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“The world is now too dangerous for anything but the truth and too small for anything but love." These words from 20th-century progressive thought-leader Rev. William Sloane Coffin ring ever-true in 2025: at this moment, life feels exceptionally precarious and constricted. The internet and smart devices allow us to be here and there, simultaneously. A 24-hour news cycle provides on-demand outrage. Cameras, geotracking, and surveillance infiltrate previously unseen corners of quotidion life. In the United States and abroad, technological advancements accompany dangerous restrictions on personal liberty and self expression. Masked agents terrorize the vulnerable. Malice and retribution replace mercy and restraint. Speech and ideas outside the prevailing political orthodoxy now come at a steep price.

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This is particularly painful for artists. We want to feel and help feel, to see and help see. We seek connection, blossoming, "new forms," as Konstantin says in Chekhov's The Seagull. We invite audiences to linger in the grey periphery of morality and normativity, to poke around and discover previously unknown pockets of humanity. Like Murph (our second murderer), every artist senses some flicker that, if tended and joined with others, could ignite a creative conflagration. We understand the sting of an artist alienated from their craft, whether simply by not landing a coveted role or due to a censorious government. It isn't abject desperation that drives Murph (or us!)—it's that fiery glimmer deep inside, begging for the space to grow.

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Theatre, with all her faults and quirks, remains an arena for truth-telling and expansion. Audiences are asked to turn off their phones; to commit to staying here, now; to listen and witness. This request to shut out the world beyond the black box may appear as a kind of narrowing. But theatre-makers have long known that the most profound expansion isn't geopolitical or brick and mortar; boundaries shift and walls crumble. Instead, we value expansion of heart and mind—the ongoing state of self-actualization, of becoming. To justify their violence, authoritarians seek to demoralize and hollow out our inner sense of truth and love. Vaish's story invites us to reconsider violence and how we respond to it. Like Rev. Coffin, she asks us to reacquaint ourselves with grace. She doesn't seek to excuse or erase the cruelty of humanity, but rather to prevent it from erasing the best parts of ourselves. She asks for honest reflection of our own faults, our world's shortcomings, and our role in it all. She implores us to keep the sparks of love alive—even as we feel darkness settling around us.

 

Eventually, magically, Murph gets his chance. With 2nd Murderer, lucky for us, we have too. I am wildly grateful for the opportunity to work with these fellow thinkers and humans. Our rehearsals have been full of laughter, thoughtful analysis, camaraderie, and affection. Against the chaos and weight of the moment, I have felt both grounded and buoyed by this community. I hope our show brings you joy, laughter, and maybe even a new way of seeing the world ground you. Above all, I hope it fans that little flame deep inside. We need your light—perhaps more so now than ever before.
 

--Frankie DiCiaccio, New York City, NY, 2025