Mimes

I really do not like mimes.  I do love my wife of 28 years, the mother of my two wonderful children, and I tell this story only to relate a tale of my close encounter with a world-famous war hero and Frenchman who never needed to say a word … until he did.

In the late ’60s, I attended Sam Houston State University, majoring in Fine Art. During that time, I worked with the Speech and Drama Department, constructing and painting sets for theatrical productions. There was a great deal of talent on campus then—artists like Stanley Lea, sculptor James Surls, and Charles Pebworth, who had created the magnificent metal wall relief at the Hyatt Regency Houston.  The renowned theater director and educator, Marjean Wolfe Creager, was also honing her craft there at the time.

Eventually, the powers that be deemed this writer worthy of a BFA degree in 1970. Jobs for painters and sculptors were scarce, which is a polite way of saying nonexistent, not much different from today. 

After some searching, a position opened at a scenic design studio in Houston for which I was well-suited, that of building and painting sets for the Houston Grand Opera, Theatre Under The Stars, and other productions and theme parks. That job offered backstage access to places like the old Houston Music Hall and Miller Outdoor Theatre.

Unfortunately, the paychecks developed a rubber-like quality—they bounced all over town. Living on a thin shoestring, that arrangement quickly proved unsustainable, and it was time for a career adjustment. 

Somehow, word came that Sakowitz, a high-end downtown department store, needed a display artist. An application was submitted, and the job followed soon after. The work was familiar—building and painting—but now for high-end retail displays instead of stage sets. Some might remember the shopping bag dispensers painted with their famous yellow roses, or the two-story medieval castle façade covering the Main Street storefront at Christmas around 1972. Yes, that was part of the work. And to be clear, not a window dresser—the store had a talented group of decorators with just the right flair for that role and the correct lightness in their loafers, and they did it beautifully.

While working there, a number of interesting people crossed my path, including a young fashion model employed by the store. She was striking—an angelic face, a figure to match. Our paths crossed from time to time, and one day, enough courage surfaced to ask if she might like to see Marcel Marceau, the world-famous French mime, performing a few blocks away at the Music Hall. To my surprise, she said yes.

After gathering enough cash for tickets and a modest dinner, she was picked up in my well-worn ’63 Ford work van—the kind with the engine between the front seats, humming like it had opinions.  A vehicle less suited for romance and more appropriate for hauling ladders or fleeing crime scenes.

The look in her eyes upon seeing that van suggested the evening—and any future evenings—had limited potential.

At the Music Hall, seats were taken and the performance began: pulling on invisible ropes, escaping from an invisible box, floating away with a bunch of  invisible balloons.   It was skillful, engaging theater, and she seemed to enjoy it. 

Afterward, one last attempt at a favorable impression: “Would you like to get his autograph?” The question was delivered as though Marcel and I were old acquaintances—after all, there had been that summer in France years before. Her face lit up with the first real smile of the evening. “Oh yes,” she said.

Knowing the location of the stage door, and assuming the great mime would be signing autographs, the two of us made our way backstage. There he was, greeting admirers. When he saw her, he smiled, took her hand—and then, breaking the silent art for which he was famous, spoke softly in French:

“Comment vous appelez-vous, mademoiselle, et aimeriez-vous me rejoindre dans ma loge?”

He asked her name—and whether she would join him in his dressing room.

It was clear he saw exactly what had been seen from the start, and he wasted no time leveraging his celebrity. Surely, she would recognize the situation, politely decline, and return to the struggling artist who had brought her here.

Instead, she turned—giggly, delighted—and said to me,  “Thank you, I can get home by myself. Goodnight!”

That was that.

On the bright side, at least there was no expensive dinner to pay for. A burger and a beer at Princess Drive-In followed, then back to my garage apartment and bed—work came early the next morning. There was some expectation of seeing her again at work, perhaps with an explanation.

She never showed up. Not the next day, nor the next. A week later came the news: she had quit her job and gone to France—with the mime.

That was the last time she was ever seen.

So even now, “pantomimery” fails to impress. Still, one question lingers from time to time:

If the police arrest a mime… 

Do they have to tell him he has the right to remain silent?

© J. Michael Boland April 9, 2026