Creating art and self from the intersections

With the $1 Play Project underway (and if you have 60 seconds and $1.00, you really should give what you can), and way too much to do in not enough time, I want to take a moment (read: procrastinate) and talk about what it's like and what it means to create art from a perspective of intersectionality.

Before buzzwords like “intersectionality” came along, a lot of people assumed that womanhood was White, Blackness was male, and both were straight. When Black feminists and womanists proclaimed that All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men, But Some Of Us Are Brave, they created a new paradigm for examining race, gender, and sexuality that centered on the lives of Black women.

When I started writing Tulpa, or Anne&Me in late 2009, I had no idea I'd be doing the same thing for theatre. As much as I like to fantasize otherwise, I'm not really all that brave. I hate pain (receiving or inflicting it), and I am more easily hurt than I often let on. I'm much more prone to shyness, anxiety, depression, and exhaustion than my online persona indicates. My outspokenness about racism, sexism, and homophobia says more about their magnitude and the peril they pose to human beings than about any particular courage or wisdom on my part.

So when I set out to put down on paper some of the many thoughts and feelings I have when I try to relate to White women about race and gender (all from the perspective of a woman who loves women), it wasn't because I was intentionally trying to provoke people. It initially started out on my LiveJournal on something of a lark that channeled my infatuation with Anne Hathaway into something more meaningful. Since the discussions about race I was having with real White women were often so lacking, why not make up the conversations I wanted to have?

As Black women, we are constantly being asked to hide away or tear off chunks of who we are to make us safer for consumption. When we are with women, we're supposed to magically forget we are Black. When we are Black, we're supposed to ignore our womanhood. And we'd better keep that queer shit deep in the closet if we know what's good for us. Yet in Tulpa, all three of these identities are necessary to fully understanding the characters and the story.

Tulpa, or Anne&Me is not Intro to Intersectionality. The dialogue is pretty exclusively about race. But it's a queer woman's experience of race and how it impacts her most personal moments. The play focuses on an intimate relationship. But it's a relationship between women trying to maintain that intimacy in the face of racism and what that means for both of them.

“Your silence will not protect you,” Audre Lorde once said. Even prior to reading Sister Outsider, I may have sensed that this was true. As much as I hate being the center of attention or the object of scrutiny, the alternative – my silence – was even worse. My silence would mean allowing someone other than myself to define what my life means or what it should mean. My silence would mean becoming a shadow not only of myself but to myself. My silence would mean accepting my own dehumanization.

Despite the fact that I live as a queer Black woman in my queer Black woman body, as an artist I often wrestle with a sense that my life as I live it diminishes my art because it's somehow not as universal. But creating Tulpa, or Anne&Me cured me of that.

My art does not happen despite my queer Black woman self but directly because of it.

My queer Black woman self is not an obstacle to my humanity – it's the key to truly acknowledging and understanding it.

"Tulpa" needs a set designer!

VISIONARY SET DESIGNER NEEDED for TULPA, OR ANNE&ME
Written by Shawn C. Harris, directed by Aaron D. Pratt

Last year, TULPA, OR ANNE&ME made its debut at the Planet Connections Theatre Festivity. This year,TULPA, OR ANNE&ME is headed to the Fresh Fruit Festival, with a bold vision and fresh ideas.

Part whimsical fantasy, part realist drama, part gothic horror, TULPA, OR ANNE&ME tells the story of a withdrawn artist whose life gets turned upside down when Anne Hathaway crawls out of her television. With the help of her powerful imagination and two outspoken Guardian Angels of Blackness, she and Anne struggle to find a way to connect with one another. What unfolds is an intimate portrait of a relationship that asks us how race impacts what two people can truly be to one another.

We need a visionary SET DESIGNER who can:

• put their creative stamp on the production 
• turn a bare stage into a vivid, evocative mindscape 
• do amazing work on a shoestring budget 
• make a mobile set that can be put up or broken down quickly (15 minutes tops) 
• be reliable and easy to work with (no flakes! no divas!) 
• commit to working on the project from now until July 

This production of TULPA, OR ANNE&ME will not be yet another living room drama. If you really want to get creative and show off what you can do, this is the project for you.

Although education and experience are helpful, what matters most is your passion, vision, and commitment. A passion for comics (mainstream and indie), anime, manga, and graphic novels would be an amazing bonus.

Because of the play's subject matter and my personal interest in giving opportunities to underrepresented artists, women, people of color, and LGBTQ people are strongly encouraged to apply.

I am hoping to make my final selection by April 1. Please send all inquiries and supporting materials (samples REALLY help) to: Shawn C. Harris at whoisyourtulpa[at]gmail[dot]com.

For whom does the Black artist make art?

