August Wilson In Memoriam

Writen by Phillip Harvey

"The death of August Wilson does not simply leave a hole in the American theater, but a huge, yawning wound, one that will have to wait to be stitched closed by some expansive, poetic dramatist yet to emerge."
- Peter Marks. Washington Post

On Monday Oct. 17, Broadway's Virginia Theater will become the August Wilson Theater. Moving from the nether side of Pittsburgh to a marquee on Broadway is a journey found in the movies of American myth makers. Its the type of journey that keeps Don King waving miniature American flags and hip hop cats cloning clothing lines. It's the American Dream to the extent that it is the Dream personified. Rags to riches. Catfish to caviar. The whole nine. But somehow I think August wasn't quite so impressed with all of that. I can't point to anything that says this specifically. No banners, no signs, no quotes. A simple hypothesis.

But let me be direct with my reasoning. August Wilson, born Frederick August Kittel in the Year of our Lord 1945 to a Black American mother and a German immigrant father on the wrong end of a steel town's streets, was about the work. He was driven by a sense of ambition that was largely bereft of the navel gazing so prevalent in the artists of the generations that have come after him. No marketing strategies, no publicity stunts, no cross promotion vehicles, no dress to impress networking happy hours. After winning 7 New York Drama Critics' Awards, two Pulitzer Prizes and a Tony Award, Wilson was still about the work. After receiving nearly every accolade and award available to a person who makes a living off ideas, he was still about the work. The true strength and beauty of August's legacy is the sheer ambition and audacity of his ideas and the willingness to do the heavy lifting necessary to realize his vision.

Both of these attributes had to be in plenty supply for August to not only cover the expanse of Black life in the 20th century in a 10 play cycle but to do it in the fashion that he did. Linear thought concludes that the cycle started with the 1984 release of Ma Rainey's Black Bottom and ended with this year's Radio Golf. But that would be too easy and rarely does such creativity come wrapped so neatly. Instead, the plays come at crazy -degreed angles, masked as seemingly separate creations yet determinedly part of the same free flowing current of schemes and ideas, pain and pleasures, triumphs and tribulations that transverse life in real time. Each play feeds into a cultural continuum that connects the first play to the last play, the second play to the seventh play, the ninth play to the third play and so on and so on. August draws a direct line from the first days of the first decade to the close of the century because time is irrelevant. What is relevant is going deep into the grooves of human experience to tap into that deeply embedded rhythm that allows us to fall down, get up, fall down and get up again. August was in touch with that. As a result, August was able to successfully condense a century of Black experience into a 20 year burst of literary brilliance.

And the beauty of August Wilson is that he made himself into a playwright, not through a chance encounter with a broadway producer at a cocktail party; but through hard work and dedication. Even the people that helped him on his path weren't opportunistic enterprises forged simply to establish a "career", they were lifelong creative partnerships. Somewhere along the way, August connected with two people that would help him fulfill his life's work and these relationships told volumes about Wilson the man. The first was director Lloyd Richards, the first man to bring a Black themed play to Broadway when he staged Lorraine Hansberry's "Raisin in the Sun," in 1959. Richards, who served as the dean of the Yale School of Drama and the artistic director of Yale Repertory Theater, played Quincy Jones to Wilson's Micheal Jackson. He reigned in Wilson's excesses and emphasized Wilson's brilliance, guiding August from community stages to the halls of midtown New York. For Richards, August softened his stance when he knew it was in the best interest of the project.

The second was Aunt Esther, a woman who grew from a figment of Wilson's imagination into the shaper of his consciousness and the key to connecting the past with the present, the present and the future. Aunt Esther was over 300 years old before she actually appeared in an August Wilson play but she was there the whole time. She made sense of August's time warps and connected even the most despicable of Wilson's characters to something greater than himself, greater than herself, greater than us. To Aunt Esther, August listened when he felt that his own experience couldn't capture the moment. A man of considerable talent and more than a little ego, Wilson nonetheless knew when it was best to follow and when it was best to lead. And which posture was going to produce the best product.

But even that wasn't what made August the abnormally driven man he was, even this wasn't the extent of his life's work. What made this man historically significant was the fact that he wanted Black folks to really love their own culture. It was his fervent hope that Black folks would embrace their own culture, exhibit their own culture, support their own culture. This is not a hunch. This is not a hypothesis. This I know is true because this came from his mouth. I know this was true because it was implicit in his deeds. He said it when he debated Robert Brustein on the dire importance of incorporating Black minds to shape Black art. He showed it when he cancelled the film production of Fences because of Hollywood's inability, or unwillingness, to assign a Black director to the project. And his perspective wasn't a slight toward the sensibilities of non-Black artists, artisans, culturalists etc. It was just the simple fact that Black stories are best rendered by Black people. Its about the work.

So from the fall of 2005 on, August Wilson's name will be bear one of the greatest compliments afforded a playwright. Millions will travel to the heart of New York City and see his name on the marquee of a theater that he worked so hard to present his creations within. And though he died far too young, August lived long enough to stay true to his word. The completion of his last play brought an end to the definitive exploration of Black life in the 20th century. His fight to place Black American theater on equal footing with the theatrical traditions of other cultures will reverberate for years to come. The promises he made, he fulfilled.

Rest in peace August, your work is done.

Phillip Harvey is the editor of http://www.natcreole.com/, an online global urban culture magazine. Visit the site weekly for updated news, reviews, profiles, playlists, essays, travel journals, and upcoming events.