The

has a thing for enduring figures. The 400-year-old plays of its namesake are treated -- and greeted -- with reverence and restless excitement every year. And the festival's history has acquired an air of legend, with founder

as the hallowed main character.

But behind the scenes, the Northwest's theater powerhouse owes as much of its success to the long career of a former tire-company executive as to any of its more colorful leaders.

Executive director

, who'll retire this winter after more than 30 years with the company, isn't the best-known person at OSF. He hasn't performed on its storied stages. He doesn't have his name on its busiest theater, as Bowmer does. He hasn't been called "the greatest rock star in American theater," as

has. But the soft-spoken New Zealander with a dust-dry wit has turned OSF from a beloved but antiquated operation into one of the biggest and most professional theater companies in the country.

There's lasting romance in Bowmer's quixotic idea of turning southern Oregon into a center of Elizabethan drama. But today's OSF, with its national reputation, its roster of accomplished actors and its smooth-running production schedules, is a high-test machine engineered primarily by the 65-year-old Nicholson: A former accountant whose no-fuss management style and gentlemanly demeanor don't keep him from doing a song and dance routine -- literally -- if that's what will get the job done.

"One of my proudest accomplishments is we made a decision, around 1984, that we'd become a place not just where people could start a career but where people could have a career, where they could actually have a life in the theater," he says.

Though Nicholson's speaking primarily of the actors, to his own surprise, he's proven the case himself.

Hard to replace

Nicholson's long tenure at OSF ends with his retirement in December.

Lue Douthit, OSF's director of literary development and dramaturgy, calls it one of the most crucial transitions in the company's history -- second only to when Bowmer turned over the reins of artistic director to

in 1971.

In the months leading up to Rider's selection, however, a common refrain from OSF staffers was that no one could truly replace Nicholson.

"So much that Paul does is about his 30-year journey as a part of this organization," says Rauch. "Having grown within the company -- first as general manager, then as executive director without replacing himself as general manager -- there is so much that Paul does and that he knows, I don't think any one person can do what Paul does."

When the subject of Nicholson's retirement comes up with Lisa Moore, who works in the OSF box office, she lets out a long sigh.

"I don't think he should be allowed to leave," she says. "He's just the right kind of person to run this place. He's so calm and stable, you just know that things are going to be taken care of."

From tires to Shakespeare

Growing up in New Zealand, Nicholson acquired a love of the stage from a neighbor who ran a community theater company, yet he never considered theater as a career possibility. As his mother later reminded him, he was the one who organized his brother's activities -- being a manager seemed to come naturally. He trained in management accounting, then worked in that field and as a systems analyst, climbing the ladder at companies such as BP and Dunlop Tires.

But soon he had a realization: "I was one of the top dozen execs at Dunlop and I was 27 years old, and I hated it," he recalls. "I was doing all these strategic plans for the business and I thought, 'I should do a strategic plan on myself.'"

Realizing that a corporate environment wasn't right for him, he went to work for Downstage Theatre in Wellington, New Zealand, for a few years before coming to Ashland in 1980 as general manager under OSF's first executive director, Bill Patton.

Why move to the United States?

"I didn't want to go to Australia, because they talk funny there," he deadpans.

OSF had made a big leap a decade before, opening the Bowmer Theatre, extending its season beyond the summer months and beginning a period of rapid growth. But it still had an office full of Selectric typewriters and kept its subscriber information on file cards.

"When I got here, the festival had no computers," Nicholson recalls. "Bill was deeply, deeply afraid of them, and needed someone around who knew about them."

Nicholson's technical expertise spurred modernization in ways that might be invisible to most, but that proved essential to OSF's expansion. He instituted a planning method that has been taught at leading business schools and become a model for arts organizations nationwide.

Even as he helped the festival grow, he honored its vision. "The spirit of Shakespeare being populist work, of the art belonging to the audience as much as to the artists -- that's all been there from Angus and Bill Patton," says Rauch.

Recalls Pat Patton, a longtime director and producer there (no relation to Bill Patton), "When the festival was really cookin' back in the '80s, there was a lot of pressure to commercialize things. Jerry Turner and Bill Patton did not want the place to become 'Willy World.' And Paul got on board with them."

Calm in a crisis

The greatest test of Nicholson's leadership came last summer, when

, the festival's busiest performance space.

On June 17, during a performance of "Measure for Measure," staff members heard the sound of cracking wood. The next morning crews found a large crack in a 70-foot ceiling beam and the city declared the theater unsafe for performances.

It was a potential disaster. Insurance might cover much of the cost of repairs and refunds to ticket holders, but how to keep from disappointing the tourists already in Ashland, and to keep others coming?

Nicholson says his longstanding business and social relationships allowed him to get immediate attention -- even on a sunny summer Sunday -- from key figures such as the city's parks director and the head of the company that built the theater. They helped get repairs under way quickly and get a large tent up in Lithia Park, adjacent to the festival campus, as a replacement venue.

According to OSF estimates, the incident cost $3.58 million, mostly in lost income. But Nicholson was, in Douthit's description, tenacious as a terrier in assembling a detailed insurance claim, and enough of a gentleman in negotiations that almost the entire amount has been reimbursed.

OSF staffers praise Nicholson's steady temperament and clear communication throughout that difficult period. The same was the case in 2008, when tough economic times led Nicholson to slash $1 million from the budget. Employees said they understood and accepted the cuts, and the festival went on to set records for attendance and revenue in 2009.

Gardening and tap dancing

Aside from a habit of squinching his eyes when thinking of the careful way to phrase something, Nicholson moves through his packed schedule with an imperturbable efficiency. Perhaps he draws his sense of calm from the vibrant photos of his garden that scroll by on his computer screensaver.

A typical workday might include a conference call with statewide arts leaders, juggling contracts for actors and designers, negotiating royalty payments with writers, fielding a pitch for support from a smaller local theater, discussing structural engineering with insurance adjusters, meeting with department managers, lunching with board members, and so on.

"Now I get to spend time with my 116 emails from over the weekend, and I've half an hour until my next appointment," he says during what passes for a free moment.

Nicholson's time-management skills are such that he and his wife have been able to design and build their own house (he made the plans with architectural software, she served as general contractor) and to plant elaborate gardens on five hillside acres on the edge of Ashland.

For all his businesslike manner and Kiwi reserve, he has a playful side, too. Cynthia Fuhrman, now marketing director at Portland Center Stage, recalls that when she worked at OSF years ago, Nicholson would wear a pink bunny suit at Easter and walk around the offices giving out candy. (He insists it wasn't a full suit, just some bunny ears borrowed from his children.)

Once, at a celebration of festival volunteers, he donned a French maid's outfit and sang the Broadway hit "Everybody Ought to Have a Maid." And just last weekend, he surprised the audience at a recent fundraiser with a tap-dance routine topped off with a handstand.

In addition to gardening, in his retirement Nicholson expects to teach management courses at Oregon colleges and perhaps do some consulting work. And he'll make himself available in case the festival wants his help.

"When I came here as a young pup in 1980, I never dreamed I'd have a career here," he says.

He recalls going to a theater conference in the early '80s and realizing that OSF was "a second- or third-tier company" in the hierarchy of American theater.

"Now, by any measure, we're one of the premiere theater companies in America. It feels pretty good, I have to say, to be part of that."

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