Last fall SpiderWebShow was invited into a residency at Queen’s University. During our time there we co-taught a class in the Stage and Screen Program that explored the range of activities found at SpiderWebShow and how these relate to concepts of “liveness”. By way of practice, students created their own Thought Residencies, Wiki Articles, CdnElder Videos, and we built the course towards the class creating original performances tailored to the demands of CdnStudio. The course concluded with a live performance, including all of the above, in the black box theatre at The Bader. There was a sizeable crowd for the student named event: MetaFriction.
A photo posted by SpiderWebShow (@spiderwebshow) on
Participants also created their own articles for CdnTimes, using the same parameters that artists across the country use when curated by our Co-Editors. We never imagined that the work would be so good. All were strong, but here are three that really stood out. Publishing them in this special edition is actually a great way to put our values into action. It affords us the opportunity to share terrific writing and for you to meet new voices that you are bound to hear more from. This week we are pleased to present three articles that our students created under the broad rubric of addressing “gender and/or the body”.
Vikki Sprenger addresses how disability is and can be incorporated into professional live performance; Hannah Brown investigates how technology is transforming gender roles relating to voice and performance; Megan Thomson unpacks how in Portlandia, drag is the crucial element that makes the humour work. Sarah Garton Stanley and Michael Wheeler
Workshop presentation of How It Ends a new piece in development with my company Sick + Twisted Theatre. Pictured are Arne MacPherson and Debbie Patterson. Photo by Solmund MacPherson.
In 1999 I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I knew a couple of people who had it and who showed no outward signs of the disease, so I was pretty optimistic that I would be the same. I wasn’t.
Like most actors, I enjoy physical challenges; I had danced the tango with Mack the Knife and swung a broad sword at the King of Scotland. But I stopped auditioning for plays when I could no longer walk without an obvious limp. All my training, all my experience told me that as an actor, I needed to be in peak physical condition. If I couldn’t be, I had to stop performing.
Having made my living in the business for 20 years, not only was it hard to imagine entering some other profession, it was devastating to think that all the other skills I had worked so hard to develop were now useless to me. How could I continue to do this work while remaining comfortably seated? So my first strategy was: to find a way to ignore it.
I began to develop as a playwright, which was great, but I missed having that direct relationship with an audience. I missed the intimacy of that shared experience. But because I was now a playwright, I could write plays that would allow me to hide my disability. This was my second strategy: finding ways to work around my disability.
I began working with Iris Turcott on a play I had been writing about a neighbourhood in decline, called Sargent & Victor. It was a one-person show I intended to perform myself: seated in a chair, with no movement or blocking so that no one would ever know I couldn’t walk. On the phone Iris asked me, “What’s wrong with you?” I told her a little bit about what was happening with my body and she said that that’s what I should be writing about. “What’s happening to your body is the same thing that’s happening in that neighbourhood, Dumbdumb.”
At first I resisted; I didn’t want to write a play about “me and my disease”. What could be more boring? But I learned that resistance is futile when you’re working with Iris Turcott. With a “here goes nothing” attitude, I began writing Sargent & Victor & Me. As is always the case, by being specific and digging deep, the work became profoundly universal. It was produced by Theatre Projects Manitoba to record-breaking attendance — and standing ovations.
Thanks to Iris, I finally landed upon my third and most successful strategy: to move towards my disability, to fully incorporate it into the work I was doing.
Molotov Circus presented at SummerWorks Festival. Pictured are Debbie Patterson, Arne MacPherson, Gislina Patterson and Solmund MacPherson. Photo by Leif Norman.
I realize that much of my resistance to doing this work was based on my own internalized ableism. While it’s obvious a person’s worth shouldn’t be contingent on their gender or their race, I hadn’t wrapped my brain around the idea that a person’s worth isn’t defined by their abilities. You can’t say men are superior to women, but it takes a little more work to recognize that a person who can walk is no better than a person who can’t walk.
When a person loses a sense, like sight or hearing, other senses become more acute. I’ve discovered that living with MS is no different.
My muscles don’t automatically do what I want them to do. When I move, I’ve become extremely mindful of what my body is doing. I am far more attuned to my movement now than I ever was before, despite all of the physical training I was given at theatre school.
Every day I do things that are dangerous: climbing stairs, handling things that could cut me or burn me. The clumsiness associated with MS makes all of these things potentially fatal. The risk now involved in completing the daily tasks of my life has made me more willing to take risks in my work.
In my daily life I come up against problems that I have to solve, stupid simple things like getting in and out of a vehicle, or navigating an opening night reception while juggling two crutches and a cocktail. These stupid little problems force me to think laterally, to find new ways to do ordinary things. This need to adapt, to use my imagination in very directed ways to solve problems has filtered into my work.
