Broadway is Done with Patti Lupone

Good morning 👋🏼 I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how personal this work feels.

Theater isn’t just something we do—it’s something we believe in. We put our hearts in it. Our hopes. Our whole selves. So when something shakes the foundation, it hits differently. It’s not just professional. It’s emotional. Sometimes spiritual.

This week’s newsletter started with a moment that felt like a rupture. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it was part of a larger pattern—a chance to zoom out and ask some harder questions.

Which is what I love to do here.

So we’re talking about reverence. About recognition. About what happens when we start to believe our talent is our identity. We’re looking at the systems that decide who gets honored, who gets forgiven, and who gets overlooked entirely.

And hopefully, we’re getting a little more honest about what kind of culture we want to build—and what kind of artists we want to be inside it.

Let’s get into it.

The Story

In a new New Yorker profile, Patti LuPone—Broadway titan, bonafide icon, and longtime symbol of theatrical ferocity—did what Patti often does: she spoke her mind. But this time, what came out didn’t feel bold. It felt ugly.

The interview covers her storied career, her battles, her grudges, her hard-won success. But it also includes comments about fellow performers that sparked deep pain across the theater community—specifically, Black women artists.

When asked about a recent conflict with the company of Hell’s Kitchen, LuPone dismissed actress Kecia Lewis as someone who “doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.” She then Googled Lewis’s résumé aloud, criticizing the number of Broadway credits Lewis had (inaccurately) and saying, “Don’t call yourself a vet, bitch.” When the interviewer mentioned that Audra McDonald had responded with supportive emojis, LuPone snapped: “That’s typical of Audra. She’s not a friend.”

The backlash was swift and warranted. Artists and audiences alike expressed heartbreak, disappointment, and fury. Not because Patti said something mildly offensive. But because her words—and the venom behind them—reflected something deeper.

Because when someone you’ve looked up to turns around and diminishes the very people who’ve helped shape this art form, it doesn’t just fracture their legacy. It shakes something in you, too. It breaks the illusion. And that kind of break isn’t just about them. It’s about the system that gave them the mic in the first place.

The Pedestals

There’s something sacred about watching someone embody their gift.

When a performer disappears into a role—when the lights go down and something transcendent rises up—it’s easy to believe we’re witnessing magic. And maybe we are. But over time, that reverence can mutate. We start mistaking the vessel for the source. We don’t just admire someone’s talent—we sanctify them for having it.

And in theater, maybe more than any other art form, we love a legend.

We use that word a lot. Legend. Icon. Queen. It’s how we honor greatness, yes—but it’s also how we create distance. It puts people just high enough that we stop seeing them clearly. Or holding them accountable. Until they say or do something we can’t ignore.

That’s what makes moments like this so painful. Not just because they reveal someone’s shadow—but because they shatter our illusion of who we thought they were. And if we’re honest, that illusion was never just about them. It was about us.

The part that wanted to believe excellence and goodness go hand in hand. The part that built identity on admiration. If we’re not careful, we end up confusing proximity to excellence with moral authority. We stop interrogating power when it looks like something we want for ourselves.

But real integrity asks us to stay awake. To stay curious. Even—especially—about the people we’ve been taught to admire and adore.

The Prestige

Awards are framed as fact—as if they’re crowning the best of the best. But the truth is, they’re deeply subjective. Political. Shaped by marketing, momentum, and who’s in the room. The Tony Awards, for instance, are decided by fewer than 1,000 people. A fraction of a fraction of the theater world. And yet—they define who we call a legend.

That’s not to say the work being honored isn’t remarkable. Often, it is. But the danger comes when we confuse recognition with righteousness. When we forget that prestige is a story we’re being told—one that says, this is what matters, and these are the people who matter most.

And stories like that are sticky.

They shape who gets funded. Who gets forgiven. Who gets followed. They create a kind of cultural shorthand—where awards become proof. Proof of excellence. Proof of authority. Proof that someone deserves our reverence.

We like to think awards are about merit. But more often, they’re about momentum. Relationships. Optics. Timing.

