
For the last sixteen years, dramaturg Liz Engelman—and her beloved dog, Jai—have overseen the Tofte Lake Center, a stunning artist residency nestled in Ely, Minnesota. The grounds consist of a series of cabins ensconced in a ring of pristine forests and streams, known as the Boundary Water Canoe Area Wilderness. Among theatre communities across the country, it seems frequently, if not daily, there is worried talk of dwindling resources, scant development opportunities, and the general collapse of programs and organizations altogether. But perhaps some of those fears would be assuaged if more people knew about Tofte, one of the artistic world’s current best-kept secrets. I would know, having spent two weeks in July on Tofte’s beautiful grounds and personally experienced Engleman’s vision of how nurturing and restorative a residency can be for rising artists.
In a wide-ranging conversation, I called up Engelman to discuss the origin of the residency, the vital marriage between nature and creativity, and sustaining development centers across the country.
BD: You have a lengthy career in dramaturgy, literary management, academia, editing works of theatre, and as a residency coordinator at an array of some of the country’s finest institutions. What compelled you to start a residency of your own?
LE: In 1998, I was working at a theatre in Seattle called ACT Theatre, and at the time, the percentage of plays being produced by women was a paltry 15 percent, maybe 16 percent on a good day. The artistic director at the time, Leslie Swackhamer, worked with the executive director at Hedgebrook to come together and do what both organizations could do best. ACT could give time and place for writers to hear their work being read with actors; Hedgebrook could give women writers time and place in the cabin, and a beautiful spot to ground themselves and center their work. So, ACT and Hedgebrook came together to start this women playwrights festival. I was there to be a dramaturg for the festival and help get it started.
That first night at dinner in the farmhouse, I could just feel the energy of all the women who had sat around that table and had conversations around that table. That table was holding the energy of women together in conversation. At the end of that meal, one of the playwrights stood up to take her plate to the sink and the chef said, “No, no, no, sit down. You’re here to write. Let us take care of you.” Seeing her reaction, her freezing and seeing a tear run down her cheek, I just thought, how many women get to hear, “You sit down, let me take care of you.” And extrapolating that, how many artists get to hear that? So, I just lodged that seed in my brain and thought, there need to be more places like this where not only women, but often women, can center themselves and their work and not only be in the role of helping others all the time. And artists in the same way. Eight years later, when I moved to Minneapolis, someone asked me if I had heard about the Boundary Waters, which I had not. It was the most beautiful, pristine place on earth. I came out and I paddled out on one of the lakes and I thought, “Oh my God, this is a place for an artist’s retreat!” The seed had been there for six years and then encountering this area, it felt like this is where [Tofte] should be. Then two years later, I took myself seriously and found a place where this could happen. For me, because my background is in theatre, I thought about first as a place for playwrights. And then when you have playwrights, then you have actors, when you have actors, you have dancers, when you have dancers you have musicians, then visual artists, so it began to grow over time as something multidisciplinary, but it started at first as playwriting.
BD: What did you feel was missing from long-standing, traditional residency institutions?
LE: I’d say this: sometimes, some residencies come with an obligation for some kind of outcome. There’s worksharing with the public, there’s a studio talk, an expected reading, etc. And there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s valuable, especially if the artist wants that. But what I thought was less important was having that outcome be necessary or required. Artists have so many obligations already in their lives and major distractions from the art they want to make that if you have this looming deadline or public obligation, it takes you away from immersing yourself completely in the work. By taking that away [at Tofte] and making that a possibility, we can center artists in the driver’s seat, we can ride along and say, “what do you need?” There are residencies that don’t have outcomes required, but I think they’re fewer. And I wanted to make sure that’s not something you had to do at Tofte.
I would also say there’s value to having residencies that are all playwrights and to be able to be with your people, but what I think is important about TLC is that some weeks are like that and some are interdisciplinary. And I think we’ve been really nimble with the sixteen weeks we have in the summer. Some weeks are for organizations, some weeks are for dance groups or theatre groups, some are for artists who don’t know each other at all.
BD: Tofte Lake Center is a creative residency for artists of all disciplines, but your foundation is primarily in theatre. What prompted you to make a residency available to anyone who identifies as an artist?
LE: It felt so right to have artists of different disciplines because then you don’t just talk industry talk, you don’t just have a shorthand. When you’re across disciplines, you can really talk about process or what inspires you or why you make art or how to give feedback in your discipline. The conversation can be richer and deeper. It became important to have artists who have different ways of working, but it grew organically. I didn’t realize it would become that until it began to reveal itself to me. That this was a place of artists of all disciplines, all identities, all stages of career, parents, BIPOC writers who need that support or have maybe never been to a residency before, educators who put everyone first and need to put their work first. It was about figuring out who were all the artists? Who needs to be here? Beyond discipline.
