We’re excited to introduce you to the always interesting and insightful Edward Gibbons-brown. We hope you’ll enjoy our conversation with Edward below.
Edward, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Do you wish you had started sooner?
This question hits close to home because even though I’ve been in theatre since I was 14—acting, directing, writing, working as a stagehand or running the sound and light boards, studying it in college, and even starting my own community theatre company in Upstate New York—I didn’t move to NYC to really get serious about it until my mid-30s. Meanwhile, I watched so many of my peers make the move in their 20s. And then, often, I watched them move back home to build different lives.
So do I wish I’d come here sooner? Of course—on paper. It’s impossible not to feel that twinge when most of the people I’m collaborating with now are younger than me. But the real answer is more complicated because I’m not just wishing that a younger me had moved here—I’m wishing that a different version of a younger me had moved here. And that version didn’t exist. The version of me that actually lived through my 20s wasn’t ready. He made mistakes, burned out, was sometimes toxic, and took the hard way when the easy way was right there. If that guy had come to New York, I don’t think he’d still be here.
Waiting—whether by choice or circumstance—meant that by the time I did get here, I had already worked through a lot of the chaos. I was a little more level-headed (key phrase: a little). I’d developed a better relationship with expectation. And the perspective I have now—such as it is—has helped me realize that my journey, painful as it has been, has actually given me legitimate wisdom! I’m as surprised as anyone.
So no, I don’t wish I’d started sooner. Because I don’t think that me would have made it. And sure, being the thirtysomething in a room full of twentysomethings is its own adventure—but at least now, I know how to exist in it…at least sometimes.
Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers.
Theatre has saved my life more times than I can count—literally saved my life. That’s the first and biggest reason I do what I do. The second is that there is simply nothing else I’m built for. If I could work in real estate or finance, or manage a Target, make a little money, buy a house, have a family, and BBQ on Sundays, that would probably be an easier path. But that’s never been in me. Art is the only place the world has ever made sense.
I got into theatre at a young age because of one place: The Rhinebeck CENTER for Performing Arts. I grew up in an abusive household—not “Hollywood abusive,” where a dad gets drunk and hits his wife (though that’s certainly also horrible). It was something deeper, darker, more existential. Our family once drove a social worker to quit her job, move home, and re-evaluate her entire life. That’s the kind of darkness we’re talking about.
Theatre became my refuge. That was the first time it saved my life. From that moment on, I never really looked back, and that’s shaped everything I do artistically. I believe in collaboration, in creating spaces of love, joy, and freedom. I know how transformative those spaces can be, and if I can help build them for others, I’ll feel like I’ve done something worthwhile. What I’m most proud of isn’t any single production, performance, or project—it’s the fact that I’ve kept going. I’m proud of the moments when I’ve been able to help someone else find that feeling of home in the arts. Because I know what it’s like to need that.
I also believe—deeply—that right now, art is more important than it’s ever been in my lifetime. Maybe more important than it ever will be. Because fascism thrives on controlling the narrative. It needs people to believe its version of reality: that power is righteous, that cruelty is strength, that some lives matter more than others. It needs people to feel isolated, powerless, afraid to speak out. It needs us to accept that this is just how things are now.
Art is one of the most powerful tools we have to fight back against that. Art tells the truth when institutions won’t. Art reminds people they are not alone. Art expands the imagination. This moment demands that artists step up—not just to reflect the world, but to challenge it, disrupt it, and refuse to let authoritarianism go unopposed.
So, what do I do?
I’m a playwright, director, and producer. My plays have been seen at the Chain Theatre One-Act Festival, the Ritz Theatre in Newburgh, and The Rhinebeck CENTER for Performing Arts, among others. (I also have some very exciting projects this year that I can’t talk about just yet—but stay tuned.)
As a director, my work has been staged at The Ritz, The CENTER, The Chain, Players Theatre, the Henegar Center in Florida, the Beacon Theatre, and Cunneen-Hackett in Poughkeepsie, among other places. As an actor, I’ve performed throughout the Hudson Valley, Florida, and NYC.
I also produce and host a monthly variety show in the East Village called FRIGID Nightcap (check it out on Instagram @frigidnightcap). Beyond that, I’ve produced virtual and streaming productions and programs, and—because I like to keep things interesting—I’m also a cocktail-focused bartender with a background in managing beverage programs and consulting, and I also work in digital marketing and as an administrative assistant for an arts foundation.
As for what I want people to know about my work?
That it’s not just about telling stories—it’s about changing the way we tell them.
Western storytelling—this hero vs. villain, monomythic, individualistic structure we’ve all been steeped in—is outdated and, frankly, destructive. We need a new narrative model, one that allows for ambiguity, for conflicting truths to exist simultaneously, for a collective perspective rather than a singular “hero’s journey.” We also need to deconstruct the very ideas of merit and worth in our society. And while political and economic systems play a role in that, real change happens in the hearts and minds of people. That’s where art comes in. It’s generational work. You can’t always see how a single piece of art contributes to a larger cultural shift—but it does. It might be the only thing that actually does.
At the end of the day, everything I do—writing, directing, acting, producing, even bartending—comes back to the same core idea: storytelling, community, and creating spaces where people feel something real. Because I know firsthand how powerful that can be.
We’d love to hear a story of resilience from your journey.
To answer this question, I’d like to discuss topics including suicide, depression, and mental illness. If any of that could be triggering or harmful for your readers, I would encourage them to disengage.
I also urge any readers who may be struggling with suicidal thoughts to reach out for help. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). They can also text the Crisis Text Line—just send “HELLO” to 741741. More information and resources are available at www.nami.org. You are not alone, and help is available.
