Hi Santa Monica.
How's everyone doing this holiday season? Me, I'm in hibernation mode, avoiding as many people as I can (within reason, one has to get groceries, and when one goes, one has to answer the solicitous Trader Joe's employee who wants to know just what you're going to do with that dinky bag of trimmed leeks).
It's a common misconception that people (like me) who avoid large gatherings of humanity "don't like people." I like people just fine. I even (gulp) love some people. What I don't like is crowds. And yes, a crowd is a what, not a who, because a crowd is what happens when a group of individuals becomes so large that you lose track of where one person ends and the other begins, when beings cram and shove and stuff themselves into a maelstrom, or a melee, or any other chaos word that starts with m. Am I being dramatic? Well, sure. But you've seen those horrid black friday videos, right? You know what a crowd is?
This is why you'll find me hibernating. Because the holiday season means public places are more crowded. I'm really not sure why this is. Maybe it's because people are consuming more and the easiest way to consume is to leave home. Or maybe every single person, right after thanksgiving, gives birth to another whole person; a fully grown, impatiently driving, canned goods aisle space taker upper. You don't have to take my word for it, just try a grocery store parking lot anytime after 3pm and see what happens.
In addition to the pulsing hordes on sidewalks and in shops, I'm hibernating because I just finished a big project. It's almost a week since I shared my culminating performance with folks in the Sand & Sea room, and in that week I've found it challenging to handle some of life's simpler tasks. Don't get me wrong. I've gone to work. I've gone to get coffee. But I've felt less equipped to feel, well, crowded-- or maybe more accurately, I've felt less equipped to take up space, myself. I don't want my body, voice, or any fiber of my being to participate in crowd-ening. I want to be invisible, I want to disappear. And I'm seeing now that this is taking a dark turn. But don't worry. This treatise on extreme introversion isn't a cry for help. It's just a whisper request to be hidden, for now, and maybe through the rest of the year.
Am I alone in this? I don't think so. The end of the year finds lots of folks presenting annual reports, showing up for peer reviews, doing all sorts of stock taking. So on top of the shocking accretion of people in CVS, there's an added layer of self-examination, or self-awareness, or just "how am I doing-ness."
So I present to you the following: let yourself experience what you need to (again, within reason, and with some endeavor of civility toward your fellow people-- that Trader Joe's cashier REALLY needs to tell you about the best chickpea recipe, really!). If you can sit somewhere quietly, under a blanket or under a pet or under a lap top playing an endless loop of your favorite crime procedural, then do it. And if you don't have the privilege of a few nightly hours of peace, then take the 5 minutes you'd normally spend scouring the internet for in-law gifts, and use it to watch a puppy video, or listen to a favorite song, or just hang out in the bathroom pretending to fix your hair.
My final office hours are this weekend. And unlike a Whole Foods parking lot, the Beach House is a lovely, quiet place this time of year. Please feel free to stop by and talk art, or talk holidays, or talk least obvious methods of hiding at a family gathering.
be well :)
-analisa
Welcome to the Beach House AiR blog! Every year, local artists works from an office at the Marion Davies Guest House, sharing their progress with the public both in person and online. Content and links posted by artists may include strong language and images, viewer discretion advised. Visit annenbergbeachhouse.com for more information. #ArtSaMo
Friday, December 13, 2019
Monday, December 9, 2019
A Thank You Note ...
to the people who came to my show, the people who texted or direct messaged because they couldn't come to my show, the people who listened to me talk about this show for the past few months (and longer), and to the person who provided the very first kernel of inspiration: my heat-rash mottled, sun-sick, angry girlfriend.
For those of you who didn't see the show, you all know the name of its title character by now: Graham Canyon. It's really just a sound-alike joke, a typical punny drag name I said while hiking through the Grand Canyon in the summer of 2018.
We've all been there. No matter what the activity, no matter what the relationship. We've all been in a position where a friend wants to stay longer at a party where you don't know enough people and the ones you do know aren't so compelling. We've all been on a too-long drive or a winding hike with the end never quite in sight, while our travel partner seems totally unfazed by the meandering, or worse, enjoying it. And if you've never been there, maybe you've seen it: a couple at the batting cage or the mini-golf course where one seems to be an infuriating combination of adept and peppy while the other whines and drags a bat or club across the plastic blades of astroturf.
In the summer of 2018, my girlfriend and I took a road trip through the southwest. Both outdoorsy types, we decided to hike from the North end of the Grand Canyon down to Ribbon Falls and back. It is and always will be one of the most beautiful hikes I've ever been on. And in all honesty, I felt one hundred percent great in my body one percent of the time. My girlfriend, on the other hand, got so hot on the way back that dark red bloomed in circles on her ankles and calves. She got so hot that her whole face, normally a complexion I'd classify as "milky vampire," turned closer to one of those honeybaked hams you find at every holiday party. She got so hot that when I asked her some inane question, trying to keep her spirits up, she said, "I can't talk right now, I just need to keep going."
Sometimes you're too hot to talk. I get it. I mean I don't really, because I'm never "too" hot. And while "too cold" is something I am frequently, the solution for that is usually to chatter constantly while jumping up and down, so it's more of a celebratory, if not manic, situation.
I happen to love hiking in silence, so I took the cue and let things be quiet for a while. But at a certain point, when we started to climb back out of the canyon, and the air got thinner, and the dirt got looser, and our feet were starting to feel like wet sacks of flour, I figured I better think of something to say to keep up morale.
Another twenty minutes of silence and climbing passed before I mumbled, "What do you think of a drag king named Graham Canyon?"
She laughed softly, still not turning around. And that, ladies and gentlemen and neither and both, is how the character was born. And on Saturday night, almost two years later, Graham got to meet Santa Monica.
I still have one week left at the Beach House, so if you were at the show and would like to come and chat about it, I'll be at my office hours next Sunday. And as always, I'm here and here and here (that's twitter, ig, and my website, respectively).
There will be another, proper thank you coming soon. For now, I have to get to sweeping all the bits and pieces of papier-maché in my studio.
best,
analisa
For those of you who didn't see the show, you all know the name of its title character by now: Graham Canyon. It's really just a sound-alike joke, a typical punny drag name I said while hiking through the Grand Canyon in the summer of 2018.
We've all been there. No matter what the activity, no matter what the relationship. We've all been in a position where a friend wants to stay longer at a party where you don't know enough people and the ones you do know aren't so compelling. We've all been on a too-long drive or a winding hike with the end never quite in sight, while our travel partner seems totally unfazed by the meandering, or worse, enjoying it. And if you've never been there, maybe you've seen it: a couple at the batting cage or the mini-golf course where one seems to be an infuriating combination of adept and peppy while the other whines and drags a bat or club across the plastic blades of astroturf.
In the summer of 2018, my girlfriend and I took a road trip through the southwest. Both outdoorsy types, we decided to hike from the North end of the Grand Canyon down to Ribbon Falls and back. It is and always will be one of the most beautiful hikes I've ever been on. And in all honesty, I felt one hundred percent great in my body one percent of the time. My girlfriend, on the other hand, got so hot on the way back that dark red bloomed in circles on her ankles and calves. She got so hot that her whole face, normally a complexion I'd classify as "milky vampire," turned closer to one of those honeybaked hams you find at every holiday party. She got so hot that when I asked her some inane question, trying to keep her spirits up, she said, "I can't talk right now, I just need to keep going."
Sometimes you're too hot to talk. I get it. I mean I don't really, because I'm never "too" hot. And while "too cold" is something I am frequently, the solution for that is usually to chatter constantly while jumping up and down, so it's more of a celebratory, if not manic, situation.