BD: Your core values are plainly and eloquently stated: “Nature is Nurture,” “Unplugging is Connection,” “Play is Work,” and “Creativity is Inclusive.” It feels more important now than ever that we overstate these values to our culture. How did you distill your core values?
LE: One thing about them is often they’re held in contrast. Nature versus nurture or unplugging is exactly the opposite of connecting. Which is it? Is it work or is it play? Instead of the “versus” let’s make it an “is.”
I think that was the work that we did—what are the things we hold in a binary way? Especially in this time where we are talking about nonbinary culture and identity, but so many things are still so binary. How can we integrate these things that can be held as opposites? Play your way into your work. Take out a kayak, dance on the dock, all these things can find their way into the work you make. When you don’t look at your phone, how much more time do you have to connect to yourself and others? That is a connection. Nature is nurture is the fundamental precept of this place. That’s what nature does. It nurtures us in this environment. It was really about taking away the opposites, and those four came to mind. When we’re talking about what unites us and brings us together, our creativity in all of us and all the different walks of life, that’s what binds us. And that’s the most inclusive thing we have.
BD: You’re also an educator, having taught at University of Texas at Austin, how has your background in education shaped your philosophy at Tofte?
LE: What I do here at Tofte, what I did at UT, what I do on a play with a writer is the same. It’s deep listening, it’s conversation, it’s trying to work with artists to fully realize their self-expression, what they’re trying to say and what they want to communicate.
It’s like a film set where you see a car and the backdrop changes and scrolls. That car is me and Jai [her dog] dramaturging away in a car. It was these theatres, then it was Hedgebrook, then UT, but it was always leading back to Tofte Lake. This is our sixteenth year. Tofte was always there when I was doing all these other things, but it’s been the constant. Tofte Lake Center is three-dimensional dramaturgy for me.
BD: Let’s talk about Minnesota. Admittedly, I had no idea it was such an artist-friendly state until I went to Tofte and spoke with you and the local artists in residence. I’d love to hear it from you, why Minnesota?
LE: My feeling is that Minnesota, as a state, is a state that supports the arts and artists more than any other state that I’m aware of. It’s in the state constitution that a percentage of each dollar goes to the arts and eleven regional arts councils around the state are mandated to give a certain amount of money from legacy grants to artists and arts organizations. During COVID-19 when a lot of states were suffering artistically and economically and that trickled down to organizations and artists, many were folding or closing, Minnesota arts and artists stayed supported and sustained for the most part because of the foundations and how they value arts in the state. It’s a treasure. Every time an artist comes from another state and gets a grant in Minnesota, they say, “Oh, I’ll stay for a year” and then they stay for another year and another year. You can build a life as an artist in Minnesota in a way that in some states is harder to do. And you can stack up the grants, you can build a sustainable scaffold as an artist. Both art and the environment and nature are all so valued, protected, and uplifted in this state, unlike many others. The Twin Cities is a thriving arts community, and the ecosystem is a very supportive one. That healthy ecosystem is such a big draw.
BD: As residency programs close and developmental opportunities for theatre artists decrease, what is your biggest hope for the theatre community?
LE: There have never been enough development centers or residencies in the first place. The value of them is very underrated. Being able to have time to really slow down, fully immerse, take more time on the development side so that when production comes, the team is ready and the piece is ready. We rush. And things are getting faster. And when things get faster, we cut off the things that take time. We have to radically re-shift that. You have to slow down to go fast. The thing I value so much at Tofte is that we put the brakes on a little bit to go deeper.
What I hope for the community is that they realize when you cut off the roots where all that fertile soil is nurturing the trees, what’s making them grow, things are just going to fall over. And we’re cutting off the roots and expecting that things are still going to grow and produce and branch out. It really saddens me to see those are the first things that are going. My hope is that other places start anew or that some of these organizations find their way back. Or that existing theatres value that we need development time.
How do we still make time for incubation? We talk about theatre “seasons” and “regions.” We’re using nature terms. But when theatres are like a Costco, you get all the things that aren’t in season and they’re doing the same shows. It’s not regional and it’s not seasonal. Things have less taste. The strawberries don’t have the same taste! Look regionally, look more locally, and make [your] own ecosystems to be a feeding ground for the work to go on to the next place.
One of the things I love about Tofte is that it’s local enough to Minnesota that we can support our own artists here, but [it’s] also home for artists on coasts and bigger cities who have no opportunities like this. Who had no idea that a place like this existed or an experience like this could happen, and then [we] send them back into their communities and hopefully affect their ecosystems. Being both local for the good of the local ecosystem and connected more nationally for the good of the national whole is really important. What are other places in the country that can be those local feeders so the strawberries aren’t really bland by the time they get to Broadway?