I was an artist long before I fell in love with theater. A painter, builder, seamstress, a creator. My dad’s an artist, so as soon as I showed an interest in art, he welcomed me into that world. That’s how I connected with him, by asking “what’s that?” as he built something, or “what are you doing?” while he did his day job as a graphic designer. For years I collected the information he fed me like treasures, stowing it away until I could use it, and I knew I would use it one day.
I was the example in art class, the one whose work was put on the wall to inspire other artists, a combination of my own observations and my father”s influence shaping me. It got to the point where I was bored in art class, my favorite class turned monotonous. Even through that annoyance, I felt pride. Pride that my knowledge took me to a place where I needed more.
My mother”s life is media and culture, learned from her parents. Books, movies, TV. The television is church and the Oscars are Easter. An appreciation for all things masterfully created by passionate people was drilled into me by my parents since birth; museum visits, regular movie theater days, shelves on shelves of books, the perfect foundation for a baby artist. Even my sister, a pre-med, science geek, knows more about media and cultural influences than the average person, just by association.
From this melting pot I burst forth with a love for color and a need to make. When I was a kid and someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say “an artist.” I would almost always get the reply “Oh there’s no future in that, what’s your Plan B?” My Plan B is always just to try again. I can’t be happy in a life that lacks creation.
For a time, when I started high school I thought I wanted to be an architect. It seemed an easy answer to the Plan B question: “I want to be an architect.” Soon after, I learned about all the constraints and decided architecture wasn’t for me. I retreated to my original answer: An artist. Until I encountered Hadestown.
My favorite musical, still, is Hadestown, and I had the pleasure and privilege of seeing it with my family. It was one of the most transformative experiences of my life, the way the sound was all around me, the spinning stage and elaborate dances. But one thing stuck with me for years. The lights. The lights dropped down from the ceiling and became a part of the choreography. The ingenuity behind this design fascinated me. Watching the actors swing and catch the lights while spinning on a triple-revolve stage, I wondered whose brilliant mind knew how to seamlessly meld the set design and choreography (Rachel Hauck’s, actually!), transforming the narrative and creating an unforgettable visual all while performers sang one of the most powerful songs of the show?
I knew then what I wanted to do. That. I want to build sets that tell stories. My father’s art lessons and my mothers cultural immersion combined and made me a scenic designer. To be able to change the whole show with just one set decision, one idea, that is real artistic power. I have always cared so much, about everything, colors, shapes, metaphors and movement. I could put all that love and all that care into a set, and the audience will take it in, and see the show through my eyes. That thought is still magical to me.
When I had the chance to work as the production designer for my high school’s spring play, The Skin Of Our Teeth, I was inspired to go big. A lit-up roller coaster suspended from the rafters, an “ocean” of blue fabric, 30 yards—all sewn by me—that flooded the stage… I can still hear the gasps as “water” emerged from under the audience’s feet. A bookcase with a falling shelf, an elaborately painted fortune teller’s podium. I wasn’t Rachel Hauck yet, but I knew I was on my way, creating big moments through artistic collaboration, hard work and a love of storytelling.
I still call myself an artist, because I am. A painter, a builder, a seamstress, a maker — and now, a scenic designer.