I happen to love hiking in silence, so I took the cue and let things be quiet for a while. But at a certain point, when we started to climb back out of the canyon, and the air got thinner, and the dirt got looser, and our feet were starting to feel like wet sacks of flour, I figured I better think of something to say to keep up morale.
Another twenty minutes of silence and climbing passed before I mumbled, "What do you think of a drag king named Graham Canyon?"
She laughed softly, still not turning around. And that, ladies and gentlemen and neither and both, is how the character was born. And on Saturday night, almost two years later, Graham got to meet Santa Monica.
I still have one week left at the Beach House, so if you were at the show and would like to come and chat about it, I'll be at my office hours next Sunday. And as always, I'm here and here and here (that's twitter, ig, and my website, respectively).
There will be another, proper thank you coming soon. For now, I have to get to sweeping all the bits and pieces of papier-maché in my studio.
best,
analisa
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Mostly Paper & Glue
There's a room in my home that currently smells like the inside of a kindergarten classroom. For seven days a week, anytime between the hours of 2 and 11pm, I sit, stand, and crouch in that room, surrounded by the scent of aging newspapers, crafting glue, and stale black coffee. I'm in there so long, I go noseblind. The way campers get used to hair that smells of campfire and stale sweat, I go numb to the musty shreds of the LA Times, to the gallon of white goop in a bucket, to the coffee I made four hours ago that never seems to give up the ghost.
If you know me, you've heard me talk about the show I'm putting up in two weeks: The Legend of Graham Canyon. And if you know anything about it, you know it requires (because I made myself require it) some pretty massive set pieces. Set pieces I'm making. Making with papier-maché. Why did I do this to myself? I ask myself that almost hourly. It seemed simple, when I first had the idea: a one person show with just three set pieces, each of them papier-maché. How "bespoke," how "handmade." That's how I sold it, anyway; to the selection committee, and to myself.
The thing about papier-maché is that even when it's good, it looks 87 percent coocoo. And that's when it's finished. Here I am mid-process, wading through paper clippings and old shoe boxes, questioning my sanity. Here I am in a room that looks straight out of an "I Love Lucy" episode. In fact, I'm not convinced there isn't an episode like this: in which Lucy tries to convince Ricky she needs a housekeeper, in which she enlists Ethel to haul trash bags up from the basement like a pack-mule, in which Lucy ends up ass deep in a living room full of rubbish, wailing and keening over the hijinx gone awry, Ricky emitting his signature squawk-laugh.
Of course in the gentle universe of 1950's sitcoms, Lucy always got what she wanted (except, of course, becoming "part of the act"). The set up could be a zany garbage fire, but the resolution would always be love and cleanliness. Here I am in 2019, and I can't seem to make it past the set up. I'm stuck in the first ten minutes of my own sitcom, trapped in sticky, chicken wire loop. The phrase "hairbrained scheme" doesn't even begin to cover the mess I've made. I'm knee deep in crumpled editorials and ribboned, undecipherable panels of "Drabble." My hands, forearms, and sometimes forehead are covered with what looks like gray, opaque scabs, the remnants of newsprint and adhesive.
English is my second language, so I don't always know the idioms and phrases that apply. Let's just say that the more I do, the more work there seems to be. I'm on a time-wasting errand, I'm chasing a big wild bird. That guy who pushed the rock up the hill has nothing on me. Did he spend hours tearing sports pages by hand? Did he try to make a giant sombrero out of box scores? I didn't think so.
Don't get me wrong. I'm blessed with work, and can't wait to share these massive, stupid creations with the world (or 50 people in Santa Monica). But until that day-- December 7th, 7pm, Sand & Sea Room-- you'll find me in the back of my house, making a 5 foot tall cactus out of Bill Plaschke columns. At least there's a little black and white portrait near the byline. That way every few inches, I see a smiling, goateed face looking up at me. And that's enough, for now.
if you see a small person made almost entirely of paper and glue around the beach house, say hi.
xx
analisa
If you know me, you've heard me talk about the show I'm putting up in two weeks: The Legend of Graham Canyon. And if you know anything about it, you know it requires (because I made myself require it) some pretty massive set pieces. Set pieces I'm making. Making with papier-maché. Why did I do this to myself? I ask myself that almost hourly. It seemed simple, when I first had the idea: a one person show with just three set pieces, each of them papier-maché. How "bespoke," how "handmade." That's how I sold it, anyway; to the selection committee, and to myself.
The thing about papier-maché is that even when it's good, it looks 87 percent coocoo. And that's when it's finished. Here I am mid-process, wading through paper clippings and old shoe boxes, questioning my sanity. Here I am in a room that looks straight out of an "I Love Lucy" episode. In fact, I'm not convinced there isn't an episode like this: in which Lucy tries to convince Ricky she needs a housekeeper, in which she enlists Ethel to haul trash bags up from the basement like a pack-mule, in which Lucy ends up ass deep in a living room full of rubbish, wailing and keening over the hijinx gone awry, Ricky emitting his signature squawk-laugh.
Of course in the gentle universe of 1950's sitcoms, Lucy always got what she wanted (except, of course, becoming "part of the act"). The set up could be a zany garbage fire, but the resolution would always be love and cleanliness. Here I am in 2019, and I can't seem to make it past the set up. I'm stuck in the first ten minutes of my own sitcom, trapped in sticky, chicken wire loop. The phrase "hairbrained scheme" doesn't even begin to cover the mess I've made. I'm knee deep in crumpled editorials and ribboned, undecipherable panels of "Drabble." My hands, forearms, and sometimes forehead are covered with what looks like gray, opaque scabs, the remnants of newsprint and adhesive.
English is my second language, so I don't always know the idioms and phrases that apply. Let's just say that the more I do, the more work there seems to be. I'm on a time-wasting errand, I'm chasing a big wild bird. That guy who pushed the rock up the hill has nothing on me. Did he spend hours tearing sports pages by hand? Did he try to make a giant sombrero out of box scores? I didn't think so.
Don't get me wrong. I'm blessed with work, and can't wait to share these massive, stupid creations with the world (or 50 people in Santa Monica). But until that day-- December 7th, 7pm, Sand & Sea Room-- you'll find me in the back of my house, making a 5 foot tall cactus out of Bill Plaschke columns. At least there's a little black and white portrait near the byline. That way every few inches, I see a smiling, goateed face looking up at me. And that's enough, for now.
if you see a small person made almost entirely of paper and glue around the beach house, say hi.
xx
analisa
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Mountains, Bodies, Art
Good morning, Santa Monica
Have you been to the mountains, recently? Temescal Canyon? Skull Rock? Have you braved the eastbound freeways and gone to the *cough* big boy mountains in the San Gabriels. Just kidding. Santa Monica mountains are like, so cute.
But let's be real. People who aren't from here don't always associate the mountains with Los Angeles, which is odd, because you see them when you fly in. You really can't miss them. And what makes them even more special? They're free. Yes, in addition to the beach, a visit to the Griffith Observatory, and just sitting on a bench by the Echo Park Lake watching beautiful, creatively dressed 20somethings walk by, the mountains are right up there with LA's best free activities.
One of the other things I love about the mountains? You find all kinds of people there. You find all ages, all races, and all gender expressions. You also find all bodies-- which is another form of diversity we often forget, especially when it comes to activities that are deemed or (god forbid, "branded") athletic in nature. As a light skinned POC (which I believe fashion agencies are now calling "ethnically ambiguous"- groan) with a wiry frame, I move through life with a significant amount of privilege. I don't often find adult clothes that fit me, but that's the worst of it. Once I discovered the boys section at thrift stores, it was pretty much smooth sailing.
