Rowe Entertainment, Inc. vs. The William Morris Agency, Inc.
The sad news is that I discovered something similar with someone else I was working on a play with.
A blog by a playwright who wrote a play about a famous actress coming out of a TV, with a few thoughts on diversity, social justice, and indie theatre.
June 18, 2012
June 5, 2012
How do we create a more accountable indie theatre community?
I recently went to a Community Dish meeting that focused on the role of playwrights in indie theatre then read a very touching Facebook post by Daniel Talbott (of Rising Phoenix Rep). Both of these experiences hit on something that we often hint at but never address directly: accountability in the indie theatre community.
I've said it before, but I consider making theatre to be a form of community organizing. In community organizing, one of the main principles is accountability. How do we hold ourselves accountable to the people who give us so much? How do we make sure that we are truly a force for good in our communities? How does our work arise from the needs and aspirations of our communities instead of being imposed upon them? How does creating theatre reflect the mutual interdependence between artist and community? How can we frame accountability in the indie theatre community in a way that expands our capacity to think bigger and do better?
I believe we have to begin by thinking beyond individual productions, seasons, and companies. When I visit the websites for indie theatre companies and projects, I learn a lot about art and artists, but I rarely see anything mentioning the community. It's hard to be accountable to the community when you don't talk about the community. And for an art form like theatre, which is so dependent upon the communities we live and work and play in, this is a glaring omission. How can we hold ourselves accountable to a community when we do not define what that community is?
So, talk to me: Who is your community? What binds you together?
I've said it before, but I consider making theatre to be a form of community organizing. In community organizing, one of the main principles is accountability. How do we hold ourselves accountable to the people who give us so much? How do we make sure that we are truly a force for good in our communities? How does our work arise from the needs and aspirations of our communities instead of being imposed upon them? How does creating theatre reflect the mutual interdependence between artist and community? How can we frame accountability in the indie theatre community in a way that expands our capacity to think bigger and do better?
I believe we have to begin by thinking beyond individual productions, seasons, and companies. When I visit the websites for indie theatre companies and projects, I learn a lot about art and artists, but I rarely see anything mentioning the community. It's hard to be accountable to the community when you don't talk about the community. And for an art form like theatre, which is so dependent upon the communities we live and work and play in, this is a glaring omission. How can we hold ourselves accountable to a community when we do not define what that community is?
So, talk to me: Who is your community? What binds you together?
April 16, 2012
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.
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.
March 16, 2012
"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:
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.
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.
March 9, 2012
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?
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?
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