NEW YORK—The day before I turned 20, I had an urge to be a kid again. Having decided to go shopping, my friend and I drove to the local Toys ‘R’ Us. Then, we ran through the sprinkler at our local park. A few hours later I officially turned 20. While I couldn’t stop time or even delay it, at least I could enjoy the moment for a while: carpe diem.

On June 21, I was shocked to learn that longtime Technical Director of College Theatre, Alan Symonds ’69, had passed away. I considered him both a friend and a mentor. Thus, his death deeply shook me; it reminded me of opportunities missed, of relentless time.

When I confidently introduced myself as a “lighting designer” during my first days at Harvard, everyone told me I ought to meet Alan. However, my freshman year came and went and, although I got involved in theatre, I still never met him. In the middle of February, however, I received an e-mail from him inviting anyone interested to the Barbizon Lighting Open House. Only two of us responded, and on a cold Thursday afternoon, I found myself riding in his big black SUV as we headed off on our road trip.

I always knew Alan was a theatre legend. After all, along with other Harvard and Radcliffe alums, he was the lighting designer at Woodstock. Yes, that Woodstock. Since then, he had designed a countless number of shows all over the country and, probably, the world.

When we arrived at the open house, Alan was immediately swarmed. Everyone wanted to show him the latest products—everyone wanted his opinion. And I, as a student of Alan, was treated with the deepest respect and attention by everyone we talked to—even though the other student and I certainly could not afford the showcased products.

In that way, Alan taught me to dream. He warmly invited me into his world of technical theatre. Especially as a woman, that is a world with difficult access, but it is also a world I loved, and still do.

The day before Alan’s death, I called him. I was working at a concert in New York City, and we needed a lighting operator at the last minute for a particular type of moving-lights console. As my boss got more and more frantic, I was more and more insistent on reaching Alan. When I was walking back up the narrow revolving stairwell to the production office, I realized that my phone was ringing, but I was too late answering. Instead, I was greeted by a pleasant voicemail with two names and phone numbers that could probably help solve the problem. I always meant to call him back.

I never heard the fire speech—Alan’s famous safety talk, which he repeated before every show in the Agassiz Theatre. I never had a chance to work with him on a show; nor do I have that many stories about him or about us.

Since his departure, however, I have enjoyed listening to the stories of others. Those who knew him felt his immortality every minute of his presence, both as a theatre legend, and simply as a good person.

To make the magic of theatre come to life, this industry needs many, many people. But amidst the anonymity of myriad names, our community is well aware that Alan’s passing will leave a bare space. He remains irreplaceable.

As for me, I wish I could have had more time with him. There is so much he could have taught me. Just like my desire to avoid turning 20, I wish I could’ve stopped time.



Reva P. Minkoff ’08, a Crimson editorial editor, is a government concentrator in Pforzheimer House. She is interning on Broadway this summer and loving every minute of it.