<12 February 1999>

Babs graduated from École Jacques Lecoq in 1977

I saw Lecoq 4 days before he died. That's not so special except when you realize that I live in Pittsburgh and it is a long way to Paris in the middle of an ice storm, during a cold and dark January. But, I wanted to see him, had put it off for years, and one day decided to just book my ticket for that next Saturday. Although I had seen Lecoq on almost every U.S. visit he has made, it had been 20 years since I was in Paris, a student at his School. I realized only after the fact that I was one of the last Americans to see him alive, maybe even the last ex-student.

I spent a Wednesday afternoon with him at the School on the inimitable rue du Faubourg Saint Denis. After stopping to have the obligatory coffee at Chez Janette, which is still staffed by the same women as in the 70s, and the same hair, I went back into the old boxing arena with a pounding heart and my hand held fast by my seven year old daughter. Jacques was in class. After greeting Fay, I had to excuse myself to re-discover the space that was so vivid in my memory. Le Central is ever the wonderful, evocative space, smaller than I remember it, but forever enveloped by the remarkable balcony that frames the open space for creation that is so essential to the work.

Lecoq looked good to me. I knew he was not well, and he hobbled a bit, but he stepped nimbly over my daughter, Justine, who had earlier watched his class from above with awe, as she lay sprawled on the ground in his office. I had spent an hour or so chatting with Fay, and then another span of time talking with Jacques. I told him news that I could, of students in America, I told him of my career change and why. I would have liked to be brimming with news. I wasn't. I was simply there to see him, to smile and laugh together.

Later, over lunch at Café Flo, over a hearty meal and a bon Cote du Rhone, we four chit chatted away (Jacques, Fay, Justine, and me) about a host of subjects. We laughed, we drank, we laughed again. We even had rich chocolate desserts. At a particularly difficult moment with the seven year old, who doesn't understand French, I apologized for her strong will. " Comme sa mere" he said, and we laughed again.

He took off his glasses to kiss me on both cheeks to say goodbye outside of the school. I remember thinking, how thoughtful - he didn't want to clink glasses. I saw him again the day before I left Paris. That was Friday before he passed away. He looked tired, and I watched his class from the balcony. He had to stop the students in mid -scene, an event that has happened to me once or twice, (ok probably 20 times). In language as strong as when I remember him then, clearly and intensely he laid it right out for them, ses eleves. The truth, the path, the way. C'est ca. And I realized why I kept coming back to Lecoq. What had kept him so young and fresh in his work all these years? I never saw Lecoq worn out or fed up. He was never cynical. He was wrong sometimes, but it never came from a negative place. He was always alive, in love with his work. I can emulate that attitude, but have never mastered it.

He often talked about how his work would be nothing without his students. About how his work was his students. He was a true teacher - a giver of knowledge. His work lives on in hundreds, probably thousands, who attended the school. We salute and thank him for his contribution to the world, the theatre and to us. He is, for all of us, toujours vivant.