These three qualities — mindfulness, risk taking, and adaptive problem solving — have made me a better artist. As a performer, I’ve discovered my superpower is the way I move, which automatically brings with it something I call the “Cirque du Soleil effect”. When I walk across the room everyone is on the edge of their seat, wondering “is she going to fall?” No need to rig up the trapeze, I bring the danger.
There are two narratives that we attach to disability in popular culture: the cautionary tale (Don’t drink and drive or you’ll end up in a wheelchair and your life will be over!) and inspiration porn (She’s disabled, but she still has a job and raises children. What a hero!). But the truth is somewhere in between these two extremes of tragic or prosaic. And most tellingly, both of these narratives are directed at an “abled” audience.
Having a disability gives me the opportunity to tell the truths that no one seems to be telling. It gives me a window into an aspect of the human condition that, though it is universal, is seldom reflected in the stories we tell.
Two images from Richard III produced by Shakespeare in the Ruins. Pictured are Toby Hughes, Debbie Patterson and Sarah Constible. Pictured below are Toni Reimer, Tracey Nepinak and Debbie Patterson. Photos by Dylan Hewlett.
Disability is scary. We’ve all had the dream where we’re trying to run away from the monster and we just keep falling down. Now, here I am, living the dream. I’m forced to deal with something that most of us are afraid to even look at. As an artist, this is an amazing opportunity, to travel into the abyss and bring back the treasures I find there. I feel incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to do the work I do, at this time when representation of disability is beginning to be seen as an area of great potential.
But on the other hand, as a person with a disability I feel incredibly lucky to be an artist, to have a way of dealing with these changes that is fruitful and rewarding. MS is so capricious and unpredictable that if I hadn’t already learned, through my practice, how to be comfortable moving forward from a place of not knowing, how to embrace difficult truths, and, most importantly, how to fail, I would have a much harder time of it.
In clown, we talk about fuck-ups as gifts: the prop that falls apart, the door that doesn’t stay shut, the floor that squeaks when you’re trying to be sneaky. All of these things are gifts from the gods that we must accept and incorporate into what were doing. If we ignore them, we deny the truth. If we embrace, them we are rewarded.
Last spring I was richly rewarded with the chance to play Richard III — the first time in Canada that a disabled actor had been cast in that role in a professional production. Imagine being the first female Juliet, the first black Othello. What an amazing opportunity!
Who knew? I thought disability would be the end of my work as an artist. I tried to run away from it, I tried to ignore it, I tried to deny it. But by embracing it, it has become the gift that has propelled me into a deeper, freer, more embodied practice.
Workshop of oblivion at the University of Calgary, with actors Adam Schlinker & Jacqueline Tran.
I am a gay Christian. You may have heard of us; we’re mythological creatures that live outside the comfort of the church because of our queerness, while also living outside the comfort of the LGBT community because of our bent towards a faith that has so wounded non-heteronormative people. I am also a theatre artist.
Daily, I feel the turmoil of how deep the rift is between the multiple communities I belong to. The institutional church has a bad rap and the queer community is wary of engaging with Christians in response to the harm the church has inflicted. Add to that the tendency of theatre to challenge, criticize, and dismiss organized religion as a crutch, as unscientific and grasping for control (bastion of patriarchy). How does it look to you? I am on the front lines of a culture war.
I have always hated the idea that identifying either as gay or as Christian assumed a polar opposite cultural position. Coming out was hard enough in the church, but coming out as a Christian in the queer and theatre communities is also extremely challenging. The good part about holding an identity that screams dissonance is that I get to be in on the conversation, and when I have the energy, I can add my voice to it. I add the part about energy because trying to hold a gay Christian identity also makes you vulnerable to being written off. Sometimes it feels like I don’t belong in both worlds; sometimes I feel like I can’t exist in either. I decided I needed to write myself into the present and imagine in that writing how I would give myself a future.
Writing my first play, which I called oblivion, was about getting people into my mind to witness how damaging it is to try to sterilize sexuality because of religious faith. I had spent until age twenty-six trying to be good enough for the church and God, to heal my sexual orientation through reparative therapy and other damaging beliefs. Ultimately, that failed and I left the church in 2011 to come out. The reaction from my Christian community was so damning that I not only walked away from my church, I also gave up on my faith. By the time I was ready to get my story down on paper, I was no longer calling myself a Christian.
