Remembering Carrie Gorn, Philly theater publicist extraordinaire

I’ve been covering theater in the Philadelphia region for more than 10 years. Rarely would more than two or three days go by without opening my inbox—or, more frequently, Facebook Messenger—and finding Carrie’s latest note, often a pathway to pitching a review, interview, or feature about her client’s latest project.

These outwardly professional communications frequently transitioned to long personal chats. She’d ask me what shows I’d seen recently and if I had any recommendations. She’d fill me in on her daughter Rosie’s performing arts ambitions. We’d commiserate over the shrinking opportunities for press coverage in regional theater markets, which we agreed puts everyone—theaters, journalists, and publicists alike—at a significant disadvantage.

The ne plus ultra of Philly theater publicists

I last heard from Carrie on January 22: a typically passionate update on a client’s upcoming show. Seven days later, on January 29, Carrie died of cardiac arrest at the unfathomably young age of 49. It’s hard to imagine never opening my inbox to another one of her warm messages, or running into her at an opening night, where she’d greet everyone with a beaming smile and a kind word.

Carrie Gorn was the ne plus ultra of Philadelphia theater publicists. I don’t just say that because she was the best in the business—although she was—or because she worked for nearly every company in town, to the point where she was a walking compendium of local theater history over the past two decades.

What set Carrie apart, and what made her so distinctly Philly, was the level of personal enthusiasm she brought to her work. She rode hard for her clients—many of whom became her personal friends—and ran her one-woman press shop, Perpetual Motion PR, like a one-woman steering committee. “Perpetual motion” could also accurately describe the way she moved through the world, moving from one show to the next, doing the work of three people.

Carrie’s professionalism was undeniable, and she was a brilliant businesswoman—but her success as an arts publicist was rooted in her genuine love of the industry. She always seemed happiest inside a theater, laughing and cheering along with the audience on opening night. And that love extended beyond her work, as she and her husband Chad often took Rosie to New York for Broadway show outings.

Even when her relationships with particular theater companies ended—and even in our most off-the-record conversations—I never heard her say a bad word about anyone. She focused on the positive, and she was usually on to the next job before the last one even ended.

Working outside the limelight

When I spoke recently to Chad Gorn, he mentioned that Carrie never sought the limelight for herself in her work. She put the focus squarely on her clients, enabling their success in ways that sometimes went unnoticed. “Many are the times at an opening night party when people were thanking everyone in speeches and she was left out,” he told me. “I was always way more bothered than she was.”

After the news of Carrie’s death became public, tributes began pouring onto social media, and it was heartening to see how many lives and careers she touched. Public relations is hard and sometimes demoralizing work, although you’d never know it from Carrie’s unflaggingly cheerful attitude. The well-deserved remembrances served as a monument to Carrie’s impact on Philadelphia theater, one that won’t soon be forgotten. She may not have needed the attention in life, but here was proof that her efforts were not ignored.

A fitting tribute

In New York and London, theaters regularly dim their marquees to memorialize members of the community who pass away. With the help of Carrie’s colleague Bryan Buttler, Rosie Gorn was able to organize a dimming in Philadelphia, which took place on February 6. At 7pm, several theaters where Carrie worked throughout the years—including the Arden, Wilma, Quintessence, and Theatre Exile—dimmed their lights for one minute, offering the community a chance to collectively mourn a life cut short.

I stood on Broad Street and watched as the Suzanne Roberts Theatre, home of Philadelphia Theatre Company, momentarily went dark. It felt like a fitting metaphor. Philadelphia theater lost some of its light when Carrie passed away. It’s painful to imagine a world without her, but the resilience of the community she loved so much remains.

After a moment, the lights illuminated once again. That’s how Carrie would have wanted it.

At top: Carrie Gorn (right) with her theater-loving daughter Rosie. (Photo by Ashley Smith, courtesy of Chad Gorn.)