacy of the last 12 years; how many lives she has touched — not just the prize winners, but the ripple effect, as that impact is shared with colleagues, the community, and ultimately the audience.
• Maureen Labonté and her distinguished jury: Alison Green, Shawn Kerwin, and Jock Munro, who are here tonight; and Claude Goyette and Leigh Ann Vardy. No one would envy the task that you were given.
• And to Jennifer Tarver, who submitted such an elegant and persuasive nomination — which is surely the reason I am here. You have been my director, collaborator, champion and sparring partner on many projects now, and I am very proud to call you friend. (And the box of enchilada sauce you got me to smuggle across the border? – it wouldn’t fit it in my carry-on, so I’m holding it ransom until the next time we work together.)

My fellow designers! I value your experience, am inspired by your vision, and delight in your accomplishments and success. It has been such a great honour to be shortlisted for this prize with Richard Feren, Anick La Bissonière, Richard Lacroix, and my lighting colleague, Alan Brodie.

I would like to acknowledge the previous winners, some of whom are here today: John Mighton, Ronnie Burkett, Kim Collier. It is very humbling to see myself in such distinguished company. (I was hoping one of you would buy me a drink and tell me what to do with my nerves.)

And to everyone else here this evening who makes theatre a part of their lives – either through practice, or through support and appreciation – I salute you.

The medium of my work and creativity is light, not language, so this is more than a little daunting for me. Ironically, though I work with spotlights, I am rarely in them. In fact, lighting designers are often the last to join the rehearsal process and the first to leave, so it’s easy to feel on the fringes; that people you meet in the hallways aren’t quite sure who you are … or what exactly it is that you do. So thank you for noticing.

I fell in love with theatre in high school. I suspect it had as much to do with discovering the “community of theatre” as it did with having an excuse to miss class. This was abetted by the Math teacher (Mr. Hurst) who, seeing something in me that I did not yet recognize, wrote me an all-access hall pass: a license to skip class at will … to spend even more time in the auditorium.

For a summer job, I applied to work at the Ontario Place Forum. My dad suggested I ask our MPP (George Kerr) to write a letter of support, which I did, and, miraculously… he did. More miraculously: I got the job … which must have stunned the seasoned crew, who couldn’t know that this high school keener was effectively a political appointment.

At the age of 18, trying to figure out what you’re going to be when you grow up, is a daunting task. My younger daughter is in the throes of this deliberation right now, and I want to tell her – as my father told me – “Do something you love!” After a wasted semester in agricultural science, I knew I wanted to study theatre design. My father, ever the engineer, knowing I would need drafting skills, gave me a pad of graph paper and told me, “Learn how to print: one letter per square”. (He also told me to be prepared for unemployment … which, miraculously, has not been a major concern in my career. For the most part, I’ve been steadily self-employed for 35 years … one month at a time.)

I was incredibly blessed in my formative years. In my third summer at Ontario Place, I was farmed out to the Shaw Festival to run sound (the beginning of a 25-year long relationship). Then I was accepted to the Studio and Forum of Stage Design in New York City, where I studied under Lester Polokov for two years (thank you, Canada Council). Lester, probably my greatest teacher, taught me to see the world with fresh eyes, and to imagine how others might see and perceive things. I learned from some of Broadway’s best designers, and was exposed to the American theatre scene in a huge way. Yet this only served to make me appreciate my identity. I wanted to learn all I could, but more and more, I felt the imperative to return to Canada and apply that knowledge in a Canadian way. Working in Canadian theatre. It’s a decision I’ve never regretted.

My career in lighting started here in Toronto – like so many, at the Tarragon Theatre. Bill Glassco took a characteristic leap of faith and made me his Resident Lighting Designer. Two and a half years of steady employment … working with writers … on new scripts … discovering this extraordinary family of creative people — I learned by doing. (I still take pride that a Tarragon survey of audience favourites once listed my lighting designs alongside the concession cookies.) (Which were great.)

When Christopher Newton arrived at the Shaw Festival in 1980, he radically transformed the entire theatre. He brought his wonderful team of designers and together they retooled the visual landscape of design and its importance on the Festival’s stages. As a young designer, this was likely the most transformative experience of my career. This is how I met lighting designer Jeffrey Dallas who became one of my most significant colleagues and mentors. (He is still so sadly missed.) I had the honor to design many shows with Christopher, each a truly unique experience with memories that I will always treasure.

New York had been filled with Assistant Designers, apprenticing in the trenches to learn their craft. But in Canada, in the 70s, there were few role models to turn to. So my peers and I began to create structures for the future: establishing positions for Assistants; keeping a watchful eye for new talent.

Theatre is a journey of perpetual apprenticeship — to my colleagues, to my craft, to the work itself. Over the years I’ve had the privilege to work with many great artists and artisans on theatre, ballet, and opera projects, large and small. I’ve especially been fortunate to work with, and be influenced by, some great directors and choreographers: Robert Lepage, who exploded my preconceptions of opera; Robert Carson; Peter Hinton, who never feared the dark; William Forsythe; Jonathan Miller, who taught me how to light Shakespeare; James Kudelka; Neil Munro, who set the standard in research; Eric Bruhn; and Derek Goldby, who introduced me to Berlioz and taught me to light with panache! This is not an exercise in name-dropping. I just want to acknowledge my extraordinary blessings. And of course Jennifer. Who is so intensely collaborative, loves process, and lets me try crazy things.

