Stephen Sondheim

Determining that which defines a great artist takes a lifetime. Declaring an artist as either a master, an auteur, an innovator, or even a genius is often determined posthumously, or not at all. It is no exaggeration to say that the phenomenon of the artist granted the mantle of “Titan” in their form, and a shaper of not only their medium but all others, is an unfathomable rarity. Even more rare is the artist who fits this description in their own lifetime, and lives to see themselves defined as such.

And, the rarest of all these rarities was the artist Stephen Sondheim. He was the single most influential artistic presence in my life, and perhaps to musical theatre at large. He died this past Friday, November 26th, 2021.

Stephen Sondheim was born into a Jewish family in New York City on March 22nd, 1930. As a young man, he was mentored by Oscar Hammerstein II, the lyricist responsible for musical touchstones like The King and I, The Sound of Music, Carousel, and Oklahoma! Hammerstein’s mentorship propelled Sondheim into contributing the lyrics for West Side Story and Gypsy before going on to become the composer and lyricist for musicals such as A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, A Little Night Music, Company, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, Sunday in the Park with George, and Into the Woods. He has eight Tony Awards, including a Lifetime Achievement Tony in 2008, and is still considered one of the most important figures in 20th-century musical theatre.

Beyond the accolades, beyond the success, what perhaps defines Stephen Sondheim as one of the greatest American artists is his singularity. The same could be said for his unique artistic evolution, or even his consistency throughout said evolution. Musical and lyrical similarities can be traced from his earliest works to his latest—though the subjects with which he found himself preoccupied changed over time.

Sondheim was also an artist who continues to be more than just influential in musical theatre. The genius of his influence is so strong, so impactful, that it not only inspires artists everywhere—but the art his work inspires is often genius itself. A voice ever in flux, and yet constant. The breadth of his work is perhaps more undefinable by way of a single trait than any other artist in our cultural imagination.

There are thousands of qualities attributed to Stephen Sondheim that could objectively be labeled as his greatest, his most defining, or his most unique. However, to me, Stephen Sondheim’s legacy will always be his ability to do with ease that which all other great artists strive in desperation to accomplish—reflect us, and capture us, the audience, forever.

That’s not to suggest that, unlike all great writers, Stephen Sondheim was untortured or lacking in self-criticism. On the contrary, what I mean to suggest is that Sondheim’s finish, his polish, always reflected our nature back at us with such incisiveness, and an almost uncanny (yet loving) sense of precision, that to take in one of his many works is to feel as though you’re being observed in real time.

And, in the always cherished moments in which I return to Sondheim’s work, I feel this sensation immensely. I feel not only seen by the work but seen differently each time. Like Sondheim’s oeuvre, we as human beings are constantly in motion, constantly in flux, and constantly changing. And yet, musicals like Company, Sunday in the Park with George, and Follies always catch up to us, and to me. I feel they meet me at exactly the right time, and we reunite again in the moments in my own life when I need them the most. They speak to my experience, whatever experience I may be enduring at the time, differently and acutely with each viewing. No other musical theatre artist (or other artists in any form for that matter) has ever managed to accomplish that so profoundly for me as Stephen Sondheim.

Sunday in the Park with George asks rhetorically, “Isn’t it lovely, how artists can capture us?” Yes, it is. What makes anything—film, television, theatre, books, paintings, etc.—art at all, is that it requires an audience. Art isn’t art until someone takes it in, whether all at once or piecemeal. The viewing of the art is essential, but not all art views you in return. When the art sees you back, and captures you—that is the greatest joy, and the proof of art’s necessity. Sondheim managed this effect with the highest grace, joy, profundity, and urgency imaginable every time without fail.

That, to me, is his greatest legacy.    

I’ve often wondered—why do people get emotional when famous actors, singers, or writers die? Why do we feel connected to them as intensely as we do a friend, a family member, or significant other? Human connection stems from our need to see one another and be seen for who we are, and great art has the ability to meet that need. So, when a meaningful artist dies—specifically, an artist we felt saw us as acutely as our closest loved ones—that is a special loss.

A body of work is perhaps a woefully incomplete picture of the artist, but it speaks to one thing that all human beings, artist or not, go through: change. Sondheim’s artistic voiced changed greatly over the years. But, when a great voice like Stephen Sondheim dies, that change stops, and that is the tragedy of losing an artist, young or old. There is no new art to intake, no new sound, no new version of the artist to behold. The changing stops for good, and there is no doubt, to change is to be human.

However, Sondheim is a rare artist, whose art seems to change with us, rather than just with the artist, and I feel it changes with me specifically as well. As I said before, the quality that makes Sondheim perhaps the most formative artist of my lifetime is his ability to see me at different times in my life, and both affirm and denounce me—attack me for my shortcomings, but also praise me for my victories. His work sees my triumphs and my downfalls, takes it all in stride, and says “keep going.”

Even after his death, this is still a great comfort to me. And, consciously or not, I believe it’s a great comfort to many others out there who mourn his passing.

I would like to close this piece by referencing two of my favorite lyrics of Sondheim’s—though I acknowledge they are also perhaps two of his most well-known, and oft-quoted. But, they both bear repeating in my opinion in this devastating moment.

Into the Woods tells us that “[…] sometimes people leave you / halfway through the wood / do not let it grieve you / no one leaves for good.” Sondheim will never leave us for good—another joy of the artist: your work will always live on, and though Sondheim often protested that his work was never autobiographical or reflective of his experiences, I hear his voice in every lyric, every note, and every rhyme. And, each time I hear those words, and that music, I still feel him changing with me. Sondheim is the rarest of the rare, in that his art will continue changing for me long after his departure. He will continue to run the gamut of what makes great art great. He will never leave us, not for good.

Sunday in the Park with George tells us “Anything you do / let it come from you / then it will be new / give us more to see.” Though Sondheim was recently interviewed regarding a new work of his in progress, it’s anyone’s guess whether or not the development of this work will halt with his passing. I for one, desperately hope not, as I can’t bear to think of the fact that the time has come where Sondheim will no longer be able to give us more to see.

But, in his time, he gave us not only more to see, but the most to see, as well as the most important thing we can ever see—ourselves.

Rest in peace.