Something Worth Discovering...
Launching the 2026 SIR Fall Fundraising Campaign

Photo of the St Norbert Ruins by Anthony Urso
Dear Friends,
A few years ago, I found myself lamenting to my then eight-year-old son that perhaps it was time for his father to grow up.
Perhaps, I told him, I ought to find myself a real job! Something sensible and financially secure. Perhaps it was time to stop acting on stage, directing plays, and pursuing this rather precarious business of making theatre for a living.
His reaction surprised me. He looked genuinely taken aback, almost offended by the suggestion. And then he said something that melted my heart and, in some small but profound way, rearranged me.
“But Daddy, you are so beautiful when you act on stage.”
I’ve never forgotten those words.
Whenever doubts creep in about the financial viability of running a small nonprofit theatre company, whenever I question the wisdom of doggedly dedicating one’s life to the Arts in a world increasingly preoccupied with productivity, efficiency, and conflict and rearmament, I remember what my boy told me. And I think he was bang on.
There is a case to be made for investing in beauty.
I’ve been thinking about beauty a great deal lately. Perhaps it’s nostalgia. Perhaps it’s simply the unavoidable consequence of entering one’s forties and having accumulated enough life to look backwards with a certain bittersweet longing. But I find myself wondering whether we are gradually making our world less beautiful.
I’ve recently stumbled upon conversations with architects, designers, and artists who lament the disappearance of ornament and individuality from our cities. How lampposts, once intricate, delicate, and gloriously ornate, have given way to purely functional poles. How buildings increasingly favour glass, hard lines, sharp edges, and economical uniformity.
I think about cars. How there was a time when each manufacturer seemed to have its own unmistakable personality, its own curves, its own colours (there used to be so many colours!) Now, look around a parking lot: a sea of silver, black, and white.
I visit schools frequently as a teaching artist, and I notice how often young people seem to be wearing variations of the same muted palette. Navy. Black. White. Grey. (I remember wearing so much neon back in the 90s, good gosh).
Of course, I may simply be turning into that middle-aged guy who insists everything looked better in the old days. It’s possible…
But I wonder. Have we begun to confuse efficiency with ultimate value?
Have we forgotten that beauty, too, is an asset worth cultivating; worth investing in? That beauty helps us understand who we are, where we belong, and what we might aspire to become?
That beauty gives our communities identity, our cities character, and our collective lives a language through which to express something beyond mere utility? I worry that somewhere along the way, we have begun to treat beauty as an indulgence rather than a necessity. And this brings me, inevitably, to Shakespeare in the Ruins.
Every summer, we gather in one of the most beautiful parks in Manitoba - indeed, I would argue, in the country. We perform among centuries-old stone walls, beneath enormous skies, surrounded by trees, birds, wind, and the unpredictable rhythms of the natural world.
We don’t simply perform in that landscape. We allow our productions to enter into conversation with it. This past summer, while performing An Iliad at the Ruins, I was frequently visited by a hawk hovering above the performance space.
There I was, night after night, recounting humanity’s seemingly endless appetite for war, rage, and destruction, while this magnificent creature circled overhead, utterly indifferent to our human follies. I cannot quite explain how much less lonely I felt in its presence.
Or how much beauty that unexpected visitor brought to the experience, both for me and, I hope, for those of you watching. My boy was among those watching, too.
And I thought again about what he had told me a couple of years ago.
There is something wonderfully irrational about what we do at Shakespeare in the Ruins. We gather people in a field to listen to words written hundreds, sometimes thousands, of years ago. We expose ourselves to the elements. We surrender control to the weather, the birds, the fading daylight, and the occasional passing train.
It is not particularly efficient. But, my goodness, it can be beautiful.
I’ve been returning lately to a thought expressed by the writer Albert Camus:
“A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened”
I find that search for a return to the first encounter with beauty tremendously moving. Because I suspect every one of us can remember such a moment. Perhaps it was a teacher who introduced you to a piece of music that changed the way you heard the world. A parent who took you to the theatre for the first time. A friend who placed a book in your hands. A lover who showed you a landscape you’d never noticed before.
Someone, somewhere, opened a door. And something beautiful came through.
One of my favourite moments at SIR happens before the play has even begun. We often ask our audience a simple question before the show: “Who is here for the very first time?”
And, remarkably, dozens upon dozens of hands go up. Think about that.
SIR has been part of Winnipeg’s cultural landscape for more than thirty years. And yet, every summer, we continue to welcome people who are discovering us for the very first time. People who have never experienced theatre spoken beneath an open sky. Who have never experienced that extraordinary intimacy of performers and audience sharing the same light, the same air, the same fleeting moment.
After more than three decades, we are still opening doors. Still offering first encounters. Still making room for wonder.
And I believe that is something worth protecting and investing in. What if beauty is not the opposite of necessity, but the very thing that makes our necessities worth having?
Because beauty doesn’t simply decorate our lives, it enlarges them. But beauty, for all its mystery, does not happen by magic alone.
Behind every extraordinary moment at the Ruins is a community of artists, technicians, volunteers, and supporters who make it possible. And behind their work are very real needs - often decidedly unromantic ones.
This Fall, as we prepare for another season, we are asking you to help us invest in the future of this beautiful, wonderfully improbable enterprise.
Your donation will help us:
- Nurture new voices and new stories, supporting playwright commissions and the development of original Canadian theatre through our Brave New Works initiative.
- Care for the artists who bring these stories to life, improving dressing room facilities and the infrastructure that supports their work.
- Make the experience of visiting the Ruins even more welcoming, with new front-of-house tents, expanded bar offerings, and upgraded equipment for our box office and volunteer teams.
- Open doors for the next generation, developing educational materials and study guides that help students discover Shakespeare and experience the transformative possibilities of live theatre.
YOU
help us continue to take artistic risks, to surprise ourselves, and to create those moments of discovery that may stay with someone for a lifetime. Perhaps even with an eight-year-old boy who sees his father standing on a stage and recognizes something beautiful.
What a magnificent thing to invest in. This Fall, I ask you to make a gift to Shakespeare in the Ruins. If you’ve supported SIR before, I hope you’ll please consider renewing your gift, or perhaps even increasing it this year.
This is your opportunity to help someone else discover what you discovered.
With your help, we can keep that beauty alive.
With deepest gratitude,
Rodrigo Beilfuss
Artistic Director
Shakespeare in the Ruins (SIR)
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