When winter settles over Minnesota, we treat ice with a mixture of reverence, athletic obsession, and healthy survivalist caution. At Children’s Theatre Company, adapter and composer Ben Steinfeld offers a luminous new perspective with his musical adaptation of Ellen Bryan Obed’s beloved book, “Twelve Kinds of Ice.” Directed by CTC Artistic Director Rick Dildine, the production bypasses digital wizardry and slick projections in favor of what Shakespeare called “rough magic”—pure theatrical imagination, associative storytelling, and an acoustic soundscape that melts straight into the heart.
I sat down with Steinfeld to talk about adapting the book into a theatre piece, why the immediacy of the stage remains the ultimate antidote to artificial intelligence, and how a New Englander prepares to bring a love letter about frozen water to the Land of 10,000 Lakes.
Jerrod Sumner (JS): Tell me about your relationship with the original book. How did “Twelve Kinds of Ice” first find its way into your hands, and when did you realize it wanted to be on a stage?
Ben Steinfeld (BS): About ten years ago, my wife, who was a school librarian and an avid champion of children’s literature, brought the book home. I started reading it to my son as a bedtime story because it possessed this wonderfully gentle, lyrical winter atmosphere. What struck me right away was the inherent dramatic arc. It starts with the first fragile freeze at the onset of winter and journeys to the final thaw of spring. It had an innate theatrical architecture.
I pitched an adaptation to a theater in New Jersey where I was working, and their commission gave me the chance to speak directly with the author, Ellen Bryan Obed. She is a lovely woman living in Maine who explained that every word was true; it was drawn directly from her childhood memories of cataloging the different stages of ice with her father. She had wanted to write the story for years but could never quite unlock it until her father passed away. Suddenly, the narrative poured out of her.
Hearing that, I realized family and memory were at the heart of what I wanted to explore. I took Ellen’s poetic taxonomy of ice and built a theatrical framing device: an adult author wrestling with writer’s block who turns directly to the audience for help. She begins sharing her childhood traditions, stepping into the role of her ten-year-old self. That fluid duality allows the present-day creative struggle and the memory of her father to run parallel, eventually colliding in a deeply moving climax. It takes the stage into territory the book hinted at, honoring the real-life love that birthed the story.
JS: You wear so many hats: actor, director, writer, and composer. What kind of kid were you growing up?
BS: I was definitely precocious, bright, and intensely curious. What amuses me now is that the things I loved as a boy are still the things that consume my life. I loved tennis, music, and theater. I was only good enough to turn professional in music and the arts, so tennis stayed a hobby! I was always fascinated by adults, often entertaining friends with dead-on impressions of their parents. I was deeply curious about human idiosyncrasy and the peculiar, tender ways families operate. Looking back, that fascination was the foundation for everything I do in theater.
JS: There will be countless families sitting together in the CTC auditorium. What advice do you have for parents raising imaginative kids, or young people dreaming of stepping onto the stage?
BS: The impulse to stand on a stage, join the school play, or sing with an ensemble is the single greatest antidote to the dangers of our tech-saturated, AI-driven world. For two thousand years, live theater has remained delightfully immune to mechanized shortcuts and extractive trends. Theater insists that the most vital thing in existence is the human being. We are imperfect, vulnerable, flawed, and capable of boundless joy. When we look honestly at ourselves and laugh, we have comedy. When that honest look brings tears, we have tragedy. But we are always pursuing the truth of what it means to be alive.
Theater also teaches young people how to ask complex questions collaboratively. In rehearsal, you test an idea, discard what fails, and build toward something extraordinary together. Most importantly, it teaches kids that working hard can be immensely pleasurable. Devoting your whole self to a craft and seeing that discipline yield beauty is a gift every child deserves to experience.
JS: It is refreshing to hear you talk about avoiding sterile technology. I find myself exhausted by digital projections on stage. I miss drop-painted canvas and handcrafted illusions.
BS: I could not agree more. You will not see a single projection in this show, I promise you.
JS: CTC understands that better than almost anyone. The work thrives when the audience gets to fill in the canvas with their own imagination.
BS: That shared belief was why I was so thrilled to collaborate with Rick Dildine. Rick recognized that instinct in the text immediately. He called it “rough magic,” which is that glorious theatrical principle where we do not do the heavy lifting for the audience. We hold up a simple object, declare what it is, and invite the audience to believe us.
In this show, the characters spend significant time ice skating. The anticipation of when the pond will finally freeze thick enough to skate is the engine of the story. Yet there are no actual ice skates, and there is certainly no frozen water on stage. Instead, we use associative storytelling to evoke the velocity of the wind, the thrill of speed, and the slippery sensation of gliding across a pond. Film can place someone on the literal edge of a cliff, but on stage, watching an actor step onto a wooden chair and declare the view is far more electrifying. Language and imagination remain our greatest tools.
JS: In Minnesota, ice is practically a religion. What is your personal relationship with the frozen stuff?
BS: I admit I have never been a graceful skater, and slipping on ice is hardly my idea of fun. But working on this show deepened my appreciation for its incredible duality. As we explore in the piece, ice begins with this delicate, crystalline fragility that crumbles like sugar. Then, within weeks, it transforms into an impenetrable, steel-like surface thick enough for ice houses and fishing drills.
Growing up in New England, I loved knocking down giant icicles to wield as swords. Ellen’s book reminds us that nature is constantly offering quiet wisdom. If we open our senses to the seasonal shift from liquid to solid and back again, there is profound philosophy in the freeze.
JS: Minnesotans love driving their pickup trucks across frozen lakes. In my twenty-eight years living here, I have never once felt the urge to drive a vehicle onto the ice.
BS: I will confess I am quite relieved our production opens in October so I can experience Minneapolis before the lake highways open for business!
JS: We had our first northern frost last week, but autumn in the cities is stunning. Bring a good sweater just in case.
BS: Good advice.
JS: Minnesota Monthly is dedicated to the spirit of our community. What does the spirit of Minnesota mean to you, and how does this production connect with that heartbeat?
BS: Because I have not spent extensive time in the Upper Midwest, I want to be completely honest. The Minnesotans I know and love are uniformly grounded, caring, and deeply civic-minded. Growing up, my parents spoke of Senator Paul Wellstone as the gold standard of compassionate, values-driven public service. My theatrical mentor, Oscar Eustis, was raised in Minnesota, and Bob Dylan gave voice to an entire cultural generation from these roots. I have always associated Minnesota with people who care deeply about leaving the world better than they found it.
It is no coincidence that Children’s Theatre Company, one of the premier institutions in the entire country, thrives right here in Minneapolis. Alongside the Guthrie, Theater Latté Da, and all the playwrights and makers, this community has built one of the most vibrant, committed theater hubs in America. Bringing this winter story to a city that honors both the arts and the seasons feels like the most natural homecoming in the world.