To write oblivion I ventured to tell a slightly fictionalized story of a gay man in a loving relationship haunted by his conservative Christian past and looking for a way to be cured of his faith so he could be at peace in his life. It was based on my truth: that the church had failed to cure me of my homosexuality, but by their so-called “love” response to me coming out they had cured me of my religion. oblivion is my contribution to this ever-polarizing conversation about faith and sexuality. It theatrically illuminates the very real internal struggle between sexual identity and religious conviction and reveals the harm and mental illness experienced by someone caught in the middle.
What resulted initially was a fifty-minute workshop production during the University of Calgary’s 2013-2014 student run ND Theatre season. Audiences were compelled by the show, and the post it note board was overflowing with questions and a desire for more dialogue. When I was invited to develop the show further at Vancouver’s the frank theatre in 2015 for their Aspect of Eternity series, there was a short time allotted for feedback about the show with myself and the actors. This conversation was supposed to be short, but it lasted forty-five minutes and when it ended the audience continued to chat and share stories with each other for another hour about how they were personally affected.
Post-it note from the feedback wall of Jonathan’s first play, oblivion.
That talkback was a gift. What was meant to be an average discussion with notes for the playwright had radically transformed.
That summer, at the encouragement of my friends dramaturg-director Laurel Green and writer-activist Pam Rocker, I decided to remount oblivion with my own theatre company, Third Street Theatre, in conjunction with Hillhurst United Church for Calgary’s 2015 Pride Celebrations. We would present the script on the Hillhurst United Church altar and then invite the audience to stay for an extended time of conversation and sharing. With the addition of several new scenes, and an injection of hope in the play, something like a miracle happened in that church as we shifted to the conversation.
I would describe that evening as positively tense, intimate, challenging and healing. It felt like everyone’s walls dropped. I had shared a vulnerable part of my soul and in turn I was gifted with a room full of diverse people that didn’t all agree, sitting beside each other sharing their stories with no shortage of tears. I was emotional. I had spent a lifetime of being on multiple sides of the argument to arrive there in that room and somehow have given enough of myself that people wanted to share their hardships in thanks. It sounds reductive, but it felt like all of my pain and suffering in my journey were lifted and redeemed by that moment. It was there that I started to find my faith again. It was then that I found the show that I wanted to make. It was clear that this extended conversation wasn’t just an addition to the show, it was the second act.
With Laurel as my dramaturg and director, a talented cast of Calgary actors, and support from all at Third Street, we designed oblivion to tour. We billed it as “a staged reading in two acts”. Act one, a staged reading with professional actors on the church altar using whatever furniture (pulpits, choir benches, crosses) is in situ, and then act two, a conversation with the congregations that includes the minister/pastor of the presenting church or community. And we always include an anonymous feedback wall with the show to make sure everyone feels they can participate. We have been invited to perform in Non-denominational, Presbyterian, Anglican, and United Churches.
At first my creative team was apprehensive about what doing this type of show would be like in a church setting. There were questions about language, content, and how to respect believers and their space. There was also the concern about the second act; would there be anger, arguments, people walking out? Would there be judgement on us, or worse, more condemnation that might lead to more harm for those in the audience. After the showing for Pride in Calgary, it was clear that this show wasn’t inciting anything but compassion for the story, the team and those in real life that had experienced this type of struggle. The fears were dispelled and my team started sharing openly and vulnerably about their own stories of processing God, sexuality, coming out, and how they related to faith as a result of oblivion.
I fondly refer to the tour as evangelizing the church with theatre, but it has done much more than that. It has been a tool to deepen understanding of how the church has excluded the LGBT community. It helps congregations move towards an affirming stance on LGBT inclusion or deepens the understanding of a community that has already taken a pro-LGBT stance. The performances are always public and the LGBT community hasn’t missed a chance to be included yet. The show is versatile and has toured as part of national queer faith conferences, played during Sex Week at the University of Calgary and even to a room of anxious, closeted conservative Christian students at Ambrose University. It is moldable, it is educational, and it is a step towards reconciliation between communities.
Rehearsal of oblivion at McDougall United Church, with Laurel Green, Ayla Stephen, Brett Tanner, Heather Zacharias, and Simon Tottrup.
Over a thousand people have witnessed the show to date: atheists have gained a newfound respect for those with a deep desire for faith. Teachers have asked how we could show it in schools. Some in the queer community have let go of some of their animosity and fear towards Christians. Those who lost LGBT loved ones to suicide have found healing and peace. Allies have felt they can finally understand the complexity of the challenges their queer relatives and friends have had to endure. Even trans audience members have seen themselves in the story. It was amazing to witness Christians and queers alike acknowledging the negative roles they have played in stoking division towards each other.