How did I get here? More importantly, why:
because the mountains, bodies, and art, are inextricably linked for me; especially now, while working on The Legend of Graham Canyon.
A long run or hike in the mountains is a solitary, physical roller coaster. At mile 7 you might feel like the strongest person alive, at mile 10 you might feel like you're in abject misery, and at mile 14, you might suddenly feel lighter than air. Also, it's completely self-imposed-- no one asks me to do it, and with the exception of folks on the mountain, who have been known to see a stranger climbing and shout "good work!" as they pass by, no one is going to give me praise for doing it. Yet there I am, putting one foot in front of the other, because it makes me feel at home in my body, like I'm using it for what it was made.
Equally important to note : many bodies are made for the mountains. For those able to put one foot in front of the other, there are hikes; for those that walk with aid, or are wheelchair mobile, there are still a great many overlooks and campgrounds that can be reached by car; there are several ways to be in nature...
Yesterday, while climbing Mount Baldy with my girlfriend, we saw bodies who hadn't yet gotten their high school diploma, we saw bodies who definitely had AARP memberships, we saw legs that looked like olive garden breadsticks and legs that looked like kings hawaiian rolls... (does using bread as analog take some of the stigmas and value judgements out of body shape? or at least make the different shapes sound warm and delicious?)
Why am I here? Again, my time in the mountains is linked with my art practice. I can walk for hours in the mountains, hoping to reach a peak and hoping not to get lost. And when I make art, I sit alone for hours, toiling on a project no one assigned, and maybe no one will see, and again, hoping not to get too lost -- to arrive at something I can show others, something visible above the morass of my other creative projects. I rearrange the same five words, I spend hours making a giant papier-maché cactus, I sometimes have fun and I sometimes feel like I'm pulling my intestines out like a ribbon, inch by inch. But I keep doing it, because it makes me feel at home in my brain, like I'm using it for what it was meant to do.
So that's me. Today.
and if you absolutely need more
have a good week, everyone
xx
analisa
Sunday, November 10, 2019
SAVE THE GAY! upcoming event 11/12
Hi Santa Monica !
It's too pretty to sit in this office much longer, so I'll be out and in the patio for the rest of my office hours. If you're around, I'm the tiny person in bike hat and a torn flannel-- casual Sunday's a thing, right? Anyway, let's do this.
There's a screenwriting book from the early 2000s called Save the Cat. It's about narrative structure, mostly, and it has a pretty helpful breakdown of what should happen at what point in a story (e.g. by page 20something somebody has to make a big decision about somethingrather). It advocates for outlining, for storyboarding, and I guess, at some point, saving a cat (it's been a while, so sue me).
Reading a book like this makes you see films and other scripts (tv shows, plays) with a keener eye. You notice when stories take forever to get going (you're 30 minutes into a heist movie and you haven't even met the thieves yet -- yes that's right "Ocean's 8," I see you). You also notice when films rely on racist or homophobic clichés to further along plot-- well worn tropes like that of the "black character dies first," and "dead lesbian syndrome." In addition to being killed off, characters in POC or Queer communities deaths seem like tools to further the storyline, or, more egregiously, to further the arc of the main character, who is almost never a member of a marginalized community.
When I started creating the project The Legend of Graham Canyon, I wanted to create a story that was not only about a queer, latinx person of the old west, but one who doesn't die because of their queerness (that's not a spoiler alert, maybe Graham dies and maybe Graham doesn't, but it's not on account of being queer). For inspiration, I searched high and low for queer stories that didn't involve tragic ends, and unsurprisingly (but still disappointingly) I came up damn near empty. The only queer character I found who didn't meet a tragic end was that of Toddy in "Victor/Victoria," though one could argue that as an out gay man in 1930s Paris, he wasn't too far removed from folks in his own queer community being put into concentration camps.... gosh now that I think of that I hope Toddy never went to Berlin. Toddy if you're there, write and tell me you're safe.
Don't get me wrong, despite the fact that "Brokeback Mountain" and "Fried Green Tomatoes" both follow these tropes, they're still two of my favorite stories/books/movies. That said, I'm eager to create stories in which marginalized people not only get to survive, but thrive. If we represent these stories and people, then perhaps the way we see one another will change, as well.
If you'd like to hear more about all the movies I googled with sad, queer stories and how I'd like to rewrite them, then please join us at the Beach House this coming Tuesday, 11/12, at 6:30pm for a showcase and talk with queer writer and artist Veronika Shulman.
Oh and just a general PSA: please wear your helmet. I crashed my bicycle today and almost became my very own buried gay cliché, but due to the foresight/paranoia of my girlfriend (who has advocated for helmet use even in car free zones like the bike path), I am alive and telling the tale. Bruised and scabby, but very much alive.
stay safe, Santa Monica.
xx
Analisa
It's too pretty to sit in this office much longer, so I'll be out and in the patio for the rest of my office hours. If you're around, I'm the tiny person in bike hat and a torn flannel-- casual Sunday's a thing, right? Anyway, let's do this.
There's a screenwriting book from the early 2000s called Save the Cat. It's about narrative structure, mostly, and it has a pretty helpful breakdown of what should happen at what point in a story (e.g. by page 20something somebody has to make a big decision about somethingrather). It advocates for outlining, for storyboarding, and I guess, at some point, saving a cat (it's been a while, so sue me).
Reading a book like this makes you see films and other scripts (tv shows, plays) with a keener eye. You notice when stories take forever to get going (you're 30 minutes into a heist movie and you haven't even met the thieves yet -- yes that's right "Ocean's 8," I see you). You also notice when films rely on racist or homophobic clichés to further along plot-- well worn tropes like that of the "black character dies first," and "dead lesbian syndrome." In addition to being killed off, characters in POC or Queer communities deaths seem like tools to further the storyline, or, more egregiously, to further the arc of the main character, who is almost never a member of a marginalized community.
When I started creating the project The Legend of Graham Canyon, I wanted to create a story that was not only about a queer, latinx person of the old west, but one who doesn't die because of their queerness (that's not a spoiler alert, maybe Graham dies and maybe Graham doesn't, but it's not on account of being queer). For inspiration, I searched high and low for queer stories that didn't involve tragic ends, and unsurprisingly (but still disappointingly) I came up damn near empty. The only queer character I found who didn't meet a tragic end was that of Toddy in "Victor/Victoria," though one could argue that as an out gay man in 1930s Paris, he wasn't too far removed from folks in his own queer community being put into concentration camps.... gosh now that I think of that I hope Toddy never went to Berlin. Toddy if you're there, write and tell me you're safe.
Don't get me wrong, despite the fact that "Brokeback Mountain" and "Fried Green Tomatoes" both follow these tropes, they're still two of my favorite stories/books/movies. That said, I'm eager to create stories in which marginalized people not only get to survive, but thrive. If we represent these stories and people, then perhaps the way we see one another will change, as well.
If you'd like to hear more about all the movies I googled with sad, queer stories and how I'd like to rewrite them, then please join us at the Beach House this coming Tuesday, 11/12, at 6:30pm for a showcase and talk with queer writer and artist Veronika Shulman.
Oh and just a general PSA: please wear your helmet. I crashed my bicycle today and almost became my very own buried gay cliché, but due to the foresight/paranoia of my girlfriend (who has advocated for helmet use even in car free zones like the bike path), I am alive and telling the tale. Bruised and scabby, but very much alive.
stay safe, Santa Monica.
xx
Analisa
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Fall Back, Spring into Winter Blues, and how to stay sane when the days are short...
