tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46635703396021905942024-02-02T04:47:52.299-05:00StoryBlogKevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-72591731332986930272022-07-08T20:00:00.002-04:002022-07-08T20:00:57.093-04:00The Exorcism at the Heart of A Strange Loop<p>I imagine a lot of people go see <i>A Strange Loop</i> and don't realise what they're getting themselves into. I imagine the older white woman sitting next to me was often confused by what she was seeing and hearing, and with me blocking the aisle and no intermission, she was stuck.</p><p>It's a great play for thinking, helped along by the presence of the main character's Thoughts on stage. I thought a lot about struggling in a world that seems to reject you, about living close to your dreams but never quite in them. I thought about stories that need to be told, that the stories are often painful, frightening. We are never best equipped to tell them, but their necessity draws them out. To engage in theatre is to reckon with fear.<br /></p><p>Sometimes a play is not a story but a set of feelings. <i>A Strange Loop</i> is more like that, even though we do get glimpses of a story. It is an introspective. It reminded me of <i>Hair</i>, but <i>Hair</i> suffers from whininess. <i>A Strange Loop </i>doesn't whine; it bellows.</p><p>“What is it <i>about</i>?” the typical Broadway audience member (white, straight, entitled) wonders. “Is this another one of those gay AIDS-obsessed plays like <i>Rent</i>? We love the gays.” (I'm sure you do.) Usher describes himself as “fat, Black, queer” and six Thoughts help him tangle with issues of loneliness, acceptance, creativity, and, above all, his parents. He is writing the play as it happens. He and it are complicated.</p><p>The utopia Usher (and by extension Michael R. Jackson) cruises can only be found in its negation. Usher is strongly opposed to the work of Tyler Perry, often critiqued as trans- and homophobic even as Perry is celebrated for his contributions to society as a Black artist and philanthropist. Usher seeks out the company of “Inwood Daddy” to quench his sexual thirst, only to find himself debased with racial slurs. Usher's ideal situation, where someone like him is accepted in society, where he can find love and not be lonely all the time, where his own work representing fat-Black-queerness has a place, is never plainly stated; rather, it is elegantly shown through negatives.</p><p>When we first meet Usher's parents, they are many voices and bodies. Their size and vocal power indicates the level of fear Usher has at confronting them. This is the fear that must be vanquished by the end of the play. Ironically, Usher succeeds by mounting a Perry-style gospel play reflecting his mother's worldview back at her—AIDS is God's punishment. The tableaux and music are beautifully grotesque; the feeling is one of horror. The audience feels the horror that Usher's mother may be feeling, given the look on her face. For Usher, the prolonged moment is one of catharsis. Even though he doesn't seem to get the resolution he wants from his mother (who still loves him but still thinks God will punish him for his queerness) he does come to a realization: that he is in charge of how he feels about the events of and people in his life. The outgoing message turns positive as the pressure of the play's negativity eases off. The Artaudian exorcism is complete.<br /></p><p>This is not a linear play, and while I maintain that all musical theatre belongs in a category with absurdism, <i>A Strange Loop</i> is further along on the spectrum than most. The main character must be defined in order to be the main character, but the main character seeks to (re)define himself through the play. Nothing <i>actually</i> happens in the play; ostensibly, everything that “happens” occurs in the mind of Usher. <i>A Strange Loop</i> fully exposes the theatre and its double—it does and does not exist at the same time. It only exists when it does, and when it stops existing, it lingers.</p><p>I imagine there are those who will or have analyzed <i>A Strange Loop</i> through the lens of narrative structure. I imagine they are missing something by not delving into the play's metatheatrics. I imagine it doesn't matter. The play is wonderfully singular.<br /></p>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-7593650262553824582022-07-05T16:36:00.002-04:002022-07-06T16:53:57.591-04:00Zenzile Confronts Us<p> There exists a genre of theatre that examines the life of a single person deemed great or otherwise revered by a swath of society. Less notable examples include <i>Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story</i>, <i>Ring of Fire: The Johnny Cash Musical Show</i>, and <i>King of the Road: The Roger Miller Story</i>. Terrence McNally’s <i>Master Class</i> lives in this genre, with its dualist exploration of the life and work (musical and otherwise) of Maria Callas, as does Lawrence and Lee’s <i>Night Thoreau Spent in Jail</i>. The latter carries a message beyond its biographical content—individualism is good?