6 hours ago
13
I was 24, had just moved into a share house I couldn’t afford, and my job as a nanny was proving less than ideal. I’d graduated from my music degree a few years prior and was floating along, feeling a little lost.
A friend had told me to apply to become a front-of-house staff member at Australia’s busiest performing arts centre, Arts Centre Melbourne. It was a rare opportunity, as people rarely quit. To be surrounded by art again sounded like a dream.
I progressed to the final interview round. Anxious about nailing it and unable to study for it – for some unknown reason, a maths quiz was involved – I focused purely on appearance. I blew my budget on a blow wave, planning to charm the interviewers with my perfect hair and Target office-casual best.
Whether it was my hair or the secret texts to my friend asking for help answering the maths quiz, I got the job.
My first shift was inside door 1 of the centre’s State Theatre. It was the easiest place to avoid royally stuffing things up, and I could be kept under close supervision. I watched Madama Butterfly from my little fold-down seat, goose bumps exploding all over my body. I had never had any interest in opera, and apart from being an unwilling audience to my grandfather’s car DJ set – which consisted entirely of opera – I had rarely listened to it. But watching these incredible performers in a historic theatre, I felt like a wide-eyed kid discovering music for the first time.
From there I ricocheted around theatres, learning the labyrinth under the complex’s famous spire. I saw Summer of the Seventeenth Doll no fewer than 17 times; I savoured spine-tingling performances by the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra. When my box seat patrons didn’t show up, I cried alone in my section during the Australian Ballet’s production of Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel. Boyband Human Nature got audience members, of all ages, dancing out of their seats – to this day, their show is one of the best performances I’ve seen.
I also saw the highs and lows of patron behaviour. I thought of the audience as my precious babies, albeit ones I could watch from a distance with love and fascination. I saw a little girl’s first ballet concert; a grown man who, when I said he couldn’t take his ice-cream in, angrily threw his unwrapped Magnum in the bin; a woman, breathless after a coughing fit, graciously accepting that she couldn’t return to the show she’d been so looking forward to because of the door policy. People came as they were – joyful, messy, broken, hopeful, and I relished the hours of people-watching.
A few years into the job, I was stationed outside the door of an over-the-top musical when I met a fellow usher who would become my best friend. Within minutes of meeting Stef, we were dancing all over the empty foyer, recreating our version of Chess. We bonded over our feminism and anxiety, and she later became one of my bridesmaids. My kids now call her Aunty Steffy.
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I’ve never felt safer in a workplace, despite the dark corridors and hidden spaces.
Many colleagues were also queer artists who took their ushering jobs seriously, while also having fun on the job. Looking back, having lived and experienced life and now nearing 40, that place felt like a cradle. Being an usher cracked open my heart to the beauty of humans experiencing art and I had the privilege of watching along with them.
