I walked into the office and there sat Morgan. My first plays were produced in the 1980s at the Public Theater, which founder Joe Papp sometimes described as a “Mom and Pop” shop. The Literary Department was headed by his wife Gail Merrifield Papp and her assistant was Morgan Jenness. We were both in our early 20s and quickly bonded. Morgan was incredibly smart about scripts, which she could evaluate with insight, compassion, and an encyclopedic knowledge of theatrical literature and history. Critically, I very quickly came to trust her as someone unafraid to speak the truth.
I recall one rehearsal for Sound and Beauty, a pair of my one-act plays. Joe came into rehearsal, having decided that one of my scripts should be restructured. He suggested several reconfigurations, moving scenes around and rearranging the flow. Methodically and carefully, Morgan and I went through Joe’s list of changes, explaining how each might be better off in their original positions. He listened carefully to each argument. By the end of that rehearsal and to his credit, Joe smiled and said, “Well! Guess the play is back to where we started!”
Over the intervening decades, I was always overjoyed when my path would cross with Morgan’s. On the occasions I was fortunate to work with her again, I continued to return to her insights and guidance. We worked on my play Golden Child, both in a developmental reading at the Breadloaf Writers Conference, and its subsequent premiere at the Public. But I had also come to value Morgan even more as a friend, whose honesty continued to shine as a rare virtue.
In recent years, we worked together on the faculty of the Theatre Program at Columbia University School of the Arts. There, I got to see an older and even more experienced Morgan inspire and guide a new generation of young writers with the same purity and honesty that had drawn me to her when I was their age. I also saw something which I had not recognized back in my 20s: how Morgan inspired courage. She encouraged— maybe demanded—that writers be brave, true to their wildest and most outrageous impulses, and of course, honest. It was at Columbia that Morgan once paid me one of my greatest compliments, calling me “both a show horse and a work horse.” To my mind, she was really describing herself.
We were together on one tragic occasion, at the deathbed of a mutual dear colleague. I witnessed in awe as gentle, honest, truthful Morgan served as something like a doula, helping to ease our friend’s transition to the next world. This and so many other instances over our times together give me confidence and faith that Morgan too made her own graceful transition. The one thing I know for certain about Morgan Jenness’ next phase of existence is this: because she changed so many lives and artists for the better, her courage and honesty will continue to live on in our spirits, our work, and this art form that we love.