Hi Santa Monica,
it's Analisa, again. Excited to say be saying hello from my second full week in the residency. I'd been wondering what I was going to tell you all about, what news I'd report from the art corner of the Beach House, and I figured this week I'd spend a little time talking about how to stay inspired in the winter. Now, I have many "East Coast" friends (and I use quotes because many of those people are transplants to that coast), who claim that winter doesn't happen in Los Angeles. I beg to differ. Winter does happen, here. And okay, sure, it doesn't get that cold (though I'd challenge any self-proclaimed East Coaster to walk dogs before sunrise and not wear at least a fleece). But the time does change-- as it did last night-- and though for one day we wake up feeling fat with sleep, what we get in return is several months of early nightfall. It gets dark early and often, and with that comes The Cloak of seasonal depression, wrapping itself around me like a chenille boa constrictor (according to Psychology Today, 10million people are affected by seasonal affective disorder annually, if you were looking for a number). As The Cloak wraps itself around me, I find it harder and harder to keep working past 4pm, and easier and easier to throw myself into a volcano of anxiety over the lack of daylight/ perceived lack of TIME to do all the things I have to do before bedtime. The one thing that's been saving me recently: Drag. Drag in all its forms, from what most folks might think of (RuPaul, the Birdcage), to what some of the incredible drag performers of LA are doing currently (if you're interested, I highly recommend seeing Drag Brunch at the Lyric Hyperion, or going to Exposure Drag at the Offbeat Bar).
On occasion, these chilly, dark evenings make me not want to leave my home. On those nights, I take comfort in the drag I can find on the world wide web. So without any more fuss, here's a list of the best Drag I've watched this week:
"Tipping the Velvet" - this is a BBC miniseries about male impersonators of the Victorian Era music halls... the writing is hit or miss, and we get some moments of grueling, turn of the century melodrama (the protagonist is down on her luck! she's starving and bleeding and unable to find even a spoonful of porridge!)... but I dare anyone not to fall in love with Kitty Butler as played by Keeley Haws, who folks might now know as the Home Secretary (may she rest in peace) from Netflix's Bodyguard (also spoiler alert for that, sorry)
The Birdcage- do I need to explain this one? Nathan Lane is a true vision in this, but upon rewatching, Robin Williams' performance is subtly gut wrenching and extremely grounded. After all, he's just a father willing to do anything for his son, including putting on his own drag king act in order to be convincing as a hyper masculine "cultural attaché to Greece," a job about which, to this day, I know absolutely nothing.
Some Like It Hot- again, doesn't need an explanation nor an endorsement from me... but I'd offer this. Two "no good musicians" find their humanity not just because they're asked to dress as women, but because women of the day were expected to perform their femininity daily-- and I would argue that Marilyn Monroe is just as much in drag as Tony Curtis when it comes to performing gender.
Victor/Victoria - it surprised me that this came out in 1982, because it's both a throwback and incredibly relevant. At one point, Julie Andrew's character says, "I'm not sure I want to stop being a man." It's worth it for that line, alone. And for James Garner, who is the visual equivalent of a hug from your high school crush.
More to come on this list as my time in the residency progresses. And always excited to hear some suggestions, and curious to see if anyone who hasn't seen these will reach out -- remember, it's @anirayflo on twitter and ig. Until then, happy fall back into the time of short days and cozy nights.
Siempre, Analisa
it's Analisa, again. Excited to say be saying hello from my second full week in the residency. I'd been wondering what I was going to tell you all about, what news I'd report from the art corner of the Beach House, and I figured this week I'd spend a little time talking about how to stay inspired in the winter. Now, I have many "East Coast" friends (and I use quotes because many of those people are transplants to that coast), who claim that winter doesn't happen in Los Angeles. I beg to differ. Winter does happen, here. And okay, sure, it doesn't get that cold (though I'd challenge any self-proclaimed East Coaster to walk dogs before sunrise and not wear at least a fleece). But the time does change-- as it did last night-- and though for one day we wake up feeling fat with sleep, what we get in return is several months of early nightfall. It gets dark early and often, and with that comes The Cloak of seasonal depression, wrapping itself around me like a chenille boa constrictor (according to Psychology Today, 10million people are affected by seasonal affective disorder annually, if you were looking for a number). As The Cloak wraps itself around me, I find it harder and harder to keep working past 4pm, and easier and easier to throw myself into a volcano of anxiety over the lack of daylight/ perceived lack of TIME to do all the things I have to do before bedtime. The one thing that's been saving me recently: Drag. Drag in all its forms, from what most folks might think of (RuPaul, the Birdcage), to what some of the incredible drag performers of LA are doing currently (if you're interested, I highly recommend seeing Drag Brunch at the Lyric Hyperion, or going to Exposure Drag at the Offbeat Bar).
On occasion, these chilly, dark evenings make me not want to leave my home. On those nights, I take comfort in the drag I can find on the world wide web. So without any more fuss, here's a list of the best Drag I've watched this week:
"Tipping the Velvet" - this is a BBC miniseries about male impersonators of the Victorian Era music halls... the writing is hit or miss, and we get some moments of grueling, turn of the century melodrama (the protagonist is down on her luck! she's starving and bleeding and unable to find even a spoonful of porridge!)... but I dare anyone not to fall in love with Kitty Butler as played by Keeley Haws, who folks might now know as the Home Secretary (may she rest in peace) from Netflix's Bodyguard (also spoiler alert for that, sorry)
The Birdcage- do I need to explain this one? Nathan Lane is a true vision in this, but upon rewatching, Robin Williams' performance is subtly gut wrenching and extremely grounded. After all, he's just a father willing to do anything for his son, including putting on his own drag king act in order to be convincing as a hyper masculine "cultural attaché to Greece," a job about which, to this day, I know absolutely nothing.
Some Like It Hot- again, doesn't need an explanation nor an endorsement from me... but I'd offer this. Two "no good musicians" find their humanity not just because they're asked to dress as women, but because women of the day were expected to perform their femininity daily-- and I would argue that Marilyn Monroe is just as much in drag as Tony Curtis when it comes to performing gender.
Victor/Victoria - it surprised me that this came out in 1982, because it's both a throwback and incredibly relevant. At one point, Julie Andrew's character says, "I'm not sure I want to stop being a man." It's worth it for that line, alone. And for James Garner, who is the visual equivalent of a hug from your high school crush.
More to come on this list as my time in the residency progresses. And always excited to hear some suggestions, and curious to see if anyone who hasn't seen these will reach out -- remember, it's @anirayflo on twitter and ig. Until then, happy fall back into the time of short days and cozy nights.
Siempre, Analisa
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Inclusivity for Dummies, and by "Dummies," I mean all of us...
Here's a funny thing. Imagine you have an old blog account, let's say, oh, from 2008. And that blog account was never fully deactivated, because, well, who has time to pick up each and every crumb of your digital past lives? So let's say you (and by you I mean me) created a blog in 2008 for the sole purpose of complaining about the customers at your day job and the bosses at your night job and the undergrads to whom you taught with varying degrees of success, the 5 paragraph essay. And in your infinite wisdom (and by yours I mean mine), you thought: I won't use my name, I'll use a pseudonym: Mrs. God. I thought it was a combination of silly and otherworldly, which is probably what I hope everything I do is: a fifty fifty split on goofy and ghosty. It's also the name of my music project, so if anyone reading this is inclined to dig deeper (as an internet K hole aficionada, I would) feel free to checkout Mrs. God on soundcloud. The point being, if you're wondering why "Mrs. God" is talking to you through the Annenberg Beach House blog, it's because I can't figure out how to consciously uncouple myself from that old blogger account. And, maybe more significantly, I've decided it isn't that important.