We have to be honest: awards don’t just uplift. They obscure. They reinforce a system where certain people are always seen as exceptional—and others are expected to just be grateful they’re here at all.

The Self

One of the most seductive myths we're sold—especially in the arts—is that our talent belongs to us.

That it is ours to shape, to hold, to control. That if we train hard enough, suffer long enough, or sacrifice more than the person next to us, we earn the right to call that gift our identity.

But that's not how it works.

The work doesn't come from us. It comes through us. We are vessels. Not vaults. Conduits. Not creators of the current.

You don't have to be spiritual to recognize this. Think about any moment when you've been truly moved by a performance—what you're responding to isn't the performer's ego or ambition. It's something bigger flowing through them. Call it talent, call it training, call it magic—but it's not something they manufactured alone.

And when we start mistaking the gift for the self—when we build our identity around our ability—we risk losing the very thing that made it feel like magic in the first place.

That doesn't mean we shouldn't be proud of who we are or what we've made. But pride without humility curdles into entitlement. And entitlement—especially when paired with power—leads to cruelty. And cruelty, when wrapped in legacy, gets passed off as personality.

But our gifts are not proof of goodness. Our resumes are not evidence of virtue. Talent is not a character trait.

The more we cling to our image of being great, the further we drift from being true.

And yet—this is what so many of us are taught to chase. Not just mastery, but myth. Not just work, but worship. And once you've been worshipped, it's hard to imagine being anything less.

But if the work moves through us, then so must the recognition. We can receive it, but we can't keep it.

We are just the instrument.

The Shift

Let’s start here:

Kecia Lewis is a veteran.
Not because of her résumé, but because of her impact.
Because of the time, care, and craft she’s poured into this work.

Audra McDonald is a legend.
Not because of her awards, but because of her integrity.
Because of the light she brings onstage—and the grace she shows off of it.

And the truth is: Black women have been blazing trails in this industry for generations—without the fanfare, without the pedestal, without the protection.

But this moment didn’t begin with Patti. And it won’t end with her.

It’s part of something older. Deeper. A system that has long rewarded confidence over care. Volume over listening. Familiarity over fairness.

A system that makes it easy to confuse experience with authority. Awards with virtue. Legacy with insight.

So maybe the invitation now is to pay closer attention: To who we center—and who we overlook. To what kind of excellence we’ve been trained to admire. To what kind of harm we’ve been taught to tolerate.

Because what we praise shapes what gets repeated. And what we question—gently, persistently—can begin to shift the culture.

This moment isn’t just uncomfortable. It’s clarifying. And if we let it, it can help us ask better questions about what we’re building next. What we’re honoring. What we’re protecting. And who we’re willing to become in the process.

One Last Thing…

Theater has always felt personal to me.

When I was a kid, I’d come home from play practice crying because not everyone had their lines memorized. Not because I was mad—but because I cared so deeply about the thing we were trying to build together. Even then, I could feel how sacred it was. How fragile.

That hasn’t really changed.

The stakes might look different now, but the feeling is the same. When you pour yourself into something creative it can be hard (almost impossible) to zoom out.

Collaboration is vulnerable. You’re navigating taste, timing, tension, trust. You’re trying to create something that resonates. And sometimes, what resonates with you isn’t what resonates with the people around you.

That’s where it gets tricky.

Because now you’re not just talking about ideas. You’re talking about power. About compromise. About who gets the final say—and how they choose to hold it.

And in a week where the theater community is reexamining who we center, who we dismiss, and how we define “authority,” I’ve been sitting with those same questions inside my own process.

How do we hold power without ego? How do we collaborate without collapsing? How do we protect the part that cares, while not taking things personally?

What’s been helpful is remembering: I’m the car, not the driver. I’m the instrument, not the player. That doesn’t mean I’m passive—it just means I’m a vessel for something bigger. More divine.

What does that look like? Deep breaths. Holding fear and frustration until it transforms into trust. Allowing myself to be carried by the current of the process, the moment, the feelings. Resting up. And then doing it again.

Take it easy. At least, that’s what I’m trying to do.

See you next week ♥️