Money in the Bank: Sarah Bernhardt and the Power of Aging in Bohemia

Pre-Production shot of Isobella Bloom, 2015. Photo by Tim Durkan.

The pink Lyft notification dings on my phone and I stumble down three flights of stairs, pausing at my reflection in the apartment lobby mirror. Pale smooth skin, dark hair, last night’s eyeliner smudged on my cheeks. I smile at myself, despite the hangover. Then I remember why I’m rushing, and my heart throbs.

Into the ride-share, slight smile at the driver before dissolving into scrolling Instagram. Ah, 2015, when a ride to Pioneer Square from Capitol Hill cost less than the Light Rail.

Keys jingling, I jump out before the brakes fully hit at 109 South Main. I’m sweating as I try the door knob of Nordo’s Culinarium.

It’s locked.

Blood pulses behind my eyes as I let myself into the quiet theater and disarm the alarm. The Czech crystal absinthe fountain still sits on the bar. The silver lady holding the fountain gives me a wink. Last night was the Sunday performance of the opening weekend of Bohemia.

I didn’t know then that this production marked the beginning of something that would last more than a decade of my life. I only knew that it had been a wild night, that the week of shows felt like the best of my life.

No, I did not remember leaving the theater, locking up, or setting the alarm. The last thing I recall is reaching for the bottle of Morteau and grinning as I poured shots for myself, Dayton, and Andy behind the bar while Dirty Diana blared from the speakers. Well past the witching hour, we celebrated as only Bohemians could: a few friends, cast members who lived nearby, a server or two.

As the beat rose, our Green Fairy, Isobella Bloom, took to the stage dragging a chair behind her. She performed an impromptu strip tease, peeling her stockings as we howled our approval. Not for performance. Not for money. For the love of the moment. The wild night.

Izzy was 28 when we cast her. With a voice like a songbird and a sultry burlesque background, she felt like the perfect fit for what I imagined Bohemia could become. She would bring her light-hearted, flirty nature into our classical musical world, an anachronism at the heart of the cabaret show. We would make classical music sexy again. And further still: burlesque stars would soliloquize, shadows would sing, fairies would serve absinthe, women would play men. We would break expectations.

Producer. Playwright. Ghost of Chopin. I was 33. In that moment, I felt like I had everything I ever wanted: a sellout show, Bohemian nights, rave reviews.

Myself in Bohemia, 2015. Photo by Truman Buffett.

Eleven years later, I sat down and thumbed through the Bohemia script in its eleventh iteration, searching for inspiration. Who would we cast this time around? The show had blossomed from a single sellout run into a January tradition, complete with a yearly invitation to perform at the Triple Door. Bohemians are loyal creatures, and watching our ensemble of green fairies grow over the past decade has been the highlight of my artistic career. It was the long game of everything I ever wanted.

My mornings are quieter now. More intentional. No hungover Lyfts. I have my own car. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am no longer responsible for closing up Nordo’s Culinarium in the deep dark before dawn. But the artistic mind remains unchanged. There is the same searching I felt a decade ago, the same reverence for fleeting moments.

This year, when I picked up the phone to call Isobella Bloom about returning to the show, our conversation shifted.

“How old are you now, Izzy?”

“I’ll be 40 this year.”

“Would you consider playing Sarah Bernhardt?”

The Divine Sarah. The greatest actress of all time. A woman of a certain age. A producer. A performer. She would play woman or man, and her body was money in the bank. She matters to me because she is an inspiration. She’s a part of Bohemia because this is how I want to age. This is how I want to move through my career.

These are lines I wrote years ago, before I fully understood them. Before I knew what it meant to play a man—a dead man walking—year after year. Before I knew the confidence that comes from spending five minutes on makeup instead of fifty. Before I knew what it meant to announce a show and watch thousands of people buy tickets simply because my troupe was involved. To feel the beauty that comes from sharing your great dream with the world. To hear the world answer back with applause.

I am 44, as I write this. And reading between Sarah Bernhardt’s lines, I want to pass that gift forward to Izzy. To say: you are better as you age because you have more stories to tell. Your life, your art, is money in the bank. Aging is loss but it is the story of your life. You gain authority. You gain depth. You become the lead in your own life.

For Isobella to age into Sarah Bernhardt—this is art. It is believable because it is the life of a woman. From pixie fairy to grand diva. Our bodies tell our stories, and to share them is to bestow a great honor.

I used to think it was the absinthe. I’ve even told people that’s why the show keeps coming back year after year. Because the Triple Door loves the high-ticket liquor sales. Because service from sylph-like fairies is unforgettable. Because wormwood is powerful stuff.

Yes—but last year I didn’t take a single sip, and I didn’t miss it.

What I watched instead was this: women of a certain age stepping into the light, revealing everything in thong and pasties—and then beginning to speak. To tell their truth. Shadows stripping, then singing. The hush in the house as we finish a scene and the first notes of Chopin’s Nocturne rise from the piano.

This is why Bohemia returns. Because these moments are sweet and rare. You blink and you miss them. You blink and they are gone.

Sarah will always be of a certain age.

Now, we can be that too.

Isobella Bloom as Sarah Bernhardt, 2026. Photo by Wren Morrow.