So, hi. It's me, Analisa Raya-Flores, the current Artist in Residence at the Annenberg Beach House. I'm so so excited to be here and make art in this 100 year-old space that, wikipedia assures me, hosted guests like Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, and Clark Gable. While here, I'll be working on a project called: The Legend of Graham Canyon. It's a myth about a woman born in the Old West who leaves her life in the Central Valley, starts dressing and living as a man and leads an adventurous life with a gang of criminals. It's good, trust me, and I definitely know that because it's definitely almost done. This is how manifesting works, right?
In addition to working on my own projects, I have the opportunity to host a few events, one of which just happened this past Tuesday. The event was titled, "Tragic Women of Color," and was intended as an exploration of the stereotypical portrayals of women of color in art, literature, and media. After a reading from our guests (poet Monique Mitchell, writer and cook Saehee Cho, content developer Wendy Cortez),we held a conversation. The audience was mostly friends and friends of friends, which turned out to be a good thing. Why? Because familiarity, in conversations that can so often be tricky, is a good thing.
One question, in particular, has been sticking with me. One of my friends asked (and I'll paraphrase for clarity): "How do I, as a white man, write for characters who are unlike me, and if I write for characters outside of my race, what is the line between representation and exploitation?" I'd like to pause briefly and share some context: this is a white, cis-gendered, hetero guy who asked a panel of POC female identifying folks this question. And while history has been full of cis-het white men getting plenty of polite applause, I think in this case, it's warranted. These are the questions that force us to take the first steps toward better representation in all facets of media. So I thank him for that. And now that I've thanked him, I'm going to take the question to task.
The question stuck with me, and after a few days, it hit me. It's the notion of fear. Why is it so "scary" to write outside of one's own race or ethnicity? It seems that the fear stems from writing exploitatively, inaccurately, or to boil it down: incorrectly. Perhaps white writers are afraid to write non-white characters for fear of getting them "wrong." Of course the problem with thinking there's a wrong way means that you think there's a right, or rather, singular way, to write a non-white character. There are first generation immigrant kids who talk like valley girls and there are others who speak the language of their parents. There are Afro-Cuban comic book nerds and Korean-American rappers. I'm being simplistic for the sake of a point, but the point remains there are just as many ways to be a non-white person as there are ways to be a white person. It brings us right back to representation, and why it's so important. For the folks who aren't lucky enough to grow up in a diverse environment (and meet all the different types of non-white people) then what they see on television, or in film, or in the media.... well, it matters.
If you're up for it, here's a little writing prompt/thought experiment. The scenario: a person goes to the grocery store, gets cut in line. That's it. First, think of how you (just you!) would be in that person's shoes. Now swap in someone else, and consciously make it someone who is of a different race/ethnicity/sexuality/gender identity. Just go for it. Now compare. When you wrote it for you, what did you take into account? Your backstory, your bad or good day, what your grandmother thought of rude injustices, what your own neuroses told you about making a scene. So when you write the scene for this other person, this person that in some ways is "un-like" you, consider that they too have a backstory, a bad or good day, an authority figure who taught them not to cut in line, and a set of idiosyncrasies that keeps them teetering, moment to moment, on the edge of sanity. It's simple, but it's a start.
Let me be clear, this is a much longer and ongoing conversation, one I'm having internally (between myself and my voice memo app as I commute from the East Side), and externally (with other artists and friends). And it's a conversation I'll probably be having until I die, or my brain gets uploaded into the cloud, and then I'll be having it digitally under the username Mrs. God because I still won't have figured out how to change it.
I'll be at the Beach House most Sundays. Come say, "Hi." And if you'd like to find me digitally, I'm on twitter & instagram @anirayflo
Have a good week, Santa Monica.
-a.r.f.
So, hi. It's me, Analisa Raya-Flores, the current Artist in Residence at the Annenberg Beach House. I'm so so excited to be here and make art in this 100 year-old space that, wikipedia assures me, hosted guests like Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, and Clark Gable. While here, I'll be working on a project called: The Legend of Graham Canyon. It's a myth about a woman born in the Old West who leaves her life in the Central Valley, starts dressing and living as a man and leads an adventurous life with a gang of criminals. It's good, trust me, and I definitely know that because it's definitely almost done. This is how manifesting works, right?
In addition to working on my own projects, I have the opportunity to host a few events, one of which just happened this past Tuesday. The event was titled, "Tragic Women of Color," and was intended as an exploration of the stereotypical portrayals of women of color in art, literature, and media. After a reading from our guests (poet Monique Mitchell, writer and cook Saehee Cho, content developer Wendy Cortez),we held a conversation. The audience was mostly friends and friends of friends, which turned out to be a good thing. Why? Because familiarity, in conversations that can so often be tricky, is a good thing.
One question, in particular, has been sticking with me. One of my friends asked (and I'll paraphrase for clarity): "How do I, as a white man, write for characters who are unlike me, and if I write for characters outside of my race, what is the line between representation and exploitation?" I'd like to pause briefly and share some context: this is a white, cis-gendered, hetero guy who asked a panel of POC female identifying folks this question. And while history has been full of cis-het white men getting plenty of polite applause, I think in this case, it's warranted. These are the questions that force us to take the first steps toward better representation in all facets of media. So I thank him for that. And now that I've thanked him, I'm going to take the question to task.
The question stuck with me, and after a few days, it hit me. It's the notion of fear. Why is it so "scary" to write outside of one's own race or ethnicity? It seems that the fear stems from writing exploitatively, inaccurately, or to boil it down: incorrectly. Perhaps white writers are afraid to write non-white characters for fear of getting them "wrong." Of course the problem with thinking there's a wrong way means that you think there's a right, or rather, singular way, to write a non-white character. There are first generation immigrant kids who talk like valley girls and there are others who speak the language of their parents. There are Afro-Cuban comic book nerds and Korean-American rappers. I'm being simplistic for the sake of a point, but the point remains there are just as many ways to be a non-white person as there are ways to be a white person. It brings us right back to representation, and why it's so important. For the folks who aren't lucky enough to grow up in a diverse environment (and meet all the different types of non-white people) then what they see on television, or in film, or in the media.... well, it matters.
If you're up for it, here's a little writing prompt/thought experiment. The scenario: a person goes to the grocery store, gets cut in line. That's it. First, think of how you (just you!) would be in that person's shoes. Now swap in someone else, and consciously make it someone who is of a different race/ethnicity/sexuality/gender identity. Just go for it. Now compare. When you wrote it for you, what did you take into account? Your backstory, your bad or good day, what your grandmother thought of rude injustices, what your own neuroses told you about making a scene. So when you write the scene for this other person, this person that in some ways is "un-like" you, consider that they too have a backstory, a bad or good day, an authority figure who taught them not to cut in line, and a set of idiosyncrasies that keeps them teetering, moment to moment, on the edge of sanity. It's simple, but it's a start.
Let me be clear, this is a much longer and ongoing conversation, one I'm having internally (between myself and my voice memo app as I commute from the East Side), and externally (with other artists and friends). And it's a conversation I'll probably be having until I die, or my brain gets uploaded into the cloud, and then I'll be having it digitally under the username Mrs. God because I still won't have figured out how to change it.
I'll be at the Beach House most Sundays. Come say, "Hi." And if you'd like to find me digitally, I'm on twitter & instagram @anirayflo
Have a good week, Santa Monica.
-a.r.f.
Monday, September 16, 2019
Interactions 2
On Saturday September 7, I had my second experience interacting with visitors at the Annenberg Beach House, asking them, again (the first interaction happened at the begging of the residency), to imagine a dance piece on the facilities. This time the interaction happened within the patio area with orange umbrellas.