—making the theatrical performance more than just a dramatization of a life story. The performance becomes a charge for the audience.</p><p>The argument could be made that examining the lives of people who lived within certain messages or political spheres merely amplifies that message or politics. There’s nothing transcendental about repetition, as Thoreau would no doubt aver. In the case of <i>Dreaming Zenzile</i>, a biographical memory play about Miriam Makeba, not only are the messages of its subject amplified, but they resonate with other messages very present and vital to society today.<sup>1</sup> Makeba fought against segregation and racism through her music and her actions—she was as stateless as Marx when South Africa, her home, rejected her application for a new passport—while being a beloved performer in the western world, facile in the languages of jazz and pop music. She used her popularity to raise awareness of the cultural destruction that had happened and continued to happen in South Africa and all over the colonized world. Her story is ripe for dramatization, but what Somi Kakoma does in her portrayal and assembly of Makeba’s life events is honed for the cultural and political battles going on today. </p><p>Somi is a product of Africa.<sup>2</sup> Her parents emigrated to America from East Africa, one from Rwanda and the other from Uganda. She is also a force in the international jazz scene; when Makeba died in 2008, Somi brought together some of Makeba’s collaborators, colleagues, and friends to memorialize her at the former Village Gate, where she had performed before.<sup>3</sup> It was Somi’s first attempt at connecting with Makeba’s spirit. <i>Dreaming Zenzile</i> is the fullest fruit of that connection. Makeba’s spirit seems to possess Somi during its entirety. </p><p><i>Dreaming Zenzile</i> reimagines Makeba’s final concert as a mesh of memories, of traumas and triumphs.<sup>4</sup> Its situation—in 2008, just after Barack Obama becomes the first Black President of the United States—points the audience’s attention to the “now” even as the events of “then” play on stage. Within the first ten minutes, the audience is indirectly told to keep aware of the current ongoing struggle against white supremacy, racism, and neocolonialism in America. That injunction is made more direct in the second act, when the audience is directly put on the spot—“Why are you here?!” Miriam demands with the thrust of two fingers on one hand pointing, or maybe it’s Somi herself asking the question—during a monologue delivered in a tight spotlight that deserves every accolade available. Here is where <i>Dreaming Zenzile</i> is most like <i>Master Class</i>, but Somi’s work never feels dry or stale. They are Somi’s own words for Makeba, put through Makeba, and they are words the audience needs to hear. “Why are you here?!” functions similarly to the repeated “Wake up!” that ends Spike Lee’s <i>School Daze</i>. The audience is commanded to reckon with itself.</p><p>—<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">1. Somi Kakoma, <i>Dreaming Zenzile</i>, performance 15 June 2022 7:00pm, New York Theatre Workshop.<br />2. While she is credited as Somi Kakoma for <i>Dreaming Zenzile</i>, she typically performs under her first name only.<br />3. A <i>New York Times</i> article from 1961 announcing her presence (“rolling her remarkably bright, large eyes and clicking like a field of beetles”) at the Village Gate is buried among advertising and the restaurant guide. Arthur Gelb, “Miriam Makeba and Leon Bibb Open Shows,” <i>The New York Times</i>, 5 May 1961, sec. food fashions family furnishings, p. 24.<br />4. <i>King of the Road: The Roger Miller Story</i> has a similar conceit, though its two acts are two different final concerts—the first is the final broadcast of <i>The Roger Miller Show</i> on television, and the second is Miller’s final live performance before his death. The conceit is handled more clumsily in <i>King of the Road</i>, the mechanism is inartfully on display throughout, and Mary Miller (Roger Miller’s wife when he died and also a writer of the show) couldn’t help but insert herself only towards the show’s end, as if she was a saving grace for Miller. (Cort Cassidy and Mary Miller, <i>King of the Road: The Roger Miller Story</i>, performances 27 April – 14 May 2017, The Laguna Playhouse, Laguna Beach, California.) Somi deftly inserts herself throughout <i>Dreaming Zenzile </i>without calling attention to the fact.