Teaching Philosophy
Eric Domuret, MFA
Theatre education at the university level serves a dual purpose: it prepares students with the skills necessary to create polished, professional work, and it equips them to participate in the ongoing life of the discipline. But more broadly, university education exists to shape whole persons—individuals who can function effectively in society and engage meaningfully with deeper questions: metaphysics, the human person, and the nature of truth. These philosophical and spiritual foundations are not separate from theatre; they are the very fuel of the art form.
My students gain more than technique from me—they gain an example of disciplined pursuit, rigorous honesty, and lifelong devotion to craft. They do not pay tuition for shallow encouragement or flattery. I consider it a moral and ethical obligation to tell them the truth to the best of my ability, not only about their work, but about the life they are choosing. That truth-telling must be paired with compassion, but never diluted.
As a student, I was capable but often over-contemplative. I had to learn to move from thought into action. I discovered a hunger for theatre that eventually shaped my career. When the pandemic removed access to the stage, I realized how vital this work was to my identity. That drive—combined with a personal, faith-centered commitment toward the end of my undergraduate education—set me on a path I haven’t strayed from. I bring that same level of passion and perseverance into my classroom.
I believe that theatre should uplift, provoke, and build. Destruction is easy; construction takes discipline. Even the most lighthearted entertainment demands emotional and moral awareness to be effective. As artists, we inherit a responsibility: to tell stories that matter. Whether the ending is joyful or tragic, whether the style is poetic or raw, the work must speak to the human experience. We are part of the same tradition as those who once gathered around a fire to tell stories—our work should serve the same eternal purpose.
I define student success as failure without quitting. In a subjective field like theatre, growth can be difficult to measure, but there are clear signs: a polish to their final product, increasing independence, and the ability to move forward with ideas of their own prompting. True success is when I can let go of their hand—and in many cases, when they surpass me.
My classroom emphasizes action. I introduce a concept and get it on its feet as quickly as possible. Kinesthetic learning yields high retention, but more importantly, it forces students to synthesize ideas through lived experience. I used to be more rigid in methodology, but now I blend classical techniques, modern approaches, and my own evolving practices based on the needs of the course and the students in front of me.
Feedback begins with self-reflection. After a project, I ask each student two questions without interruption: “What did you do well?” and “What needs improvement?” Only then do I give my own assessment. This approach teaches them to own both their strengths and their areas of growth. I also hold one-on-one conferences or assign reflective essays at the end of the term. These conversations foster accountability, dialogue, and honest reflection—not just for students, but for me as well.
When a student is struggling, I begin by talking. I listen, validate their feelings, and offer support where needed. We set achievable goals together and move forward. I’ve walked through similar struggles myself, and I never forget how hard this work—and this life—can be.
With high-achieving students, I define excellence to include humility. Without it, true achievement hasn’t yet begun. I tap into their ambition and challenge them with independent projects, real-world opportunities, or work that stretches their habits. If they’re known for control, I assign chaos. If they love ornate detail, I challenge them with stark minimalism. The goal isn’t to break them—it’s to expand their range and self-awareness.
Trust and vulnerability begin with structure. As Stanislavski wrote, the creative process is fragile—easily fractured by chaos or indifference. My classrooms are built on punctuality, professionalism, and clearly defined expectations. This doesn’t create rigidity; it builds a safe and respectful space where real risk becomes possible. Students are taught self-evaluation. They are affirmed in their instincts, even when those instincts need redirection. They come to understand that honest critique, delivered with care, is a gift—not a punishment.
I believe every human being is an artist. G.K. Chesterton wrote, “The artist is not a special kind of man, but every man is a special kind of artist.” We decorate our homes, choose the color of our cars, engage in dialogue—we are constantly creating. If we are made in the image of a Creator, it stands to reason that we share in His creative capacity. Students may not all pursue art as a profession, but all must be invited to explore the artist within themselves. I forbid what I call “compare-itis.” Students should learn from others, even imitate technique—but they must never judge their worth by comparison. The only competition is with the self.
I expect professionalism, punctuality, and preparation from every student. The creative process is too delicate to survive without discipline. I model the behavior I require. The more rigor I demand of myself, the more they will mirror it. From day one, I communicate the expectations and seek their feedback. They are just as responsible for the classroom culture as I am.
When conflict arises—between students or with me—I address it directly and respectfully. I don’t sidestep tension; I guide it toward clarity. Students are encouraged to speak openly and take ownership. Art demands courage, and that includes the courage to face discomfort.
What do I hope students carry with them? Love, meaning, and capability. I want them to love the art in themselves, not themselves in the art. I want them to develop the artistic, social, and practical tools to thrive—whatever path they choose in the arts.
If a student describes my impact in a sentence or two, I hope it’s this: “He told me the truth. He made me better.” Some students love me. Some don’t. The ones who love me are the ones who set high goals and welcomed the challenge. The ones who don’t often remained small when they were called to grow. Either way, I gave them something lasting—and I don’t take that lightly.