This has been brewing for a while after watching this video and the responses to it. What's been disheartening about all this is what this reveals about the position of the Black artist. It seems that we can't win for losing. Everybody, it seems, wants a piece of what we create. Everyone, it seems, believes we should create for purposes other than our own. Everyone, it seems, has something to say about what we create. Ironically, these clamoring voices push us from the center of our own process, a process that requires us to be centered and in touch with our own voices.

Granted, many Black artists have decided that it's a sucker's game to pay too much attention to that. I'm one of them. But it still bothers me when I come across this attitude that because I am a Black artist, that I need to represent myself a certain way, represent my people a certain way, or represent my experience a certain way if I want my work to be seen as authentic, valuable, or meaningful. In effect, what is valued about an artist who is Black is not authentic self-expression or the capacity to imagine and create new things, but to put what is created to a specific purpose. It is the mindset that says that the reason why we should learn about Black history, Black culture, Black literature, Black art, Black music, and so on is not because Black people are human beings who have history and culture and create literature and art and music, but because the history, culture, art, and music of Black people are useful to others.

So, as much as I dislike what Tyler Perry does, I can understand him saying that Spike Lee needs to go to hell. As much as I don't like how The Help tells a story about Black women, I can understand why Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer pushed back against Tavis Smiley trying to hold them to a standard that no White artist is asked to uphold.

Don't get it twisted. If you thought I was only talking about Black folks doing this, I wasn't. White folks do it too. I have a post in me somewhere about the 5 types of stories Black folks are allowed to bring to mainstream audiences, but that's for another time.

Are you getting what I'm saying here?

Gestating the writing process

The piece I'm gestating now has taught me that I don't write plays so much as give birth to them. And it frustrates me to no end. I am creatively bloated and sluggish, laden down with the play that's growing inside me, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it besides feed it and wait. I have nearly no say in what comes out, no input as to when it will happen. I only feel the stirrings in the murky darkness of the metaphorical womb. It frightens me a bit.

It's eerie just how embodied my process is, how closely it parallels the cycles of my body. Most of the stuff I write, fertilized as it is, never takes root and gets ejected from my system like so much menstrual blood. The plays that take hold, the ones that eventually become my children made of words, often have difficult births. There is always pain because I am pushing out a truth I am not big enough to express, threatening to split me in two. With every piece, there is the fear that this is the one that will finally kill me. Yet once I'm in labor, I cannot desist. It must come out, even if I die afterwards.

And when it's over, I hold my baby of paper and pixels. Did I do this? Did this come from me? It can't be. It's wrinkly and slimy and more precious than anything in the world. I clean it off, make it look somewhat more human. I let it feed off my dreams and memories. I watch it grow.

Tulpa, or Anne&Me is a lively toddler now, having taken its first steps last year and progressed to running around. I am amazed by it even as I fear for its future, for the world I brought it into.

Pregnant again, I am waiting for the new piece to take shape, to tell me its name. I had my own ideas, but the play inside me rejected them. I remind myself to let go of trying to control it. Just feed it and wait. I am always hungry, and my cravings are strange.

I envy those with the gift of clarity. What is it like to create something as an act of will? What is it like to choose what comes out of you? To have a say in what and when and how? What is it like?

Know a director? "Tulpa" needs one!

I wrote a play called TULPA, OR ANNE&ME that debuted at the Planet Connections Theatre Festivity in June 2011. I would like to do it again for 2012, and I'm putting together the team I want to work with.

Part whimsical fantasy, part social commentary, part gothic horror, TULPA, OR ANNE&ME tells the story of a withdrawn artist whose life gets turned upside down when Anne Hathaway crawls out of her television. With the help of her powerful imagination and two outspoken Guardian Angels of Blackness, she and Anne struggle to find a way to connect to one another. What unfolds is an intimate portrait of a relationship that asks us how race impacts what two people can truly be to each other.

This play needs a DIRECTOR who can . . .

• apply anti-racist principles and practices to all aspects of production
• create an amazing theatrical experience with limited tech and budget
• respect the playwright's voice and vision
• collaborate with the playwright to select cast and crew
• schedule and attend all rehearsals
• maintain a healthy working environment 

Although education and experience are definitely helpful, what matters most is your passion, vision, and commitment - and, of course, how easy you are to work with.

When looking over candidates, what I am trying to figure out is: What makes this person particularly qualified to assume a leadership role in a theatre project where the experience of being a gay African American woman is a big part of its meaning?

Because of the play's subject matter and my personal interest in giving opportunities to underrepresented theatre artists, LGBTQ people of color are strongly encouraged to reach out.

I am seeking to make my final selection by February 1. Please send all inquiries and supporting materials (if any) to: Shawn C. Harris (writer and producer) at whoisyourtulpa[at]gmail[dot]com.

For more information about the journey of TULPA, OR ANNE&ME, see http://indiegogo.com/tulpa2012.