Student Blogger: Eva Viciana

What does history feel like before it knows what it will become? That question stayed with me over a winter trip to New York, where Liberation, Chess, and Ragtime began to connect in ways I didn’t expect.

So, you’re ambitious. January loves that about you. It shows up with planners, declarations, fresh starts, and the reassuring idea that if you define something clearly enough, it will fall into place.

As 2025 comes to a close, I’ve noticed that the instinct to look ahead feels less urgent than the need to pause. Broadway doesn’t move in neat yearly cycles the way we often pretend it does.

Audition season will arrive soon enough. When it does, what matters isn’t how much you pushed yourself beforehand, but whether you arrive with enough steadiness to respond rather than react. 

This season always pushes the word gratitude back into every conversation, but in the arts, it often lands in more complicated ways. The work does not slow just because it is a holiday.

Something can live on a stage, on a movie screen, or on a phone in someone’s hand, and somehow it is still the same thing and not the same thing at all.

I grew up surrounded by music, so it has always been part of how I understand the world. When everything else feels scattered, music returns like something constant beneath the noise, reminding you that you are not lost.

Some work never finishes. You begin with direction and drive, and then one day it stops. The idea loses shape, time runs out, or your focus moves somewhere new. You set it aside and move on, yet it lingers with you.

The arts ask us to hold two truths at once. Creativity depends on freedom, on the willingness to experiment, to laugh, to take risks without fear. Yet lasting work also demands discipline, structure, and commitment.

The creative path belongs to us, and no technology can claim it. Creation is the lived process of starting with nothing and discovering something you did not know you could make, and that path will always be human.

Art has always been at the center of my life. It is my first and deepest love. I even got a tattoo that reads “art” because that word sums up what I live for. It represents the way I want to grow, create, and stay connected to what gives me purpose.

Being back at school, away from the fast pace of New York City, gives me a daily opportunity to take small, personal risks. I treat college as my experimental space, a place to challenge myself, push beyond comfort zones, and discover what I am truly capable of. By the time I graduate, I want to be someone who embraces uncertainty, steps into the unknown without hesitation, and carries that mindset into the arts I love.

I sip on my morning coffee and think about how closely creativity is tied to my identity. It’s not just something we do. It’s something we are. As artists, the art we make is part of us. The ideas, the projects, the constant urge to build or express do not wait for scheduled hours.

When I go to the theatre, I don’t just watch the performance. I watch the people around me. It’s not out of curiosity or judgment, but from a quiet fascination with how we each engage with the story in our own way.

Broadway owes much of its soul to queer people. They have created, costumed, composed, choreographed, and carried this stage long before there was space to be openly celebrated. And still, even now, queerness is often invited to perform but not to lead.

On June 21, 2025, JOY: A New True Musical had its very first preview. I feel incredibly grateful to play even a small part on the marketing team, helping the show take its first steps into the world. Being there for that moment, watching something so personal and heartfelt finally meet an audience, was a privilege I won’t forget.

I’ve always seen Broadway as a kind of benchmark for where theater is at, not just in terms of quality but in terms of what the industry values. So when I heard that this season was the highest-grossing in Broadway history, it definitely caught my attention. It was encouraging to see that audiences were coming back in such big numbers and that live performance is still drawing crowds in a major way. 

We live in a world, especially in the arts, where “becoming” has almost become a brand. We post our breakthroughs, our quiet healing moments, our sunlit mornings with coffee and a journal, but only when they look poetic. We talk about progress, but we often polish even our vulnerability until it shines. Like sunsets, we capture the golden hour, the soft light, the aesthetic peace, but we rarely show what comes before or after.

The performing arts demand a unique form of vulnerability. Artists, whether on stage or behind the scenes, share their deepest emotions with audiences, often at the expense of their own mental and emotional well-being. In an industry where perfectionism and emotional intensity are paramount, the distinction between the artist and their work becomes blurred, leading to mental health challenges that are often overlooked.