I was going through a very large stack of mail tonight and came across a flyer from the Musical Theater Guild, an L.A. theater co. that does staged concerts of rarely-seen musicals. Their new season intrigued me, so I jumped online to take a look at their website to see if they'd announced the casting for any of their upcoming projects. I'm on their mailing list because my former voice teacher, Kathryn Skatula, was a founding member of the group.
When I got to the site I started browsing around, getting lost in the production pics and bios and show descriptions (have I ever mentioned that I have lost entire days of my life browsing online?). I clicked over to Kathryn's bio, and was shocked when it began with (Deceased). Thinking it had to be an error, I Googled her. Sadly, I learned that Kathryn passed away last summer after a year long battle with ALS.
Though it's been about 8 years since I've seen Kathryn, she made an indelible mark on me as a performer. She helped me refind my voice after I had lost my confidence. She helped me believe in myself again. I still have songs in my audition book that she helped arrange, cutting and pasting to create the perfect 16 bars. I still have cassette tapes from my lessons filled with her lovely voice demonstrating scales. And I can still hear her voice in my head from our chats between scales and songs, encouraging me, finding the joy in the work, loving the art itself.
It's shocking to learn of someone's death in this way. There are cultural critics who argue that the internet separates us, turns us all into hermits who tap-tap-tap away on our individual keyboards, sending messages AT one another yet never truly connecting. I would counter that argument with the notion that the internet can be a tool that reinforces connection, even after someone has passed on.
Tonight, reading notes and tributes from Kathryn's friends and colleagues on message boards, I was moved and saddened. I felt connected to people I didn't know simply by our mutual admiration and affection for this woman. I was comforted to see that she passed on surrounded by those who loved and cared for her. And when I found a video of a song she recorded with a group of others in the ALS community, I watched with both tears and smiles. There she was, zipping around in a motorized cart, different yet the same. Beautiful. Vibrant. Singing. The way I'll always remember her.
Thank you for everything you taught me.
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