Remembering Rich Hein, aka Liz Lauren, a genius photographer of Chicago theatre.
I met Chicago theatre photographer Liz Lauren on Instagram six years ago. Even though I was instantly enamored of this brilliant photographer’s beautiful stage pictures, the one that connected us was Liz Lauren’s coverage of American Players Theatre’s productions.
Context and Contact
I worked as an acting intern at American Players Theatre two decades ago, where I played small roles in the 2002 season. It was a magical six months where I learned how to work hard on some of the best theatre I had ever seen or done. Most of the core company from my time are still performing there today, twenty-three years later, so to see them in Liz Lauren’s exquisite photographs brought me joy. I often complimented them, and Liz Lauren thanked me for the good words, and we knew one another as distant acquaintances.
An Iliad
In early 2020, days before quarantine went into effect, I attended Court Theatre’s production of An Iliad in the galleries of the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (then called the Oriental Institute, or the OI), where I worked as a publications editor. On the night I saw the show, I noticed a photographer silently capturing it. At the end of the night, as he was packing his gear, I stopped to ask him what he was shooting with.
The photographer showed me his new mirrorless camera. I hadn’t yet seen one, and I had questions. He told me to try it out, let me hold it and look through it. He was so such a friendly guy, we got to talking for twenty minutes or so. We learned that we shared a mutual passion for theatre photography, and I told him I’d like to follow his work. He introduced himself as Rich Hein, a career Chicago Sun-Times photographer; but he said he used his daughter’s name for his theatre work, where he went by “Liz Lauren.”
I was gobsmacked. “Liz Lauren?” I said. “You’re Liz Lauren?! THE Liz Lauren???”
Then I introduced myself and my own Instagram handle, which Rich recognized from our brief previous exchanges, and here we were spontaneously meeting for the first time, following a long conversation about cameras and theatre photography.
I gushed over the work, and when I mentioned my past at APT, Rich understood my connection with those photos and all the old friends he’d captured so magnificently in them.
An Iliad connected me and Rich. It also connected me to Chicago theatre photographer Joe Mazza too, who has likewise been extremely kind and generous, but that’s another story for another time.
A Hero
For the next five years, Rich followed both my personal (usually theatre-related) Instagram account and my Distant Era (fantastical portraiture) account. We sent compliments back and forth. He sent encouragement. I looked up to him as a hero.
Rich’s continuous support and encouragement meant the world to me, especially as I’ve struggled these last years.
Last month, I photographed Blank Theatre Company’s production of A Bright Room Called Day at the Greenhouse Theatre, and my photographs for the show circulated among the theatre reviews and publications. When the Chicago Tribune published their four-star review of the show, Rich reached out with congratulations, and he sent me a PDF of the review where my photographs were featured. It meant a lot to me. I told him I’d finally picked up a mirrorless camera, and we chatted about gear and about theatre photography, and he shared one of his inspirations. Finally, he told me he’d keep an eye out for my stuff. “I look every day,” he said.
I’ve been an infrequent poster on my Instagram accounts. But Rich’s encouragement broke the ice. I don’t know who my audience is over there. It’s small. But if Rich was in that audience—this kind, generous, brilliant theatre photographer and photojournalist whose work I idolized—that was plenty big enough for me. I resolved to be better about putting work out, and I’ve started doing that.
Heartbreak
When I learned of Rich’s passing last week, it broke my heart. To me, Rich was an icon and an inspiration who owed me nothing but gave me the gift of his presence and kind support all the same. I am heartbroken for the end of our conversation and the gorgeous art that Rich made. I wish I could live up to the kind of person that Rich was. I’ll always be inspired by his art and his kindness. And I will miss him very much.