When people talk about resilience, they usually mean strength. Perseverance. The ability to keep going no matter how hard things get. But the truth is, it’s not always about strength. Sometimes, it’s just about luck.
I’ve known some people who weren’t as lucky as I’ve been. Some suicides, some deaths of despair, some who died too soon because of the way they lived.
Each of these losses has stayed with me. But the suicides weigh the heaviest. Because I know how easily I could have been among them.
It’s terrifying, because in that moment, it doesn’t necessarily come down to resilience. It doesn’t come down to hope. It doesn’t even come down to how much love is in your life.
It can come down to a single moment. A few minutes. A coin flip. And sometimes, it really is just luck which side it lands on.
There’s a story I tell sometimes, something a friend of mine—playwright Brian Petti—once said to me.
I told him that depression was frustrating because it’s invisible. If I were bleeding from a bear attack, I said, people would understand why I wasn’t myself. They’d say, “Wow, that’s a pretty bad bear bite. Let me help you stop the bleeding.” But with depression, no one can see the wound.
Brian responded, “Right. But you have to think of it the same way. If you got attacked by a bear, would you just try to tough it out? Of course not. You’d seek help.”
That’s stayed with me. You think you have to handle it alone. You don’t. You can’t. And that’s not weakness. That’s just the reality of the wound.
Another thing that’s easy to forget about suicidal crises: They are TIME-LIMITED. A study in Houston found that 71% of people who attempted suicide did so within an hour of deciding to. 24%—one in four—took action in less than five minutes.
Another study found that nearly half of people who survived a suicide attempt had made the decision within ten minutes of acting on it.
This is one of the biggest, most important things I want people to know: if you can wait it out, the crisis will pass.
It’s like a nicotine craving. I used to be a pack-a-day smoker, and when I was trying to quit, I learned that a cigarette craving only lasts 15 to 20 minutes. It feels overwhelming in the moment, like you have to give in—but if you can just get through those minutes, it fades.
A suicidal crisis is like that. It will pass. The trick is waiting long enough to let it.
There is no shame in struggling. None. Zero.
There’s responsibility—for taking care of yourself, for seeking help, for how your illness affects others. But there is no shame.
Yet we treat mental illness like it’s some kind of personal failure. And that stigma kills people.
Because shame stops people from seeking help. It makes people believe they have to handle their pain alone. That’s a lie.
Mental illness isn’t a character flaw. Depression isn’t weakness. It’s a bear bite. And a bear bite will kill you if you don’t treat it.
No feeling is final. Even when it feels impossible, even when your brain tells you the lie that life will never feel worth it again—that feeling isn’t final. It will change.
Resources:
– National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255) (24/7, English & Spanish)
– Crisis Text Line: Text HELLO to 741741
– National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI): www.nami.org
What can society do to ensure an environment that’s helpful to artists and creatives?
The short answer? Money. The longer answer? A complete reimagining of our economy that doesn’t crush working people—artists included—under the weight of systemic inequality.
Right now, all the money in our society is going to the wrong people. Useless billionaires hoard wealth while the people who actually sustain and enrich our communities—teachers, social workers, artists—are treated as afterthoughts. That has to change. A thriving creative ecosystem isn’t just about funding art; it’s about funding artists. It’s about making it possible for people to pursue artistic careers without constantly teetering on the brink of financial ruin.
So, what does that look like in real terms?
– Universal Basic Income (UBI): Artists shouldn’t have to work three side jobs just to afford rent. UBI would provide a financial floor, giving artists the stability to create without every moment being a desperate hustle to survive. The idea isn’t new—it’s been tested in multiple countries, including recent artist-focused pilot programs in places like Ireland, where selected artists receive €325 ($350) a week to support their work. That’s a start.
– Universal Healthcare (Including Mental Health Care): The U.S. is one of the only developed nations where a medical emergency can bankrupt you. That’s absurd. Artists take risks—financial, emotional, creative. They shouldn’t also have to gamble with their physical and mental well-being. Universal healthcare would free artists from employer-dependent insurance and allow them to pursue their work without fear of losing everything if they get sick.
– Publicly Funded Arts Programs: The U.S. spends a fraction of what other developed nations do on the arts. Compare the NEA’s annual budget (around $200 million) to France’s Ministry of Culture (over $4 billion). We need more funding for the arts at the federal, state, and municipal levels—grants, fellowships, publicly funded performance spaces, artist residencies, you name it. And it needs to go not just to commercial mass art, but to experimental, boundary-pushing work that doesn’t fit neatly into a profit-driven model.
– Affordable Housing for Artists: If you want a thriving artistic culture, artists need to be able to afford to live in the cities where art happens. This means rent control, public housing initiatives, and grants/subsidies specifically designed to keep working artists from being priced out of creative hubs. Cities like Berlin and Vienna have robust programs supporting artist housing—why don’t we?
– Shift Cultural Perceptions of Art as Work: Being an artist isn’t a hobby or a side gig; it’s a career. Our society should regard it as such. Just as no one questions the legitimacy of opening a restaurant or running for office, no one should question the legitimacy of pursuing a career in the arts. That shift starts with education, policy, and the way we talk about art—as essential, not optional.
At the end of the day, supporting a thriving creative ecosystem means treating artists like workers, not indulgent dreamers who should just “get a real job.” Art is labor. It’s cultural infrastructure. And a society that fails to support its artists is a society that fails to imagine a future for itself.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://edwardgibbonsbrown.wixsite.com/discover
- Instagram: @edwardgibbonsbrown, @frigidnightcap
- Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/edward-gibbons-brown/
Image Credits
Beth Fisher Photos