Ministers have said the show is a catalyst that opens up a “sacred space” for dialogue “within which minds can be challenged and hearts touched” and that the more people that witness this, the better off we all are. For me, one of the most insightful comments about the show’s impact in bringing us together was from an anonymous post-it note that said, “Jesus would love your play and he would bring the wine to the after party!” Talk about Holy Communion! In my mind everyone in the audience is welcome at that party.
Isn’t this exactly what we need in our world? More chances to gather, share our remarkably different stories, digest and just be, together in the moment. I mean in the same room, not on the other side of a screen! Theatre does this naturally, but once the lights are up, the conversation goes internal or at best you discuss the themes with your date at a later moment. What about processing together with the strangers beside us, opening ourselves up to more than just our own opinion? That is scary. And that is exactly what we need when our go to has become the backlit media screens that connect us more to people across the ocean than our next-door neighbours.
This is the beauty of oblivion’s second act. It affords us what I believe we all need: an extra moment in time where we get to try to understand one another, to get re-acquainted with those breathing the same air. In doing so, we open up that ‘sacred space’ where we can find faith in each other. Only then do we get a glimpse of how all of our unique stories are actually wrapped up together.
As for this gay Christian theatre artist:
I will continue to use that title as a reminder that those identities are not mutually exclusive. I will keep my newfound faith and sit in the tension. I will bring oblivion to communities that desperately need to dialogue openly about this before more people are harmed. I will share my story with strangers because we are in this together and no one is immune.
We are all witnesses to each other’s lives, it’s time we stopped closing our eyes.
oblivion by Jonathan Brower continues to tour and will play in Calgary and Toronto in early Spring 2017. Visit Third Street’s website to find out more.
The election of Donald Trump is a confusing and chaotic time to be a culturally-engaged progressive Canadian. Given a dizzying array of off-the-cuff remarks about climate change, ‘Gina, nuclear weapons, Islam, women’s rights, the United Nations and reality TV ratings – it is a reasonable response to stimuli to bury one’s head in the sand. The US is a foreign country after all.
Long before Trump was elected, American politics has been our own form of reality TV. What has changed is how authoritarian tendencies have been activated in American society. All of a sudden this reality show is getting a little too real. That white culture is supreme in the US – and Canada for that matter, is a point of fact. One might even think of white culture as trump if life were game of Euchre. That this superiority complex is core to the rise of authoritarianism has been established in clear studies linking authoritarian impulses in society to racially divisive narratives. It’s simply impossible to imagine a non white-centric Trump win.
Given this, in my own artistic practice I’m trying to think hard about how not to perpetuate a narrative that empowers the same trend. As a straight white male settler Canadian, occupying positions of power, it seem incumbent upon me to be part of sorting this out, if for no other reason than I don’t want Prime Minister Kevin O’Leary to be on me. But there are other good reasons, like I’m pretty sure the Rebel Alliance are the Good Guys in Star Wars, and I’m generally passionate about social justice and this is where the struggle is headed.
At its most-basic level, I think it comes down to this:
If you create work for or in a cultural institution that doesn’t try to disrupt the narrative of white supremacy, you’re participating in creating conditions for the rise of the alt-fascists.
To be explicit about this, one does not need to identify as a racist or fascist to help create the given circumstances required for white supremacy to thrive. All one has to do is nothing.
What is required to transform our cultural institutions are sometimes uncomfortable changes to our artistic practice. So much of what we create is relationship-driven. So many of our relationships are with other similar people we have worked with before. Fighting white supremacy in Canadian culture begins with forging new relationships and working with new people. This is a risk. It doesn’t always turn out well, and so sometimes, when the alternative is so much more comfortable, it is avoided.
It also means adjusting our own internal barometers of merit. The most subjective word in the statement: “I just want the artist who is best for the part/position” is the word “best”. What does “best” mean in the context of the supremacy of a culture that empowers LePen, Farage, and Trump? It also probably means changing our own definition of leadership. Is a leader someone who has the most speaking opportunities, or is a leader someone who uses an invitation as an opportunity to find a new voice to be heard?
Production still from Disney’s Frozen Live at the Hyperion, at Disneyland Resort.
When Liesl Tommy (who recently became the first woman of colour to be nominated for a Tony Award as a director) directed the stage version of the children’s movie Frozen for Disney, she cast a black actress as Elsa. The character of Elsa has already been experienced as a white character by approximately 1 trillion children and their parents ON REPEAT. In an interview with the Associated Press she described the experience:
“Disney is very strict about its character representation, but when you walk through the park and you see all of those different little children — no matter what their race is — wearing a little princess costume, you can see it doesn’t matter to them,” she said. “And so I felt like it shouldn’t matter to us.”
