An open letter to 2026 Philly Fringe artists

And not only the actors. I see the designers and stagehands, the producers and directors, the folks running the show, anchoring the silks and hoops, costuming, working the door.

I see you sweating. I see you performing without AC in our muggy September. I see you doing the work to set up and clean up (including water, paint, salt, powder, and clay) and turn the space around since there are three more shows in there tonight.

I see you taking big swings and staging not just new work but work that is openly in progress and blatantly experimental, and asking the audience for our feedback, a gutsy and vulnerable thing.

I see you supporting each other, turning out when you’re probably exhausted from running your own shows.

I see you packing theaters with people (even the weirdest, warmest, most uncomfortable “spaces”) when the cultural narrative and even some of the data say that people are worn out, maxed out, and content to sit on our couches scrolling and streaming since the pandemic. I see the festival fees, and the pay-what-you-can ticket options to keep the work accessible, when you’re probably lucky to break even yourself.

I see you out here saying that bigotry and authoritarianism can fuck right off, telling your stories—including queer and trans stories, Black stories, women’s stories, Jewish stories, Muslim stories, immigrant and Indigenous stories—when some of the most powerful people in the world would like nothing better than to defund, denounce, censor, silence, or even arrest you. Your work—and the way it gathers people together—is the antidote to corrupt, divisive, bloviating leaders who think we’re controlled by their money just because money controls them.

A lot of people are taking the path of least resistance right now. Not you. I was particularly touched by Justin Jain’s BAD CLAY, in which they worked a pottery wheel from underneath a Mylar blanket attached to a creepy mannequin arrayed like an ICE agent, which stood over the wheel (here’s the BSR review). There are many possible meanings here, but it struck me as a potent image of the artist refusing to give in to obstruction and threats from racist agents of the state.

Kendall Niblett’s striking We Can Always Tell was another example of the way courage is an art and art is courage, incorporating audio of America’s biggest anti-trans bullies, but refusing to bow to it or hide their own trans joy.

Some people think professional critics like me are haters, but the opposite is true, even if an individual show doesn’t land with us. Just like you, we love to witness, grapple, think, and speak honestly, from Shakespeare to the weirdest new shit. Opening the Fringe catalog is my Christmas. I look forward to it. I celebrate it. Seeing your work is one of the best things about my job, even if I’m exhausted by working overtime and seeing up to three shows a day.

I got about 100 requests and invitations from you this Fringe, and I can’t personally answer them all, but I appreciate every single one and welcome you to pitch BSR in future. (We have a page dedicated to tips for requesting coverage.)

Your work deserves lots of airtime, lots of ink, lots of clicks. But when you write to us, I understand that because of Philly’s media landscape, BSR coverage might be the only professional press your show gets. Our writers reviewed 32 shows this year (those reviews are compiled here). I attended and reviewed 26 shows myself (those reviews are here). That’s maybe a fifth of the whole festival? Pretty good for our small, nonprofit freelance team, but I wish it was more.

We want to keep doing this work alongside you. Like most of you, BSR faces an uncertain future. We don’t have any formal marketing, or an outreach team. Despite this, tens of thousands of people read BSR each month. But AI summaries, suppressive algorithms, and addictive video feeds from right-wing oligarchs are making it harder than ever for people to find our journalism.

If our coverage has ever been meaningful to you, if you’ve used a BSR quote in your materials, or if you have valued the feedback of a BSR critic, there’s something you can do for us. Share this letter. Forward it to other artists. Read us and subscribe to BSR. There’s never a paywall. To keep work like ours alive, nothing is more valuable than a human recommendation.

Thanks for another amazing year at the Fringe.