All the visitors I approached this time coincidentally suggested to centered my performance on dances from different parts of the world, while they identify foreign expressions with colorful costumes and happy vibes. They felt the aesthetics of those dances matches the space. They suggested Polynesian dances, Hula dances, among other styles. A person even suggested to bring a blend of styles from different parts of the world to make the event even more exciting. All participants imagined a group of dancers moving and none of them suggested a solo or a duet.
One of the visitors suggested as costumes white dresses with smooth and flowing fabrics that would move with the wind. This person says that her ideas about dances focus on the visuals while she is a photographer.
A group of visitors that were siting in a table discussed their opinions within the group and came up to the conclusion as a collective that the music for the performance should be percussive and should start before the dancers enter the space. They also suggested that the dancers should enter the space one by one from different directions and that the audience should be all around the dancers while any perspective of the performers would be interesting.
I had another interaction with a group of visitors from Argentina. Some of them did not speak english, so we had most of our conversation in Spanish. One of them suggested some type of Jewish dance for my performance, but the rest of the people in the table did not received well the proposal. They consider it was not pertinent for the space. Another person suggested a folkloric dance from Argentina. Another person suggested that the producers of the Annenberg performances should incorporate food as part of the event, so they can get some earnings out of it. Also this person said that food can work as a hook for people to come and see the performances. She also mentioned that it would be very important to offer some information about the history of the place as part of the performance. She believes that the community does not know enough about the donors and contributors that have made the Annenberg beach house a public space for all.
That day of the public interactions, my son came with me, and before I started connecting with visitors, him and I participated in one of the guided visits at the guest house. A sweet woman from Argentina showed us the guest house and shared with us details about its history. Our tour was in Spanish, so my son had the opportunity so practice and show of his Spanish speaking skills and the guide made the experience it kids friendly. We had a wonderful time.
Friday, September 6, 2019
Rhythms
Willy, my collaborator, is not only an incredible dancer, but he is also a musician. I am fascinated by rhythm, and I have studied it through the lens of flamenco dancing for an extended period of time. However, I have always felt like an amateur in relationship to music. Willy's dance training is in African and contemporary dance and my training is in flamenco, contemporary, some African dance and salsa. We share the interest in rhythm, and we both have experienced the challenges of navigating a dance world that is still mostly white and Euro-centric. My work belongs to both the center and the periphery, and it claims my double identity (triple, quadruple). My work fights for visibility for those dance styles and any hybrid form that exists outside of the "first world" culturally, politically, and economically.
The Euro-centric dance traditions have a way to relate to rhythm that often differ from the perspective of "ethnic dances'" in this area. Once a flamenco teachers told me that you can not perform a flamenco sequence of steps unless you are able to sing it. When I started dancing flamenco, sequences were a succession of movements that happen to produce a sound. But in flamenco dancing each step has a sound, so the sequence of steps eventually become like a songs in your brain. After years of flamenco practice I have noticed that if the musical information is clear in my brain, the specific technique required to perform the movements in a sequence is not longer that important, and the body would be able to figure if out the little details if the musical information is there to rely on. On the contrary, if I can not recall the specific sound of a step I would not be able to performed. I could move similarly, based on the organization of the body, but I would not be able to perform the step (or sequence of steps) as it is in the meter, while for that I would need to be able to sing "its song" and recall it "before" performing the step.
I have noticed a similar approach in this regards between flamenco and Ghanian dance while in both traditions steps are associated with rhythms that can be sang. In the case of flamenco the song comes from the sound that the steps produce, and in the case of Ghanian dances the songs come from the drumming.
On the other hand, contemporary dance functions differently in relationship to movement and rhythm, while the timing of movements is relatively loose if one compares it with the specificity and intricacy of other styles. Within the contemporary dance context the rhythmical experience comes from breathing, from the time that it takes for the body to perform a specific task, or from an external source, such as the choreographer request, the musical track, but not from a song in my brain. So in this style one does not need to "recall a song" as a prerequisite to organize and deliver movement.
For the piece I am creating during my residency, I am looking for a multicultural approach about how rhythm and movement relate to each other. The perspective offered by the work includes different ways to organize the sound/movement interaction and its causality.
We have experimented a lot about who leads who? We have tried one person producing their own sound and dancing at the same time. For this exercise each individual has sang songs that correspond to the sequences of steps that he/she is doing, and he/she has performed those movement sequences while singing.
We have also tried to deliver movements that do not belong to the song that we are singing, and to deliver movements that belong to the contemporary dance style while still singing rhythms that are related to steps from other dance traditions. It is challenging to detach the sound of a given step from the step it self. It feels like speaking two different languages at the same time: flamenco with your voice and contemporary dance with your body.
We have also explored the option of having one mover and one speaker/singer. In one version of the exercises the task for the mover is to react to the sound heard by replicating a movement that is "the same" as the sound heard and to deliver the movement at the same time that the sound is happening, so the mover would have to anticipate the rhythm.
We also have tried the option of the mover developing other types of connections with the sound heard. The mover could replicate or not what the singer is bringing into the conversation and would not longer be a follower of the sound, who monotonously accentuating the strong beats of the music. The mover would have more independence, and their task would be to build layers into the movement-sound dialogue that stimulate complex interactions that involve tension, contrast and a notion of balance and harmony that is not flat and predictable.
In another exercise a mover and a singer are interacting having the dancer as the leader. The singer task is to follow the mover by delivering a song that replicates what the dancer is doing, so the singer would have to anticipate the dancer's choices. Using this same structure, we have have explored using the whole body as a percussive instrument that follows the movements, instead of producing sound only with the voice.
The Euro-centric dance traditions have a way to relate to rhythm that often differ from the perspective of "ethnic dances'" in this area. Once a flamenco teachers told me that you can not perform a flamenco sequence of steps unless you are able to sing it. When I started dancing flamenco, sequences were a succession of movements that happen to produce a sound. But in flamenco dancing each step has a sound, so the sequence of steps eventually become like a songs in your brain. After years of flamenco practice I have noticed that if the musical information is clear in my brain, the specific technique required to perform the movements in a sequence is not longer that important, and the body would be able to figure if out the little details if the musical information is there to rely on. On the contrary, if I can not recall the specific sound of a step I would not be able to performed. I could move similarly, based on the organization of the body, but I would not be able to perform the step (or sequence of steps) as it is in the meter, while for that I would need to be able to sing "its song" and recall it "before" performing the step.
I have noticed a similar approach in this regards between flamenco and Ghanian dance while in both traditions steps are associated with rhythms that can be sang. In the case of flamenco the song comes from the sound that the steps produce, and in the case of Ghanian dances the songs come from the drumming.
On the other hand, contemporary dance functions differently in relationship to movement and rhythm, while the timing of movements is relatively loose if one compares it with the specificity and intricacy of other styles. Within the contemporary dance context the rhythmical experience comes from breathing, from the time that it takes for the body to perform a specific task, or from an external source, such as the choreographer request, the musical track, but not from a song in my brain. So in this style one does not need to "recall a song" as a prerequisite to organize and deliver movement.
For the piece I am creating during my residency, I am looking for a multicultural approach about how rhythm and movement relate to each other. The perspective offered by the work includes different ways to organize the sound/movement interaction and its causality.
We have experimented a lot about who leads who? We have tried one person producing their own sound and dancing at the same time. For this exercise each individual has sang songs that correspond to the sequences of steps that he/she is doing, and he/she has performed those movement sequences while singing.
We have also tried to deliver movements that do not belong to the song that we are singing, and to deliver movements that belong to the contemporary dance style while still singing rhythms that are related to steps from other dance traditions. It is challenging to detach the sound of a given step from the step it self. It feels like speaking two different languages at the same time: flamenco with your voice and contemporary dance with your body.