Tommy goes on to describe emotional reactions to the performance from the stage crew, after Disney finally agreed on the casting, “They knew they were witnessing history, […] the intensity of their support was very powerful. I realized that people really need ways to feel like they’re on the right side of things.”
Production still from Disney’s Frozen Live at the Hyperion, directed by Liesl Tommy.
On January 15, Generator (where I will be Executive Director for one more week) is pairing with the Toronto Fringe at The Next Stage Festival to hold a Urgent Exchange discussion at Theatre Passe Muraille called “The White Guy Shuffle” centred on the game of musical chairs that has seen white males dominating artistic leadership positions in Canadian Theatre.
In the past year, seven major theatres companies have hired a new Artistic Director, in each case a white guy. In many cases the successful candidate moved from a different Artistic Director position at another major theatre. It’s hard to deny which culture is supreme in our medium currently.
I don’t begrudge any of the candidates that were hired for their jobs. It would be pretty hypocritical of me if I did, because the day after this event I begin full-time as Artistic Director of SpiderWebShow Performance. Which I think is what’s prompted me to write this. Statistically, I am also part of this culture perpetuating the conditions for oppression – but I am determined to be more than a statistic.
If nothing else, what I can do is not be overly-sensitive about being part of these conversations. If this cultural dynamic of white supremacy is key to how awful political leadership is gaining power, we have to be able to talk about it without worrying whose knickers are being tied in a knot. After all, white fragility would be a terrible excuse for why fascists took over the nation state.
Personally, I want to be part of positive change. History asks hard questions of people who are creators and artists in a time like this, and I hope I can make new friends and play a positive role. I can challenge the way I make decisions, the conversations I have, and the people I collaborate with. It will take everyone, not just equity-seeking groups, to create the given circumstances for a different culture and narrative that will make inclusive leaders Supreme.
THE WHITE GUY SHUFFLE: CHANGING HIRING PRACTICES IN CANADIAN THEATRE
Sunday Jan 15th 2:00pm-3:30pm Theatre Passe Muraille, 16 Ryerson Ave
How can we influence boards and hiring committees to change homogenous hiring practices? Come participate in a community conversation that will examine the mechanics of how these decisions are made and strategize how the community can be of influence.
With these words, quoting Carrie Fisher, Golden Globe lifetime achievement winner Meryl Streep closed her much tweeted acceptance speech – a speech that criticized Donald Trump (provoking retaliatory tweets that surprised no one) and calling on artists and the press to stand vigilant against his pending alt-right (read: white supremacist), regressive presidency.
These are the times we live in, when entertainers are more educated about domestic and foreign policy than the president elect.
Yeesh.
The end of 2016 couldn’t come fast enough. The mood was grim. We were sad, we were angry, we were beat. Gathering with friends, trying to pick out the year’s accomplishments was akin to trying to salvage a shoebox of receipts from a dumpster fire – “‘look, this one isn’t so burnt! I can still write it off!”. When the clock struck midnight we cheered and drank and blew noisemakers defiantly into the darkness to keep it at bay.
So, what do we do now, 2017?
The good news is Solstice is past. And while most of the country has many months of polar vortex to survive, like the promise of the days getting longer, we hope this edition of CdnTimes is something to look forward to.
In this edition, we hear from writers who identify their own personal and particular darknesses and how they are working to move through that space. What keeps them going?
The first article is from newly minted SpiderWebShow Performance Artistic Director, Michael Wheeler, who writes of the responsibility we all share to transform our cultural institutions into more equitable places.
Our second article is from Jonathan Brower (a Calgarian now living in St. Catherines), who shares his perspective as a gay Christian theatre artist smack dab in the middle of a culture war.
We don’t claim to be marooned in the darkest of times, but there are signs that we could be awfully close. So best to gather together, and keep tending the light of hope and change.
Laurel Green and Adrienne Wong
Co-Editors, CdnTimes
I am a gay Christian. You may have heard of us; we’re mythological creatures that live outside the comfort of the church because of our queerness, while also living outside the comfort of the LGBT community because of our bent towards a faith that has so wounded non-heteronormative people. I am also a theatre artist.
The election of Donald Trump is a confusing and chaotic time to be a culturally-engaged progressive Canadian. Given a dizzying array of off-the-cuff remarks...
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my tenth thought. So my seat mate – the drone-maker, who also referred to Chile as the free-est country in the world – because there are no regulations for business people. He’s talking to me about the grey area and wanting to know more about it. I’m really interested in his job – where it’s al black and white according to him. And what’s fascinating to me about him is he is afraid of violence – and he tells me this.
