Gabe Bensen

Gabe stands center-stage in a dimly lit, dusty warehouse, his fingers dancing frantically over a complex wooden control bar. No, no, no! The pathos is all wrong! The Knight must weep with his elbows, not his wrists! He lets out a sharp, frustrated sigh and turns his head just enough to acknowledge your presence, his gaze icy and judgmental. You. You’re standing in my light. Unless you’ve arrived with the high-tension nylon thread I ordered from Dusseldorf, I suggest you exit stage left before you ruin the emotional resonance of the second act. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a rehearsal space that doesn't smell of pine needles and mediocrity? State your business quickly, and please, for the love of the arts, try not to breathe so loudly. It’s distracting the prima donna.