Saturday, June 29, 2019

Welcome to incoming Choreographer-in-Residence Paola Escobar!

Choreographer Paola Escobar begins her work onsite July 9, 2019 and continues developing a new site specific dance work through public performances October 4-6, 2019 (save the dates!)

The as-yet untitled project utilizes elements of flamenco, salsa and African dance to explore displacement and nomadism within contemporary society. You may see her at the Beach House testing ideas and movement or creating garment/sculpture explorations in preparation for her public performances later this fall. Please feel free to ask questions or say hello, or participate in a popup movement session as they occur.

Paola Escobar is a Colombian artist who creates transcultural work that combines her Latin-American background with her interest in the traditional and social dances, and contemporary art. Escobar's work reflects on memory and cultural identity, and engages with current issues of immigration, hierarchies of power, and cultural perception. Her work organically crosses formal boundaries that traditionally separate disciplines and styles, presenting a holistic perspective of the body that is able to move, speak, and produce sound. More at borderlinemovement.com.

Sunday, March 3, 2019

[INSERT PIC OF SPACE /BLACK WATER/ CHOCOLATE BAYOU]

Has there been any updates of safe return?



[INSERT PIC OF SPACE /BLACK WATER/ CHOCOLATE BAYOU]


SEPTEMBER 2016

On a flight to Houston Labor Day weekend, lady in front of me is talking about a flight she had recently that had her cross paths with another woman that she had a restraining order against. They were seated almost next to each other, she's saying so it made for an awkward experience.

My girl dropped me off at the airport with our son. She was gonna circle back around, use that airport return lane to pick up her Mom. Her mom is taking my place at the end of our summer vacation. We rented an Air BnB and were planning on going to a wedding, hit up Legoland. Me and my girl were planning on reconnecting more on the way. 2016 has been rough so far. She lost her dad at the beginning of the year, and it sent us into a tailspin that we just barely pulled out of. We are far from perfect but we love each other and she is my partner through much.

I am going down to Chocolate Bayou to try and find my best friend who's gone missing. He wondered off four days ago into the swamp with his dog and only the dog came back. He had no shoes, no shirt, no wallet. He is everything to me. He is my other half.

Screenshot Pic.

a|o\D

Here is a dream that I had weeks ago. You were in it, and it seemed like part of you was present so in the chance that you were there -- I wanted to let you know that I was there too. We are walking, you and I. Hands together on these streets that move up and down in the center. Not drastically so, more like they raise a bit and then fall.

The concrete is cracked because it’s gone on for so many years. You comment on that — the age, the history, the way the concrete is mashed up like it was hastily mixed together. Large river stones reveal themselves, veins of white, speckled bodies stare back at us like children from behind a dress.



My son and I are going to Mars is the promise, to crest the earth together, hands held.


I spent a lot of time going to airports as a child. My father decided to not make the last leg of our immigration to Texas. He hated the U.S.A.


I remember him trying to make a go of it, of trying to assimilate but then him quietly telling us over and over that, if anyone asked of us anything,


‘They were to kiss your black ass.’


Much of my life is centered around the goal of entering space with Redd.


When I run, I imagine I’m an astronaut training.


When I’m tired, I tell myself it will take great strength to make the journey.


I want stamina. I don’t want to appear to be scared.


But I know I will be.


I will cry deep tears. My chest will shake because I’ll have imagined the moment so many times,


Redd will be grown, more beautiful.


Thursday, February 21, 2019

“We are all meat, striving to be human.” — Neha Choksi, 2015

“We are all meat, striving to be human.” — Neha Choksi, 2015


There was a moment when Neha Choksi was going over her work this past week that I felt a deep well of emotion spout up. She was explaining her installation, Everything Sunbright, the layers, time, years that she’d put into it. How it had formed/come together/gestated&arrived on its own terms. It’s body intact, imbued with every hand and voice that had created it.

I h3ld my ch3st.


country country negril jamaica where i spread my father.