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my ninth thought. So my seat mate who makes drones for the US Government, he talked about how one of the most incredible experiences he ever had was when he sat in front of a painting for a full hour at an art gallery and tried to decipher what it was telling him. He understood this whole thing about the grey area he wanted to know more about it – how one goes about looking for the grey area.
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my eighth thought. So, there I was talking to my seat mate and he was telling me that what he loves about his job of making drones for the US government is that it’s black and white, that all he has to do is manufacture these drones and get the bad guys in the middle east. And I told him that my line of work is almost the opposite: it is all about working in the gray area and looking for the complexity of the human experience.
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my seventh thought. So, speaking of labour versus the art world…I was on a plane yesterday, here in the United States, where I am for a week, and my seat mate was a man who had voted for Trump, and is on the Christian right and whose job it is to manufacture drones for the US government. We had a long talk, a very pleasant talk and he showed a lot of interest in the world of art in the world of ideas
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my sixth thought. So, I am wondering how to bring that sense of camaraderie that I experienced in the labour world, of being a waitress, or working the assembly line at the factory, which I did, into the world of being creative, into the world of ideas where I spend most of my day staring at a computer screen, wracking my brains and exhausting myself and depleting myself and not having the energy of other people who are all working on the same thing to bring us forward
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my fifth thought. So, there I am with my pal at the cafe and he is telling me about how he left the theatre world because he was so tired of the solitude around being an artist and I remember when I was an actress for 4 years in my early twenties and the camaraderie around being a waitress and being around people all day, and how much I miss that, and how can I possibly bring that feeling into my life of creation?
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my fourth thought. So there I am talking to my neighbourhood pal who used to be a theatre artist and is now a bartender and he’s saying how is misses living in the world of ideas, and I am thinking about how attractive the world of labour seems to me in that moment, and he tells me that one of the reasons he left the theatre was because he was so tired of the solitude, that just couldn’t deal with the solitude of being an artist anymore, and I think about that.
Hi my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my third thought. So, I am talking to my neighbourhood acquaintance and he is talking about how he left theatre school and is now a bartender and that he misses living in the world of ideas, and this gets me to thinking…what it is like to live in the world of labour, the world where you just physically labour…. as opposed to spending the whole day trying to come up with ideas, which can be exhausting on its own.
Hi, my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my second thought. I was talking about exhaustion when you are trying to be creative and make a living as an artist. The other day I was at my local café working on the second draft of new play Anywhere But Here and I bumped into old neighbourhood acquaintance who had done a couple of terms at theatre school and is now a bartender, and we talked about living in the world of ideas.
Hi, my name is Carmen Aguirre and this is my first thought. I’m thinking a lot about exhaustion, depletion, complete fatigue when it comes to artistic creation…And what one can possibly do about it when one makes a living as an artist and is expected to keep creating and keep creating output? That is my thought for today.
Detail from poster art of Sound of the Beast by Donna-Michelle St. Bernard.
If a chunk of this continent breaks off and sinks, and the survivors seek refuge in Atlantis, it would be understood that the statement “Humans Need Air” addresses itself to the knowledge, awareness, and consequent actions of Atlanteans. Because, of course, we humans already know that we need air. Just as we know that our survival depends on persuading the Atlanteans to facilitate our access to air.
Here’s something you already know, but is nonetheless worth consideration:
If you are not Black, then Black Lives Matter is way more about you than it is about me.
Because I already knew that.
Contributors to this issue CdnTimes:BLACK LIVES MATTER have been asked to consider how – or even if – the changing lens of our broader culture affects their artistic practice. Given the geographic, cultural, and aesthetic diversity of writers, the consistency of the concern over the threat of law enforcement is significant – and something that uninitiated Canadians may dismiss as reflective of a US reality.
As Canadians, our Black liberation movements have been optically subsumed to better disseminated US equivalents. This is unsurprising in a culture of courtesy that has spent a decade feigning shamed surprise at residential schools ‘revelations’.
Nonetheless, with the amplification of the experiences of people of colour in Canada, something is shifting – whether it is circumstances, awareness or merely vocabulary is not entirely clear. The Black Lives Matter conversation is variously centred on:
whether we can agree that Black Lives Matter
whether it is necessary to say that Black Lives Matter
whether there is meaning in the reluctance to say Black Lives Matter
whether anything is changed by saying Black Lives Matter
We who work in the ‘saying’ professions must believe that there is value in the act of saying, and risk. We must know that there is meaning in the act of remaining silent, and intent.
Repetition makes reality.
Repetition makes reality.
Repetition makes reality.