The challenge of talking about lighting design— to paraphrase Martin Mull — is that “talking about lighting is like dancing about architecture”. My medium – light – is conjured and crafted for the human eye. It is elusive, difficult to document, and virtually impossible to articulate. (Hard enough with my colleagues, let alone a room as diverse as this!) The fact is, that theatrical lighting design only exists in that moment of time. It expresses time, exaggerates time, and, like the characters who people the stage, is intrinsically performative. Alive.

And the beauty of lighting design is its capacity – like sound design – to have an emotional impact on a production – ergo, the audience. But it’s no simple trick to quantify. I come home at the end of the day and what can I say…? That I’ve spent 14-hours making something more beautiful. More suggestive. More sinister. More provocative. More alluring. More … what it needed to be.

I’m currently working in Montreal on a production of John Logan’s play RED: the fictionalized story of American painter Mark Rothko, and his young assistant. It’s a fabulous cantata, exploring the nature and definition of art. As I’ve been considering what to say this evening, the themes of this discourse have continued to resonate. And it’s made me reflect on whether I can ever call myself “an artist”. Which is not false modesty, or some cliché of insecurity — though I do live in constant fear of the gig where I’ll be found out!

The other trick about lighting is that it only exists in concert with the other creative elements. Theatre is surely a true concert of artists. Lighting only has meaning in the elaboration of an idea, or a vision … be that a director, another designer or the story … or the emotional moment that wants shape, or guidance.

Each production is unique. My approach, as much as possible, is to have no approach at all … seeking all my inspiration from the text or score, the rehearsal hall, and the collective journey of my fellow artists. My preparation is that of a voyeur: everyday obsessively collecting images and observations of nature, architecture, media and visual art. Noting the effects of light on people, their lives and environments… and the emotional interpretations these evoke.

I try to reinvent myself with each new project – disconnecting from previous experience. I see my work like any other performer: discovering, with the director, the world of the play, and what we’re trying to say with it. This is the allure and great joy of the work that we do: with each new project, the opportunity to immerse ourselves in a new ocean of experience.

Of course it’s not all “swimming with dolphins”. Few artists can survive solely on their theatre earnings. The rigours of freelance life, the perpetual pursuit of employment – it can be grueling. You’re forced to make choices, wear too many hats. And for me, the night before a lighting plot is due – which is always too soon – never gets easier.

And the world in which we create is getting tougher and colder. One community mourns the loss of a major institution. Another grapples with governance scandal and a shoddy dismissal. Theatres are tightening their belts and it’s reflected in the programming… and in our shrinking vision. How do we compete with streaming video and reality TV?

In RED, the fictional Rothko rails desperately against the rising power of market-driven culture. More than anything, he abhors the commodification of art: work that seeks to be decorative, or fashionable, or simply convenient.

Of his own painting he says, “Not nice. Not fine. Real. And whatever it is, it’s not pretty. I am here to stop your heart, you understand that?! I am here to make you think!”

It’s important, theatre. The capacity to reflect on our experience, and tell our stories. To challenge society’s perceptions, assumptions, superstitions. And to do this in a live medium, in collusion with an audience. Now more than ever — as borders are shifting and distances shrinking, when the need to participate in a global exchange of culture is so urgent — we have a responsibility to share our stories with each other, and the world.

The Siminovitch Prize represents the highest level of peer recognition in Canadian theatre. How truly humbling! And beyond recognition, its purpose is to support the recipient in furthering their craft. How wonderful! In a world that fetishizes youth and newness, it’s reassuring to hear that I’ve still got something to give. Something to do.

In Red, Rothko instructs his assistant to spend time with the masters. He says…”Courage in painting isn’t facing the blank canvas. It’s facing Manet. It’s facing Velasquez.”

I’m excited by this gift, to spend time with some “masters” myself. Thirty-five years later, it’s like being given another hall pass.

From the other side of the footlights, the Siminovitch Prize has stood for the passion and commitment of donors and patrons. In the face of increasing government indifference, to see that there are still individuals and organizations who care deeply for the arts … gives us hope. The importance of an award like this in communicating the value of culture to the country cannot be overstated. And for this, I applaud you.

The very best part of being the Siminovitch recipient is the delightful task of selecting a rising talent to share a portion of this prize. I have selected two emerging designers to share the Protégé Award. It has been my honour and pleasure to have mentored and worked with both, and I believe they will soon be at the forefront of Canadian Lighting Design.

The first is a young man I met when he was an Assistant Designer at Stratford. I was so impressed with his talent, astute eye, calm manner and wonderful potential that I could not help urging (along with others) for his promotion. The following season, I shared a Rep Plot with him as one of the company’s Lighting Designers.

The second is a young woman who first assisted me on the transfer of a large musical to Canadian Stage — this while she was still finishing her final year at Ryerson Theatre School. She supervised the setup in my absence, and by the time I arrived, she was running the crew with the aplomb of a seasoned veteran. She has since assisted me on several projects and I have been so impressed with her bold ideas and design vision. We recently co-designed a production, and she will be taking over the completion of my current project in Montreal.

In RED, Rothko eventually fires his assistant. He says: “You don’t need to spend any more time with me. You need to find your contemporaries and make your own world, your own life. You need to get out there now. Into the thick of it. Shake your fist at them. Make something new.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great privilege to introduce you to my colleagues: Jason Hand and Raha Javanfar.