Cold
by
translated by Vanessa Falco and Kim Sunghyun

It was like I was inside the black-and-white photo of you looking back.
We stared at each other from different worlds.
It was always cold inside this photo of you.
Trees stood all along the river, coughing and coughing.
Whenever I opened my eyes, I was climbing a snowy mountain.
I would barely turn a corner and find fields of pure-white snow,
and an infinity of precipices jutting out beneath sharp cliffs.
There was an evening when I looked into your eyes, wide like a frozen sky.
In the village, a rumor spread about a ghost who would return to spread a fever,
so smokestacks shook their bodies helter-skelter over every chimney.
I drove you out completely. Now none of you lives inside me.
An avalanche shook inside my chest for over an hour.
When the trees coughed and snow fell off their bodies,
icicles shot up violent in the empty valley.
I sat down on a frozen bench
with my lips trembling and the wind across my face.

I wanted to get out of this place – this photo of you looking back.

Monday, February 4, 2019

“I’m the one who saved you from the ferocious butterflies.”

02/03/19

“I’m the one who saved you from the ferocious butterflies.”

#
#
#
#



INT. LOS ANGELES CAFE - LATE AFTERNOON

TORRENTIAL RAIN. WASHINGTON BOULEVARD.

The rain sounds like chains at the window of the small sparsely furnished cafe in the mid-city of Los Angeles. Everything is wood save for the glass coffee decanters and large gleaming espresso machine that sits like a jetliner on the counter. Altogether the decor is another version of Scandinavia - Haute Ikea'd Los Angeles once again.

MAN - EARLY 40'S, MIXED-RACE - enters, shakes off the rain from his jacket, sees WOMAN - EARLY 40'S, GERMAN - seated at the window on a low wooden bench, already sipping her coffee.

Man goes to the counter to order. The BARISTA, young tattooed woman, steps over.

MAN
Do you have teas here?


BARISTA
Just the three: a black, earl-grey, and a floral.


MAN
Which one isn't too strong?


BARISTA
I really enjoy the floral, I think you will.

The Man nods his head, goes to the Woman at the window, takes a seat.


MAN
How are you?


WOMAN
Tired.


MAN
Me as well - How is work?




WOMAN
Good - Our submission won a prize for a park in Latvia. Everyone is excited.


MAN
Congratulations.


WOMAN
We don't know if they'll build it, but it will be something if they do.


A beat. A short, silent conversation about: their bodies, how they feel heavy, radio waves around them like ocean currents, their hands, sex, both wanting to be held.

MAN
It will be okay...After. It will.


WOMAN
I just want it to be over. Right now, all I think about is being away from the girls, not seeing them every day. I am a viking, you know. I'm not afraid.

The tea arrives.

CLOSE ON: Glass Jar, tea leaves swirling, a tornado.


On Union.

I went to the theater last night with a friend who is about to go through a divorce. We were late. The show was sold out. So we walked through downtown, peaked our heads through fences, talked about the specific magic of theatre lobbies, how the carpet is always deep, lush, holds your feet through your boots.

I’m sad and excited for her. Divorce is something. The change is everything.

It dwarfs you, swallows you up, but after -- when the veil is lifted -- it is gone. Forever. You see it all.

Two days before, I met a tall architect who was about to go through a divorce as well. She was asking her mother to move from Germany to help her with her two children. It was a Friday, late in the day. Rain all over Los Angeles. The PCH was shut down above Malibu. The 101 stacked.

Her coffee was so thick with cream, it appeared like chocolate, and as she spoke, vented, opened her heart to me, the rain outside increased, really came at the windows, and I watched the chocolate congeal, come together as she asked me to be honest with her always, to stake our friendship on it.

‘I’m a viking,’ she said. ‘I need this. I’ll take it.’

We would make love twice a month, she said. Until everything was over.

^^^
On Sunday, I thought of Pale in Burn This, the play by Lanford Wilson. I thought of those scenes. What they would mean today — Rabe, Mamet, Wilson all addicted to ‘fuck’. Language as violence. Language as body. Language as the patriarchy telling you their language is important, that the ennui of broken white men is of note, stageworthy, what counts.

The late, great Philip Chapman put me in a full nelson when I was playing Pale. During the scene, he had the lights turned off in the studio — a blackout, then him around me, spitting, whispering, screaming into my ear --

“Get to that woman. Don’t you love her? Love Her.”