Donna-Michelle St. Bernard in Sound of the Beast workshop at Theatre Passe Muraille, November 2016. Photo by Graham Isador (@presgang).
The historically oppressed social standing of diasporic Africans has gone from an assumptive backdrop underlying Black stories to an opaque overlay, occluding the diversity of experiences and impulses Black artists feel compelled to relate.
While these superimpositions apply to the way work is received by audiences and critics, they are not accidental. Rather, they are actively employed by directors in the construction of performances. Consider how long the symbolic resonance of Black bodies onstage has been exploited to indicate low status; consider how recently we have seen the meaning of Black bodies evolve into something symbolic of discomfort, complication, confrontation; and how in our time we are watching Black bodies used increasingly as a signifier of resistance.
The general population is being rapidly equipped with progressive vocabularies, and the words change meaning as they occupy new mouths (remember when “fo’ shizzle” wasn’t a white parody of Blackness?). Concurrently, the deeper discourse has evolved to be rife with dog whistle rhetoric and hair trigger analysis, compelling creators of colour to organically respond by asserting our own definitions. There is resistance, reclamation, and a little mud-in-yer-eye from works that exercise their entitlement to self-referential freedom (notably, saga collectif’sBlack Boys, Darren Anthony’s Secrets of a Black Boy and Shakespeare’s Nigga by Joseph Jomo Pierre). There would be equal honour in a Black artist sticking with the development of a seemingly apolitical musical about her doll collection, despite the newly politicized lens turned on her in this moment – thus affirming our rights as individuals to have varied experiences of Blackness which are not necessarily aligned.
Our onstage and onscreen representations are particularly critical in light of the number of people for whom representation replaces engagement.
For audiences who watch us without wanting to know us.
Collaborators who stage our bodies but not our communities.
Producers who include us in photos and final reports, but not in decision-making.
The narrative is being rewritten daily by our every errant choice. This is what makes us all a part of this movement whether we choose to engage in it actively, to impact it implicitly, or to leave our silence open to interpretation.
The devaluing of Black lives by Western ‘civilization’ has been so systemic, symbolic, and successful, that it is only when we can say, uncontested, that BLACK LIVES MATTER that we will know that we live in a culture where all lives matter.
“The Lamentable Tragedy of Sal Capone” (left to right): (Left to Right) Billy Merasty, Letitia Brooks, Kim Villagante, Tristan D Lalla, and Jordan Waunch.
Here’s a land that never gave a damn about a brotha like me, because it never did —Carlton Douglas Ridenhour aka “Chuck D”
Great American poet & political dissident
Black Lives have mattered to me long before it was trendy.
My parents, proud products of the 1960’s civil rights era black empowerment movement, shaped my young mind covertly by exposing me to art with messages of self-determination and political dissent. Our home library was filled with books by revolutionary black artists/thinkers: James Baldwin, Alex Haley, bell hooks.
As I got a bit older, I was weaned on a steady diet of radically left-leaning agitprop with dope beats known as hip-hop music. I immersed myself in hip-hop culture at a time when afrocentricity and knowledge of self were corner stones of the movement. Legendary rap super group Public Enemy was my gateway into the teachings of revolutionaries such as Malcolm X, and the movies of trailblazing director Spike Lee. My first experience with live theatre was the subtle yet politically subversive Dreamgirls. The confluence of art & politics has always been intertwined for me.
Fittingly, my first professional roles in the theatre merged the political with the artistic. I started out working for Montreal’s Black Theatre Workshop, a company whose very existence is a political statement in line with my parents’ early teachings. I was empowered there by embodying complex and challenging characters in great political works by master playwrights such as South Africa’s Athol Fugard, Canada’s Andrew Moodie and the UK’s Joe Penhall – great artists who consciously pushed themselves to use theatre as a tool to bring social awareness to the masses on a visceral level.
By my mid-twenties I understood what great American writer Toni Morrison meant by the saying “all good art is political.” In fact, I didn’t even qualify the statement with the adjective “good.” To me, the making of art, particularly for marginalized people, is inherently political.
Even at an early age, I was acutely aware of the complexities associated with being young, black, and male. I was gifted with effortless “street cred” by classmates while in school. I was also considered dumb by a select but not insignificant number of teachers and other authority figures, regardless of consistently strong academic performances. A far more insidious downside was the assumption of criminality or threat by some others. The tension caused by growing up in this contradictory state of being both revered and reviled sparked an unquenchable desire to thoroughly explore all sides of the complex issues surrounding matters of race and ethnicity.
