I remember my first encounter with the stage when I was a child very vividly.
In the mundane context of holiday clubs in Italy and Grece, I found the meaning of life. I remember the awe and wonder I felt when spotting the amphitheatre recreated for the guests’ entertainment. I felt instinctively that it was more than that. (After all, early Greek theatres were very much like temples, dedicated to the God Dyonisus.) There was something magical and sacred about it, something that transcended everyday life. Instantly I turned into a worshipper, and I was drawn to it every night, regardless if I was to be on stage or in the audience; it was impossible to stay away.
Of course I had not heard of Stella Adler back then, but I would have understood her perfectly. I would have agreed that getting on stage is nothing casual, and understood why no one slouches on Greek vases.
She said: “The stage will always support you. It will never leave you. You can die on it, and it won’t leave you. When you die, it surrounds you. That’s even better. But you must always be worthy of standing on it, of receiving the stature it will confer on you.”
I can still feel how tall I tried to stand in the vicinity of that amphitheatre. And I’m still stretching to stand tall, in the hope that when I eventually will die and you'll have to drag me off stage, I would have been worthy of it.