</span><br /></p>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-89229693530889287782021-01-07T15:26:00.001-05:002021-01-07T15:26:37.087-05:00Woebegon<p>I was cleaning out some files and stumbled upon a letter I wrote in 2011. I don't believe it was ever replied to, and <i>A Prairie Home Companion</i> has undergone many changes since then—most notably, not hiring me to replace Garrison Keillor. In addition to Keillor not being quite who we all thought he was, I was at the time living in Hauppauge on Long Island with my then-fiancée, now ex-wife, and contemplating a move to California. Enjoy.<br /></p><p>*****</p><p>Hello there!</p><p>I was saddened to read a recent New York Times article about the inevitable stepping down of Garrison Keillor as full-time host of <i>A Prairie Home Companion</i>, his being such a fixture of the program. Like many listeners, I was thrown off by hearing guest host Sara Watkins that one show back in January, fearing something dreadful had happened to Mr. Keillor. (Luckily for my poor heart, his soothing baritone voice came on later in the episode and I, like so many others, could calm down.)</p><p>Last night as I drifted between this world and the dreamless, an odd thought occurred to me and I scrambled to scrawl the letters “APHC,” underlined several times, on a bedside piece of paper. There aren't many jobs I feel comfortable enough to do extremely well; I wasn't the answer to the New York Mets' managerial problems, and I won't be elected U.N. Secretary General anytime soon. But I can speak, I can sing, and I can write. So I'd like to offer myself as a possible guest host.</p><p>My qualifications include several years working in the theatre in New York and on Long Island (notably with Theatre Three and Momentum Repertory Company), and a few years hosting radio shows and doing radio theatre on local station WFTU. As an elder and music director in the Presbyterian church (and the grandson of a minister), I'm also rather familiar with Protestant hymns (“Old Rugged Cross” being one of my favorites). Many of my written works are sitting on the desks of magazine magnates, just waiting for their chance to be seen on the printed page; but many others are children's shows and theatrical pieces that have delighted hundreds, even fives of hundreds. At 26 years old, I'm a fast study with a decent skill for improvisation, willing to do anything that needs to be done. My instruments include voice (tenor), piano, and guitar.</p><p>One of my stumbling blocks has been and will continue to be my lack of Midwesterness. This is something I have been working on for a few years with my fiancée's father, native of southern Illinois. We are both confident that with further, fully immersive training, being more Midwestern will become as natural to me as catching a subway or hailing a cab.</p><p>Anyway, that's more about me than I ever cared to put in one letter, and for that I'm sorry. But I do hope you'll at least take a look at me and see if I wouldn't be an acceptable way to continue this find radio program well into the future. It will be difficult no matter who steps into the role; Mr. Keillor is so admired and revered. But I trust everything will work out as it is meant to work out.</p><p>Thanks for your time.</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Kevin Story</p><p>*****</p><p>I wonder why they didn't want to reply to that.<br /></p>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-51116461488885476882020-12-13T00:26:00.000-05:002020-12-13T00:26:19.934-05:00The Naked Truth<p>I posted <a href="https://youtu.be/bQoqWm6xMng" target="_blank">a video</a> today in honor of reaching 400 subscribers on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/kevinfstory" target="_blank">YouTube</a>. Usually, I just say thank you or talk about the projects I'm working on, but today I talked about traditions which fall into the category of performance.</p><p>The wife and I enjoy watching our fair share of YouTube videos. We watch a range of things, but many of them are videos from Kenyans or other Africans because, as you can imagine, it can feel a bit isolating to be living thousands of miles away from where you were born, raised, and spent (at this point) more than half your life. (That's Grace's situation; I live about 50 miles from where I grew up.) For me, these videos are a learning experience, whether they are specifically about Grace's culture or about another culture in Africa, and they also can remind me about my own experiences in Kenya.</p><p>We were watching videos of different tribes performing dances. Grace had found some Luo ones which, to my eye, were very theatrical in nature. Many of these performances are done by schools. It's great to see a culture passing on its traditions and societal knowledge through them. I don't necessarily understand what's going on, but that's not the point. These performances aren't for me, and my analysis of them is limited to my own understanding.