Nobody had work prepared for class that day, but the acting teacher betrayed no hint of annoyance. Instead he said in a calm, gracious tone, "I want everybody to stand up and find a partner." What followed was the most moving scene I've ever witnessed in an acting class: a simple exercise that many teachers have used, but never quite so well.
"You are not to touch your partner until I say you can," the teacher explained. "Don't say any words except the words I give you."
Then slowly, almost hypnotically, he began the exercise.
"I want you to stand face to face with your partner. Look at this person. Look at their face. Look at their body. Look deep into their eyes. Study your partner. Examine your partner. Really see this person, this living, breathing human being, this fragile soul in front of you. Don't look away. Don't look at anything except your partner. Your partner is the only other person in the room right now. The only other person in your life. Keep looking. Look deep into your partner's eyes until you can see their soul looking back at you."
The teacher paused for several long minutes, watching the class follow his instructions — some seriously, some barely containing giggles — before continuing softly:
"In every human being there is something to like. Find that something in your partner. Something physical. Something you can see. Find that one thing you like about your partner. See it. Experience it. Breathe it in. Let it affect you."
Again he waited several minutes before continuing.
"From whatever you're feeling or experiencing at this moment, when I say 'Now,' you are permitted to touch your partner once, and I want you to say, 'There is something I like about you.' Then I want you to walk to the farthest corner of the room and be by yourself." Then, after a pause: "Now."
At their own pace, the students did as they were told. After they had stood silently by themselves for several minutes, the teacher continued.
"Find your partner again and face them.... In every human being there is something you don't like, something you detest. Something physical." He repeated the words he'd said before, telling them to "See it. Experience it. Let it do something to you," this time instructing the class not to touch their partners, but to look at them and say, "There is something I don't like about you."
Then each student again retreated to a private corner of the room and stood alone for a long time. Only now nobody was giggling.
When the partners reunited, the procedure was repeated.
"In every human being there is something ridiculous. Find something ridiculous about your partner. Something laughable. Something physical. Experience it. Let it affect you in whatever way it affects you." Then, after a pause, he said, "Now I want you to leave your partner and go find another partner."
When the new pairs were formed, the teacher continued. "Without mentioning your original partner's name, I want you to tell this new person what you found ridiculous about your partner."
The students complied, some reluctantly, some with a mischievous glint.
"Now I want you to return to your partner." The students sensed what was coming. "Look at them. Look into their eyes. Experience this living, breathing human being, this fragile soul in front of you.... From whatever you're feeling or experiencing at this moment, when I say 'Now,' you are permitted to touch your partner once, and I want you to say, 'I'm sorry.' Then I want you to walk to the farthest corner of the room and be by yourself.... Now."
The students quietly did as they were told, only now some had tears in their eyes.
The exercise continued this way for the rest of the hour, with the teacher gently telling his students to find various characteristics in their partners. "In every human being there is something to admire," he would say. And later, "In every human being there is something you envy." Except now, instead of "partner," he used the word "friend."
"Look into your friend's eyes and know that your friend has dreams. Know that this person, this human being in front of you has desires, and ambitions, and aspirations, and hopes. Know that your friend has something they want to achieve in life more than anything else. Feel that. Sense it. Breathe it in. Let it envelop you."
After a pause, he went on. "Now look into your friend's eyes and know that your friend has a flaw. Like every human being on earth, your friend is not perfect. Your friend has a flaw, and that flaw will cause your friend to fail. Your friend has hopes and dreams and ambitions, and your friend will fail. Know that. Feel that....
"From whatever you're feeling or experiencing at this moment, when I say 'Now,' you are permitted to touch your friend once, and I want you to say, 'I'm sorry.' Then I want you to walk to the farthest corner of the room and be by yourself.... Now."
As the students stood alone and silent in their private corners, the room was heavy with emotion. This time the teacher spoke before allowing the partners to reunite.
"There is something in your life you've said or done that you wish you hadn't. Something you regret. Deeply. Something you wish you could take back. Find it. Remember. How does it make you feel?...
"When you see your friend again, I want you to make a decision. Don't say anything, but I want you to decide: Could you ever share this secret with your friend?" The teacher waited, then continued. "Find your friend again....
"Look into your friend's eyes. See your friend and know that in a few minutes, your friend will leave and you will never, ever see this person again.... When I say, 'It's time to go,' find a way to say goodbye to your friend forever, then go to the farthest corner of the room and don't look back." A feeling of real anxiety filled the space. "It's time to go."
And the students did as they were told.
"Attention," the teacher said after several minutes. "A mistake has been made. Your friend was not supposed to leave. When I say, 'Come back,' find your friend again and greet them.... Come back."
By now even the most stalwart had tears in their eyes, and the teacher concluded the exercise. "See your friend. Thank your partner, and sit down."
Once the students were settled and the Kleenex distributed, the teacher spoke in soft, measured tones.
"You have just committed the act of acting: You have stood next to a total stranger, accepted that person as a partner, treated that person as a friend, performed a scene in which you did not invent your own lines but said only what I told you to say and did only what I told you to do, and engaged in a completely made-up story. And half the room is in tears. That's acting. It's that simple, it's that easy.
"Whatever you want to be true, you can make it true, because you say it is, and you accept it. You take people and objects and circumstances, and turn them into anything you want them to be. That's acting."
The teacher was Lloyd Richards, former dean of the Yale School of Drama, who died last week at the age of 87. He was the wisest, gentlest man I've ever met, and nobody in New York knew more about acting. I can't express how sad I am that he's gone.