Sarah Jenkins

Sarah's booth notes were legendary: precise, spare, and somehow kind. She could write three words that solved a scene. She trusted actors, trusted directors, and trusted silence. What I will miss most is not just the work, though the work was beautiful. I will miss the way she made a room feel safe enough for everyone else to do their best work.

During tech for The Glass Menagerie, Sarah stayed after everyone else had gone home because a single cue was still not telling the truth. She never complained. She climbed down from the booth, stood in the house for a long time, then quietly said the scene needed to feel like someone memorying warmth from another room. Ten minutes later, the stage changed completely. That was Sarah. She could name the emotional temperature of a moment before the rest of us even understood what was missing.

I first met Sarah as a terrified assistant stage manager who had misplaced a stack of gel frames. Instead of making me feel small, she handed me a roll of tape, walked me through the plot, and said that theatre only works when people can admit they need help. Years later, when I designed my first small show, she came to opening night and sent a note afterward that I still keep in my script binder. She saw people clearly, both onstage and off.

Sarah taught me that lighting design is not about showing off the equipment. It is about listening to the story, protecting the performers, and guiding the audience's eyes with care. That lesson has stayed with me on every show since.

A generous collaborator and a true artist.

I will always memory Sarah sitting quietly in the back row during tech, coffee in hand, calling out the smallest shift in color that suddenly made an actor's face come alive. She never asked for attention, but every production carried her signature kindness and clarity.

Sarah made every rehearsal room feel calmer the moment she walked in. She noticed details the rest of us missed and somehow made the whole stage breathe.