</p><p>Our rabbit hole led us to a <a href="https://youtu.be/OBV7VeMP2kw" target="_blank">celebration dance by some Xhosa people</a> in South Africa. YouTube had put a warning on this video because the content might be objectionable. I wondered what it could be. Would there be some cruel violence involved? No, it turns out. The “objectionable” content was that some of the performers were bare-chested.</p><p>Nudity is handled so strangely in America, isn't it? In our culture, we censor nudity in order to protect people. Who are we protecting? We all get naked at one point or another. And some of us even dance and perform naked. But in some places there are laws against it. In New York City, it is not illegal to be in public topless, yet people (mostly women) get stopped by the police about it.</p><p>In Xhosa and other cultures, there is no taboo about nudity. Creating a taboo about it might actually do more harm than good. When there is a taboo about something, it makes certain kinds of people want to indulge in it. When the indulgence in question is nudity, you find perversion. And all these people are trying to do is participate in their traditions.</p><p>A further search led me to discover Khaya la Bantu, a “cultural village” in South Africa. It seems like they (I presume colonists) set up a place where tourists can go to see how indigenous people live. It's sort of like what we call a restoration village here in America. I'm reminded of a book I read in middle school about a teenager who discovers she's been living in one and that there is a modern world outside, if only she can escape. At what point does the performance of tradition become a meaningless spectacle—thus erasing a society's cultural memory?</p><p>I refer to Paul Connerton's <i>How Societies Remember</i> when I say that. These traditions—rituals, dances, etc.—are a way for a culture to pass along vital memories and knowledge. Examples are found throughout the world, even here. I wonder if curating performance for a western gaze—stripping it down, or covering it up, as it were—dilutes the power of these traditions. Do we erase these people by putting a warning label on them?</p><p>I don't know enough about Xhosa traditions to know if the video we watched was “authentic”, or a true display of what a dance like that would be like. (Indeed, the performance seems to be part of an event hosted by the Port Elizabeth Heritage Society, which might be a colonial entity.) But seeing it accompanied with the warning gives me a feeling of weirdness. Are Grace and I voyeurs of some kind of cultural porn?</p><p>There are further problems to discuss here, including how a society like the Xhosa handles the few within their group who might have nefarious purposes, or even how they now have to handle the outside influence. I talk a bit about the Maasai in Kenya in the video I posted. But these are threads to pull on another day.<br /></p>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-46395891976238175372020-11-10T11:32:00.006-05:002020-11-10T11:32:56.813-05:00An Artist? In This Economy?!<p>Some frequently asked questions (FAQs):</p><p><b>You say you're an artist, but you're not a painter. Why?</b></p><p>Good question. An artist is anyone who creates art, and art is much more than just paintings. Visual arts include painting, to be sure, but also sculpture, collage, design, and, in some cases, video installations. Performing arts include (traditionally) music, theatre, film/video, dance, and that nebulous thing called performance art. I won't go into too much of a philosophical discussion about the nature of performance, but it's enough to say that most art, if not all of it, “performs” in a certain sense; that art either performs itself, or it causes the audience/viewer to perform, or both.</p><p>As someone who has worked a lot professionally in musical theatre, I can tell you that the nature of musical theatre is multidisciplinary. That is to say, it encompasses several of these subcategories of art. There is music and theatre, obviously, but also dance, usually design (with painting, sculpture, and/or collage in the mix), and occasionally video.</p><p>But, as you can see, my work is not neatly defined as “musical theatre” in a traditional or even experimental sense. So, it's more correct to say that I am a multidisciplinary artist. I engage with many of these different areas of art, not all at the same time necessarily, in order to create art. I make videos which feel more documentary or educational in nature, where I also write and record the music and create graphic design elements. In an upcoming series, I create a character using my acting skills in order to talk about the nature of the city I call home, New York City.