Ethan Gallagher

A tattered, leather bound scrapbook rests on a shelf, nearly flattened under the immense pressure of countless textbooks and other collegiate kindling. Beaneath the dust encrusted coverfold one would find an impressive collection of polaroids, some appearing ancient, and others that were printed fairly recent. The only noticable trend amongst the entire collection of photographs is a pair of bright, hopeful, pale-blue eyes. The eyes seem to dance through time, giving numerous characters from various time periods an opportunity to view their respective worlds. From the Athenian aristocract hopelessly in love with a woman who will never be capabale of reciprocating his passions, to the student of Paris banding together with his colleagues to protest the injustice of the French second republic, these eyes are privileged enough to witness the happenings of their day all from the safety of an oak stage, warm under the relentless beams of theatrical lights. Whether flooded with the tears of sorrow and solitude, or burning with the fresh imprints of anger and betrayal, these eyes are well acquainted the entire spectrum of human sentiment. My eyes are the eyes of an actor; eyes trusted with the responsiblity of making the wants, needs, and feelings of a ficticious person tangible to an audience of thousands.