At the bar with my friend, I spoke to her about how much I want to disconnect masculinity from the patriarchy for my son. How I want to redefine his connection with his body, how I want him to celebrate his growing arms, his growing legs, his whole body. I want him to run fast without a care in the world, for him to jump through waves, dance like it's his last day on earth.



--WR

Sunday, January 27, 2019

DRAFT 2 01.27.19  6:34 AM — Redd just woke up. Warm embrace. Oven on for breakfast. He’s to the couch.


Considering Love[a|o|d] Where I Seek Equity In My Life

[subtitled: You Can’t Have it All]


Invocation.





[From The Taken Down God By Jorie Graham]

On mistaken identity.  

subtitled: {The Other Other. No, I do not know where they keep [ ______ ]}


At some point, I should make a tally.  Two columns.


Attire.
Professions White Women Commonly Mistake Me As:
COLORED  T-SHIRT/LOGO[NON-LOGO], JEANS
TRADER JOE’S EMPLOYEE
LIGHT COLORED COLLARED SHIRT [SHORT SLEEVE/LONG SLEEVE]
WAITER, BUSBOY
WHATEVER I’M WEARING/IN MY HONDA
RIDESHARE DRIVER [THEY WAVE ME DOWN]
*TANK TOP
CRIMINAL/HENCHMAN/RARELY LEADER


Still(Always) unpacking this. It’s been like this or a version of this my whole life. It’s a very subjective experience, and I don’t think it’s often discussed between us of color. Let’s compare notes. What does whiteness see when it sees you? What class? What story do they throw on you like a stained jacket/trashed poncho/unwanted uniform?


*Regarding this last one. In the interest of transparency, I’ve made good money on this assumption. They pay me well to objectify me fully. Often [compared to my white male counterparts], I am considered less an actor, closer to the scenery - pepper to their salt, yes? The secondary characters I portray are poorly drawn, with forgettable names and no history. They are/I am an extension/archetype of prejudice. [TRANSLATE: He is of color, with tattoos, and speaks with mild ghetto-affected accent. He is a snitch, he is a gunman, he can die.[CO-STAR/GUESS STAR 17 lines]

In Closing:



--W.R.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Welcome to Writer-in-Residence Wally Rudolph!

Born in Canada to Chinese-Jamaican immigrant parents and raised in Texas, Wally Rudolph settled in Los Angeles after a peripatetic youth. He is a multidisciplinary artist and diversity advocate whose debut novel, Four Corners (Counterpoint/Soft Skull, 2014garnered praise for its unflinching prose and drew comparisons to the hard-edged but compassionate work of Denis Johnson among othersHis second novel MIGHTY, MIGHTY was published to critical praise in 2015.  

During his tenure at the Beach House (January 16 to March 20, 2019) he is working on a new novel, The Ox, The Horse & The Boar. He also post weekly updates about his residency at beachhouseair.blogspot.com, hold open office hours, and present a series of three public conversations on the theme of Creating Art in Times of Strife. In these conversations, Rudolph speaks with socially conscious artists across several disciplines and discusses how the current state of socio-political polarization and environmental crisis affect and inform each artist's respective process and practice.  

All are invited to office hours for questions about writing and the publishing process from 11 a.m. – 2 p.m. on the following days: Friday 1/18, Friday 1/25, Friday 2/1, Sunday 2/3, Friday 2/15, Friday 2/22, Sunday 3/3, Friday 3/15 

Public Events: 
At the Annenberg Community Beach House, 415 Pacific Coast Hwy, Santa Monica CA 90402 

Tuesday, Jan. 29, 6:30 - 8 p.m. | Creating Art in Times of Strife Conversation with filmmaker Christine Yoo | Free | RSVP 
Tuesday, Feb. 12, 6:30 - 8 p.m. | Creating Art in Times of Strife Conversation with artist Neha Choksi | Free | RSVP 
Tuesday, Mar. 26, 6:30 - 8 p.m. | Creating Art in Times of Strife event TBD Free | RSVP 
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At the Camera Obscura Art Lab, 1450 Ocean Ave, Santa Monica CA 90401 
Wednesday, Feb. 20, 10:30 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. | Poets & Writers Literary Roundtable Conversation on Diversity & Inclusion | Free | RSVP  

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To learn more about Wally Rudolph, please visit www.wallyrudolph.com