“You’re Wasting My Time”: A Scenic Design Lesson That Still Sticks
I flew into Chicago the night before. I was a bit broke, but I had a plan. I printed all of my materials—resumes, images, labels. I packed a folded tablecloth and a new suit I had just bought on Amazon for $79 and opted for tennis shoes instead of dress shoes. They were more comfortable, and I never liked how formal footwear felt anyway.
To save money on checked luggage, I decided I’d buy my foam core once I got there. There was a Blick down the street from the hotel. Everything felt organized. At that moment, I had a fair amount of experience. I felt confident. My love for Chicago was certain. And I was planning on attending Northwestern.
The beginning of the day was like a dream. So much praise. Conversations felt easy. People were engaging with my work.
It felt like it was all lining up.
We were at URTAs. I was standing beside my boards, portfolio open, trying to keep up with the pace of the day. I remember him glancing at my setup and saying something along the lines of:
"Oh, they’re black. How original."
It was quick, dry, and dismissive. A comment I wasn’t sure how to respond to. And then he flipped to a ground plan from a show I’d designed five years earlier and asked: One of the designers I admired most paused in front of a ground plan from a show I’d designed five years earlier and asked:
“How would you change this?”
It was a living room scene. And I knew exactly what he meant. The layout was stiff, the staging felt flat, and the space read more like a set than a place someone might live. But in that moment, I froze. I didn’t know how to respond. Not because I hadn’t thought critically about the design before, but because I hadn’t yet developed the instinct to revise my own work aloud, under pressure.
Before I could find the words, he cut in with something I won’t forget:
“You’re wasting my time.”
And then he walked away.
What That Moment Revealed
It was quiet after that. I stood there with my boards, stunned. And I knew, right then, I wasn’t going to be attending that program.
I wasn’t angry. I was embarrassed. Northwestern had been my top choice. He was someone I looked up to. And I had completely blanked. The worst part wasn’t the comment itself—it was how unprepared I felt for the kind of conversation that moment required.
But here’s what I understand now: that interaction wasn’t about that one drawing. It wasn’t even about the answer. It was about the ability to think like a designer in real time. To respond. To question. To revise. And in that moment, I didn’t yet have that skill.
The Instinct to Re-Enter
That question—How would you change this?—wasn’t a trick. It was an invitation to re-engage with my own work. And I didn’t have the tools to do that yet.
Freezing in that moment didn’t mean I wasn’t capable. It meant I was still developing a fundamental part of being a designer: the instinct to re-enter a design, to view it as something living and flexible. At the time, I thought my job was to present a polished version of what I had already made. I hadn’t yet realized that scenic design is never truly finished.
What matters most isn’t having the "right" answer. It’s staying in the conversation. It’s showing that you can keep thinking.
What I Carry Forward in Scenic Design
Since then, I’ve come to appreciate that the work of a designer is constantly evolving. Whether you're in tech, in rehearsal, or in an interview, the ability to revisit your own ideas—to challenge them, shape them, and respond to feedback—is critical.
I think about that moment often. Not out of resentment, but as a checkpoint. A marker of growth. That silence, that freeze, and that quick walk away? It all taught me what the work actually demands.
There’s a quote I return to again and again:
“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” —Leonardo da Vinci
That set was never finished. Neither was I.
And that moment? It wasn’t a waste of time. It was just the beginning of learning how to think like a designer.
