Many may presume that theatre critics hate theatre, in that, well, they are always criticising it, aren’t they? In fact, it might be that the opposite is true: those of us who are drawn to write about this aspect of our culture care about it to an almost painful degree. Even after many years of attending the theatre, after countless productions, after endless ups and downs, even the most careworn and jaded and downright fed up critic can be reminded of what the whole point of the art form is. Fishamble have done that for all of us with Tiny Plays for Ireland.

Twenty-five three minute plays were curated from over 1,700 submissions received from a call out in The Irish Times, asking the public to put forward texts concerning who and what they thought should be represented on the Irish stage. Civilians and established writers alike responded, and the selected pieces embrace the length and breadth of this island, from town to country; across class lines; and in all manner of relationships, from romantic to friendship to filial to the governmental. That there is exactly the correct amount of the latter is down to that expert curation. We get just enough men in suits, but not too many, and this, perhaps says it all about the deftness of this production: let’s not forget who we are, because we are, in fact, much more than the problems we’re coping with at the moment.

It was such a pleasure to watch this show, and not only because the writing is entertaining and apt. It was a pleasure to admire: the sheer success of the staging, the ease of the flow of one story into the next, the magic of the costume and character changes, the delicate balance between laughter and pathos, and the chance to enjoy it all in the intimacy of sitting in the round, of being able to see the pleasure and empathy of one’s fellow audience members, and to feel, via the narratives and the performances and the rhythm of the whole, that yes, dammit, we are actually all in this together. Life and its choices, setbacks, disappointments, triumphs, joys, and losses, presented to us in ways that remind us that we are more than a society, we are a community.

Perhaps most pleasurable of all is the enjoyment of watching the ensemble play: play with accents, play with characterisations, play with wigs. The products of this cultural art form are, after all, called ‘plays’, but oh, how rarely do they feel like that. Even though not all of the topics or executions were fun, there was such a predominant feeling of enjoyment in the execution and presentation of the project that it felt as though there was no separation between cast and audience.

It’s not possible to name check every play — and yes, okay, some of them are more proficient than others (critic's gonna criticise.) Some feel more like the beginnings of ideas for bigger projects as opposed to 180 seconds of small and perfectly formed narrative exegesis. Others take that three minutes and create drama that is brought to vibrant life, complete and self-contained with a beginning, middle and end that present us with a slice of life — or death — that evokes emotion.

Which is one of the points of theatre, that old catharsis thing. And another: the witnessing of a unique event that despite the set text, the careful direction, the technique of the actors, and the finesse of the production, is never quite the same, performance to performance. And another: everyone — every writer, actor, director, stagehand, every artist involved, every audience member — unite to make something out of other things that had never been brought together before, and that has, essentially, been made out of nothing but imagination and skill. Nothing? That’s everything. Seeing work that is delightful, moving and adept, that engages and unites an audience, despite the current economic and emotional climate is as good as a stick in the eye to those who would seek to deprive us of the arts in all their forms.

Susan Conley is a cultural critic and author.