I am going to attempt to describe what I saw on stage several weeks ago, and I am going to fail badly. But I hope you’ll bear with me anyway.
My family lives in Lexington, Kentucky. Lexington is not a big city—a fact for which I am thankful. But it’s big enough to have a handful of really good restaurants, a big arena that often ties up downtown traffic, and some very good local performing arts.
There’s a dance school here, the Bluegrass Youth Ballet. It is not a professional company, but they train dancers on a professional track, and they put on performances a few times a year. Most recently, BYB performed an original production titled Mira and the Thieves.
The concept is simple enough: Mira is the embodiment of creativity. She lives in a tree house and watches as life goes on below her: children playing, adults going about their lives, families loving each other, woodland creatures doing what they do. It all feels both idyllic and very human. Very “normal.”
And then the thieves arrive.
What do they steal? Not the people’s belongings, but their attention and their time.
The thieves are portrayed perfectly. Not as dark, menacing, or malign, but as slick and cool, in matching skin-tight black pants and silver jackets. They are the epitome of corporate culture, and both their costumes and their moves capture that culture’s feel in a palpable—and unsettling—way.
They appear in sharp contrast to the “normal” people Mira has been watching from her tree house, all of whom wear different clothes, in a variety of bright, bold colors. While there is no distinction between male and female among the thieves, there very much is with everyone else. And as they work and play together, they each do their own thing, in their own style. Unlike the identical, genderless thieves, every one of these characters looks and acts as an individual.
We watch as the uniformed corporate characters unpack glowing boxes of wonder and, one by one, hand a box to each adult. We know what’s coming later, but knowing it doesn’t dull the impact when it does.
I said that I would fail badly in describing this, and I am. These are the things that I saw on stage, but the feeling is harder to convey. The feeling here, with this contrast between vibrant, colorful individual human beings and the slick, robot-like thieves, was not one of fantasy or allegory. It felt very, very real—at times, so much so that it was uncomfortable to watch.
It felt very much like the reality we live in, in which the world of the “thieves” is not at all repulsive, but rather draws us in, and even makes us want to be a little like them: cool, slick, and sophisticated. Part of a talented and effective in-group—perhaps even with matching outfits!
It feels realistic because the world they deliver to us—displayed, of course, on the shiny screens of handheld devices—does feel cool and slick. It doesn’t need to use force to get us to give it our time and attention. It seduces us into doing so. To the extent that “screens” have power over us, it is only because we do want what they offer us—or, what they pretend to offer—and we give them that power willingly.
“Today, the world lives in the palm of our hands,” writes Bluegrass Youth Ballet’s director, Adalhi Aranda. “With a single swipe, we can see what’s happening across the globe. And yet, we are more disconnected than ever. Not only from others, but from ourselves! Every free minute is filled with something, and we are forgetting to feel, to listen, to observe. Anxiety and depression, especially among young people, continue to rise. ‘Mira and the Thieves’ explores one piece of this reality: How the overuse of devices can quietly replace play, connection, imagination, and presence.”
This is nothing new. We are all aware of the impact that screens have on our lives, and especially on the lives and development of our children. We know that our attention is too much on the artificial world of screens and too little on the real world—and real people—right in front of us. But knowing something intellectually is not the same thing as feeling it reverberate throughout your entire being.
When the thieves begin placing the glowing boxes into the hands of the children, I feel confident in saying that every single adult in the audience felt a hard punch to the gut.
And that is my point.
This is what real art does. It does not merely throw ideas at us; it does not merely present us with truths or insights, or seek to explain our world to us. It picks us up, shakes us, and makes us feel its message. Mira and the Thieves is emotionally powerful in a way that a million well-researched articles or podcast episodes never could be. And it stands as a reminder that the most powerful way to reach people is not through appeals to their intellect but through story, music, and dance.
It is inspiring that a small, local dance production, in a not-so-big city, with student dancers, can create such an impactful production. It is also an affirmation of the director’s wish: that those who view it take steps to reclaim their own creativity. It is an affirmation that creativity and great art are not reserved for those at the very top; that an emotionally powerful ballet is not only for world-class professional ballet companies. It is a living affirmation that art—even great art—is for all of us.
In full McLuhanesque fashion, the production of Mira is also, itself, the message.
We humans are creators. We may not all be dancers or filmmakers or artists or brilliant chefs, but each of us has within us the capacity and the need to create. Something. Even if it is only for our friends and family. (“Only.”)
Even before the advent of smartphones and iPads (and long before AI began invading our perception of the world), arts and entertainment had become something that was mostly produced in a far-away province, much removed from those who consume it. (And consume is the key word here.) But it is not in our nature merely to consume. That is not who human beings are, and it is not why we are here.
We have a very deep need for something more. Even if we are not consciously aware of this need, our bodies know it. Our souls know it. When our roles in life are reduced to those of consumers and spectators, we don’t tend to do well. We become unhappy, even depressed. We fail to thrive.
It is inspiring and life-affirming to see small local artists and production companies that are creating real art. These are people who have something to say and aren’t waiting for an invitation from Broadway or Netflix to say it. The lesson of Mira and the Thieves—in more ways than one—is that you can do this too. In fact, you should. We all should. Right now.