In 2008, when I first learned about the shooting of unarmed, 18-year-old Fredy Villanueva at the hands of Montreal police, I was despondent. As I finally began to emerge from a state of existential despair, my first instinct was to channel my emotions into art: a slam poetry piece that gave voice to the rage I felt towards law enforcement for taking the life of a young person of colour. My friend and mentor Diane Roberts, former Artistic Director of urban ink productions, suggested I expand and explore all of my feelings and write them into a full length piece. This series of events were the catalysts to my transition from stage actor interpreting characters in other writer’s worlds, to playwright, sculpting my own unique impressions of the society in which I live. The result was the completion of my first play, The Lamentable Tragedy of Sal Capone, a hip-hop theatre piece that centres around the fictional story of a police officer who fatally shoots a young black man, and the fallout that followed.
Poster from “The Lamentable Tragedy of Sal Capone”, presented by urban ink productions in association with Black Theatre Workshop.
After a rigorous 5-year development process, my greatest fear was that the story would no longer be relevant by the time it opened to the public. I couldn’t have known that a pandemic of young black men dying at the hands of police would spawn the #BlackLivesMatter movement a few years later in 2012. My play, that started as a personal response to a tragedy that hit close to home, evolved into a battle cry, calling for justice and accountability for the countless black men and women killed by law enforcement under questionable circumstances.
I was pleased to quickly learn that the play resonated with its’ diverse audiences in every city it played in, from the Yukon to Vancouver and Montreal. The show consistently pulled in crowds from demographics that aren’t traditionally drawn to live theatre: young people, visible minorities, and people heavily influenced by hip-hop culture. While sitting in the audience, it’s fascinating to watch young people nod their heads to sound designer Troy Slocum’s soundscape of dope Hip Hop beats. It’s been satisfying to see both young and old audience members laugh at the political humour. (The play debuted near the tail end of Stephen Harper’s long reign as PM. His leadership style, which was often oppressive towards minorities, immigrants, progressives and young people was not spared any criticism in the piece.) It was equally fascinating learning of some members of Black Theatre Workshop’s long-time subscriber base leaving weekend matinees disgusted by the “vulgar” language and acceptance of “the LGBTQ lifestyle” expressed in the piece.
I’m proud to have made a small contribution to the legacy of artistic expression as a tool for social change. This concept had an immeasurable impact on my worldview and personal politics from a young age and my hope is that the work can play a part in empowering the up and coming generation to share their voice.
Photo by Jessica Hallenbeck.
As a professional Canadian theatre artist, I strive to create work that speaks truth to power. In these early post-Harper, pre-Trump days – where we see our supposedly progressive leaders once again prioritizing “The Economy” over environmental concerns, social justice and the health and safety of some of our most vulnerable citizens – exploring effective forms of resistance is crucial. A play that began as a personal protest has morphed into a broader exploration of the existing systemic conditions that create a growing divide between the so called “Right” and “Left.”
It has been my experience that an individual’s heart and mind can be reached in the collective solitude of a dark theatre. There’s a quiet peace that can be achieved when we listen, laugh and learn amongst a diverse crowd that temporarily penetrates the barriers that keep us separated. My humble aim is to create work that constantly strives to achieve this goal and inspires the next generation, particularly people of colour to add their voices to the conversation as well.
If all art is political, it’s essential that a diversity of voices take part in the process.
In this bonus episode, we interview the award-winning playwright behind Vitals, Rosamund Small. Rosamund speaks about her process as a writer, the genesis of her play, and why she likes to work in immersive theatre.
Vitals was produced by Outside the March in 2014. It garnered two Dora Mavor Moore Awards for Outstanding Production and Outstanding New Play and was recently published by Scirocco Drama. Rosamund loves to write for all forms of theatre. She also works in multi-disciplinary/dance storytelling with choreographer Robert Binet; they have collaborated on pieces for the Banff Centre, the site-specific international company Wild Space in Suffolk, UK, and the National Ballet of Canada.Rosamund is a current member of the Soulpepper Academy, and Playwright in Residence with Outside the March.
Rosamund’s new show with Outside the March, TomorrowLove™ is a large-scale immersive experience about the future of love, sex, and technology. It opens November 2016 in Toronto.
Now for the conclusion of Vitals, a solo storytelling show about a paramedic. Anna spends her days saving lives and dealing with the darkness, cruelty, and sheer incompetence of the people all around her. How many 911 calls can she deal with, before she has her own emergency?
Vitals is written by Rosamund Small, and performed by Katherine Cullin.
In this bonus episode, we interview the award-winning playwright behind Vitals, Rosamund Small. Rosamund speaks about her process as a writer, the genesis of her play, and why she likes to work in immersive theatre.