We also have tried the option of the mover developing other types of connections with the sound heard. The mover could replicate or not what the singer is bringing into the conversation and would not longer be a follower of the sound, who monotonously accentuating the strong beats of the music. The mover would have more independence, and their task would be to build layers into the movement-sound dialogue that stimulate complex interactions that involve tension, contrast and a notion of balance and harmony that is not flat and predictable.
In another exercise a mover and a singer are interacting having the dancer as the leader. The singer task is to follow the mover by delivering a song that replicates what the dancer is doing, so the singer would have to anticipate the dancer's choices. Using this same structure, we have have explored using the whole body as a percussive instrument that follows the movements, instead of producing sound only with the voice.
Wednesday, September 4, 2019
Partnering Dancing
Willy, my dance collaborator, amazing performer with extensive training in Contemporary and African Dance, does not have experience with social dancing, and that is why I am particularly interested in exploring with him salsa and other partnering dance styles. My intension is not to teach him how to dance salsa, or merengue, but to witness a body making choices within a foreign territory. I have noticed that no matter the movement background and the long term experience in dancing, keeping the ongoing pattern of the lower body within the rhythm, independently from the interaction that is happening with the other person in the upper body, it's always a challenge.
I learned how to dance latin styles and particularly salsa at a young age in my country Colombia. I never took a dance lesson for that. The skills were gained by dancing in parties and gatherings, and by interacting with other bodies in "real time". Back then social dancing was a fundamental part of social life. I studied in a "girls only" school until I graduated from high school, so my interactions and connections with boys throughout my teenage years happened almost exclusively in parties and through dancing. The gender roles in dancing were very strict and well defined: Females would wait until a male invited them to dance, and males lead, while females follow. It would basically mean that as a female you would have to always listen your partner's movement proposal, process the information, and accept any movement initiative that the male would generate by delivering with your body the expected movement or some movement would matches his own.
Sometimes when I have explained "the follower role" to people that did not grew up in the culture of social dancing, the idea of being a follower arises strong reactions while they perceive the movement power dynamics, as unfair. I can see why, and I understand the social and political connotations of someone having to follow over and over someone else's ideas with out a space to disagree or state openly their own statements. However, there is little in this world that gives me more pleasure than following a good salsa partner. I feel complete freedom in my 'submissive role" of doing what my partner is asking me to do. I feel relieved from having to answer the question "what to do", while I am only focusing in how to do it. I can direct my attention in little details such as delaying an action (that I am not even been very concious about what it is), to hit an accent in the music, or making a decision about how much strength or resistance I am going to bring into the "conversation", or how much weight I am going to release to my partner at any given movement. I can also chose not think anything at all, just listen to the music while paying attention to my partner's body. I is like a guessing game. The What is often not part of my experience, nor are the specifics about the movement or the space in relationship to the directions in which I am turning, nor what arm or leg I am using at any given time. All of that is taking care for me by my body/non conscious brain. My body knows better than my conscious mind how to handle that, so I don't have to think rationally to be able to deliver a movement while in this context, it just happens automatically. I could think rationally about what I am doing, but I don't have to, and I am often amazed by the level of difficulty in the tasks that my body performs while salsa dancing without the help of my rational brain. It feels like having the chance to experience the joy of movement without having to even think about it. So putting that rational brain on pause, definitely feels like a liberation instead of a subjugation.
But pausing that rational brain and trusting the body you are interacting with takes time. I have noticed that the issue is precisely overthinking about what is happening. Throughout the weeks Willy is starting to trust and allow his body to take control over the situation. It is very interesting when we arrive into blurry places where the partnering is something in between contact improve and social dancing. Those are the events I am interesting in capturing in the piece: Physical interactions that are stylistically undefined and that can belong to more than one place.
I learned how to dance latin styles and particularly salsa at a young age in my country Colombia. I never took a dance lesson for that. The skills were gained by dancing in parties and gatherings, and by interacting with other bodies in "real time". Back then social dancing was a fundamental part of social life. I studied in a "girls only" school until I graduated from high school, so my interactions and connections with boys throughout my teenage years happened almost exclusively in parties and through dancing. The gender roles in dancing were very strict and well defined: Females would wait until a male invited them to dance, and males lead, while females follow. It would basically mean that as a female you would have to always listen your partner's movement proposal, process the information, and accept any movement initiative that the male would generate by delivering with your body the expected movement or some movement would matches his own.
Sometimes when I have explained "the follower role" to people that did not grew up in the culture of social dancing, the idea of being a follower arises strong reactions while they perceive the movement power dynamics, as unfair. I can see why, and I understand the social and political connotations of someone having to follow over and over someone else's ideas with out a space to disagree or state openly their own statements. However, there is little in this world that gives me more pleasure than following a good salsa partner. I feel complete freedom in my 'submissive role" of doing what my partner is asking me to do. I feel relieved from having to answer the question "what to do", while I am only focusing in how to do it. I can direct my attention in little details such as delaying an action (that I am not even been very concious about what it is), to hit an accent in the music, or making a decision about how much strength or resistance I am going to bring into the "conversation", or how much weight I am going to release to my partner at any given movement. I can also chose not think anything at all, just listen to the music while paying attention to my partner's body. I is like a guessing game. The What is often not part of my experience, nor are the specifics about the movement or the space in relationship to the directions in which I am turning, nor what arm or leg I am using at any given time. All of that is taking care for me by my body/non conscious brain. My body knows better than my conscious mind how to handle that, so I don't have to think rationally to be able to deliver a movement while in this context, it just happens automatically. I could think rationally about what I am doing, but I don't have to, and I am often amazed by the level of difficulty in the tasks that my body performs while salsa dancing without the help of my rational brain. It feels like having the chance to experience the joy of movement without having to even think about it. So putting that rational brain on pause, definitely feels like a liberation instead of a subjugation.
But pausing that rational brain and trusting the body you are interacting with takes time. I have noticed that the issue is precisely overthinking about what is happening. Throughout the weeks Willy is starting to trust and allow his body to take control over the situation. It is very interesting when we arrive into blurry places where the partnering is something in between contact improve and social dancing. Those are the events I am interesting in capturing in the piece: Physical interactions that are stylistically undefined and that can belong to more than one place.
Monday, August 26, 2019
Houses
I have been looking for stories that help me to build a narrative for the piece I am developing in the Beach House. In the past, I mostly built the narratives of my works by incorporating performers' personal stories. This time I thought the focus of those stories was going to be the moment of the departure from home. However, speaking with Willy I realized that the topic was not going to work for us, while Willy already built a whole solo based on that very moment of his life. After asking questions, a conversation about houses emerged.
Willy shared that he grew up in huge house, almost a monstrous place because of his dimensions. Apparently the house was more like a complex unit with several houses connected, and where a very big family lived together. The experience of growing within that environment contribute to make of Willy, who he is today. The houses we lived in, shaped us. I have lived in many houses, but two of them have been the most important ones in my life. One was built by my grandfather and the other one was built by me, both are houses with personalities. They are both a statement about the lives of their builders, and these two houses have evolved and changed drastically throughout time to fulfill the needs of its owners and habitants.
When I was a child my favorite bed time story was about a trolley that became old fashion and was about to be disposed as junk, but a poor family found it and transform it into their happy house. I don't remember the name of the story, and until very recently I did not have any recollection about the story itself, but I remember now now how much I like it. And I wonder if that story influenced me, by creating a mind set in me that later on encouraged me to buy an old Airstream, remodeled it and make a home in it to live with my kids, like the family in the bedtime story.
I am curious to see what stories about houses is Gabriel going to bring into the conversation.
Willy's houses story and my special houses' stories are definitely relevant to the piece we are creating. At the end this is a a site specific work in a house, and it is about its owners, its visitors and the way it has has been transformed through out time.
In one of the interactions/casual interviews I did with some Annenberg House beach visitors during the month of July, a woman told me that my piece should reflect how the Beach House was once a house for the elites and how it has become a space for all. I think she is right, but I don't know very well yet how to do it. Part of me feels that just by doing a piece in the facilities of the Annenberg House, I am making that statement already, but I keep thinking about it.
Bringing the the housing topic into the piece, builds a bridge between the personal stories of the performers, and the topic of Nomadism, that I always feel should be part of this work I am creating in Santa Monica. Now my challenge is to find out how I am going to incorporate the stories of the houses within the dance piece.
Willy shared that he grew up in huge house, almost a monstrous place because of his dimensions. Apparently the house was more like a complex unit with several houses connected, and where a very big family lived together. The experience of growing within that environment contribute to make of Willy, who he is today. The houses we lived in, shaped us. I have lived in many houses, but two of them have been the most important ones in my life. One was built by my grandfather and the other one was built by me, both are houses with personalities. They are both a statement about the lives of their builders, and these two houses have evolved and changed drastically throughout time to fulfill the needs of its owners and habitants.
When I was a child my favorite bed time story was about a trolley that became old fashion and was about to be disposed as junk, but a poor family found it and transform it into their happy house. I don't remember the name of the story, and until very recently I did not have any recollection about the story itself, but I remember now now how much I like it. And I wonder if that story influenced me, by creating a mind set in me that later on encouraged me to buy an old Airstream, remodeled it and make a home in it to live with my kids, like the family in the bedtime story.
I am curious to see what stories about houses is Gabriel going to bring into the conversation.
Willy's houses story and my special houses' stories are definitely relevant to the piece we are creating. At the end this is a a site specific work in a house, and it is about its owners, its visitors and the way it has has been transformed through out time.
In one of the interactions/casual interviews I did with some Annenberg House beach visitors during the month of July, a woman told me that my piece should reflect how the Beach House was once a house for the elites and how it has become a space for all. I think she is right, but I don't know very well yet how to do it. Part of me feels that just by doing a piece in the facilities of the Annenberg House, I am making that statement already, but I keep thinking about it.
Bringing the the housing topic into the piece, builds a bridge between the personal stories of the performers, and the topic of Nomadism, that I always feel should be part of this work I am creating in Santa Monica. Now my challenge is to find out how I am going to incorporate the stories of the houses within the dance piece.
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
After a few weeks of wondering around the spaces of the Annenberg Beach House, I have defined four forces that will drive the rest of the creative process:
1. To explore the relationship between movement and rhythm from a multicultural perspective
2. To explore partnering interactions in diverse dance contexts rhythmically and culturally,
3. To identify, design, build and/or incorporate, objects, paths, and relationships that bring in to the piece the concepts of nomadism, migration, wondering, traveling, gypsy life style, displacement, and any other way of living in which the concept of home evolved into a notion that is no longer linked to stability nor to a specific piece of land.
4. To build an open narrative that serves as an anchor point from where to imagine possibilities.
I still wonder what is the role of the sea within the piece, and how the history and evolution of the Beach House is related to the driving forces of the piece. I feel that I should find those connections to be able to claim my work to be site specific, but I haven't yet. So far the connections with the space are mostly stablished by intuition and attraction.
Last Friday Willy Souly, my movement collaborator, and I had our first rehearsal/studio encounter. We talked about the driving force of the piece and we improvised. We also exchanged movements and information about how each one of us understand rhythm in relationship to our specific training and background. I participated in his African dance class last Friday and it was not only very fun but it helped me to start to understand who he is and where does he comes from.
Last Sunday I had my first meeting with our costume designer who is building two costume pieces. We made decision about colors and materials based some fabrics samples that she brought to the meeting. We also started to define a timeline.
1. To explore the relationship between movement and rhythm from a multicultural perspective
2. To explore partnering interactions in diverse dance contexts rhythmically and culturally,
3. To identify, design, build and/or incorporate, objects, paths, and relationships that bring in to the piece the concepts of nomadism, migration, wondering, traveling, gypsy life style, displacement, and any other way of living in which the concept of home evolved into a notion that is no longer linked to stability nor to a specific piece of land.
4. To build an open narrative that serves as an anchor point from where to imagine possibilities.
I still wonder what is the role of the sea within the piece, and how the history and evolution of the Beach House is related to the driving forces of the piece. I feel that I should find those connections to be able to claim my work to be site specific, but I haven't yet. So far the connections with the space are mostly stablished by intuition and attraction.
Last Friday Willy Souly, my movement collaborator, and I had our first rehearsal/studio encounter. We talked about the driving force of the piece and we improvised. We also exchanged movements and information about how each one of us understand rhythm in relationship to our specific training and background. I participated in his African dance class last Friday and it was not only very fun but it helped me to start to understand who he is and where does he comes from.
Last Sunday I had my first meeting with our costume designer who is building two costume pieces. We made decision about colors and materials based some fabrics samples that she brought to the meeting. We also started to define a timeline.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Last week I started my 3 month artistic residency at the Annenberg Beach House at Santa Monica, with some inspiring interactions with the house visitors. I worked in two locations of the facility, in the water splashes and at the pool. It was a relatively intimate experience while I was interacting with one individual at a time or maximum two.
I would approach people, introduce my self as the artist in residency, and would ask them for help to create my movement piece. The task was to imagine a dance in the space, and then to share their thoughts with me. After asking the question, I would give them time to think about it, and I would come back to hear their answers.
When I first asked for help, most of the visitors were apologetic, saying that they were not going to be helpful because of their lack of training and expertise in dancing, but little after they open their eyes and their harts, start observing the space, and ideas would come to them.
Their answers were all wonderful, coherent, naturally connected to concerns of their personal stage in life and personal preferences. Through out their answers I was getting a lot of information about those people, and we were sharing a moment of unexpected connection through out their fantasies. Their suggestions were very different from one person to the other, and would involve specific colors in the costumes, the historical and social connotations of the building and how they should inform my dance piece, space organization, styles of music, recommendations about the floor, and about the general concept that should tight together the whole piece. They were all very passionate about the ideas they found for me. It was very obvious that they enjoyed participating in the process of imagining a dance. Those visitors helped me see some movement pieces in the space that I would have never imagined by myself. The experience was not only very fun, but it was like a bridge to effectively connect with strangers with a level of honesty that truly surprised me.
I would approach people, introduce my self as the artist in residency, and would ask them for help to create my movement piece. The task was to imagine a dance in the space, and then to share their thoughts with me. After asking the question, I would give them time to think about it, and I would come back to hear their answers.
When I first asked for help, most of the visitors were apologetic, saying that they were not going to be helpful because of their lack of training and expertise in dancing, but little after they open their eyes and their harts, start observing the space, and ideas would come to them.
Their answers were all wonderful, coherent, naturally connected to concerns of their personal stage in life and personal preferences. Through out their answers I was getting a lot of information about those people, and we were sharing a moment of unexpected connection through out their fantasies. Their suggestions were very different from one person to the other, and would involve specific colors in the costumes, the historical and social connotations of the building and how they should inform my dance piece, space organization, styles of music, recommendations about the floor, and about the general concept that should tight together the whole piece. They were all very passionate about the ideas they found for me. It was very obvious that they enjoyed participating in the process of imagining a dance. Those visitors helped me see some movement pieces in the space that I would have never imagined by myself. The experience was not only very fun, but it was like a bridge to effectively connect with strangers with a level of honesty that truly surprised me.
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.”
“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,
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)