</p><p>When you create your profile, <a href="https://www.patreon.com/kevinfstory">Patreon</a> asks you to say what you are creating. “Joe is creating music.” “Imani is creating eye-popping designs.” I just changed mine to say “Kevin Story is creating.” And I think that's the most accurate way to put it.</p><p><b>Okay, so you're a “multidisciplinary artist.” Great. How do I buy your art? It's not like I can hang it on the wall.</b></p><p>It's really easy. Either <a href="https://www.patreon.com/kevinfstory">join my Patreon</a> to get unlimited access to everything I create (depending on your tier), buy my music on <a href="https://kevinfstory.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a> or <a href="https://www.sheetmusicplus.com/publishers/kevin-f-story-sheet-music/3009729?aff_id=437293">Sheetmusicplus</a>, <a href="http://www.kevinfstory.com/contact.html">contact me</a> to commission work, or <a href="https://venmo.com/code?user_id=1651724792102912090">Venmo</a> or <a href="https://paypal.me/storytime">PayPal</a> me.</p><p>Now, some of it you <i>can </i>hang on your wall. I can do artsy versions of my sheet music, for example. (Ask me about my “Wedding Song.”) I also dabble in collage, graphic design, and photography. So don't just assume there's nothing to hang on your wall.</p><p>But, the bulk of my art, as I said before, is <i>performance-based</i>. I make art by <i>doing it</i>. So, when you buy my art, what are you buying?</p><p>If you're like Jay Sloat, the Congregational Church of South Glastonbury, Middle Island Presbyterian Church, or Mandarax Music Ensemble (to name a few), you ask me to write you some special music, just for you, one-of-a-kind, which I then painstakingly create for you—either by writing out the sheet music so others can perform it, performing it myself or with others, recording it, or any combination of these. This is true of theatre work, of videos... of anything, really. If I don't think I'm the right fit for a project, I will let you know who I think is. (For example, while I'm <i>okay</i> at graphic design and photography, I would probably send you to <a href="https://www.instagram.com/phowzie/">Phowzie</a> to get the real deal.)</p><p>The most cost-effective way for you to support my work, though, is via Patreon, where you basically pay for a subscription. Everything becomes available to you, depending on if you are interested in my music, my videos, or my arts-in-education work.</p><p><b>Hold on, now. “Arts-in-education work”? How is that performance?</b></p><p>Studies have shown that when teachers perform more in their classrooms—something as simple as gesturing while teaching—their students perform better on assessments. I write curricula for arts educators, of course, but also for other subject areas to use in their classes to encourage better learning overall. That's what <a href="http://www.roguepedagogy.com/about.html">Rogue Pedagogy</a> is all about—but perhaps that's a topic for another time.</p><p><b>Where do I find your art without paying for it?</b></p><p>Geez. Okay. Well, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/kevinfstory">my YouTube channel</a> is a good place to find most of what I'm doing these days. Do me a favor and subscribe. I have a goal of getting to 1,000 subscribers by January 2021.</p><p>I also have a <a href="https://soundcloud.com/kevinfstory">Soundcloud</a>. And you can see some of what I'm up to by following on <a href="https://kevinfstory.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a> and <a href="https://www.patreon.com/kevinfstory">Patreon</a>—free of charge! And, of course, social media is a good place to find me. <a href="https://www.twitter.com/kevinfstory">Twitter</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/kevinfstory">Instagram</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kevinfstory">Facebook</a>, and (sometimes) <a href="https://story-on-stage.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a>.</p><p>But I hope you like what you see and decide it's worth supporting this multidisciplinary artist. Even a dollar or two can go a long way!<br /></p>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-16712393397025518722020-10-17T09:40:00.000-04:002020-10-17T09:40:23.952-04:00The Pandemic in the U.S. From an Artist's Point of View<p>America's relationship with its artists is very fickle. Many people don't even think being an artist is a valid profession. Yet, these same people will binge-watch shows on Netflix, visit amusement parks, and share memes on social media. They have favorite playlists on Spotify and favorite comedians, and they will complain if a restaurant they're visiting is poorly decorated. A small handful of artists are paid exorbitantly for their work. Most of us, however, just get the crumbs that fall from the table, it feels like.<br /></p><p>Many artists, especially those in live performance work (theatre, etc.), are out of a job for a while. <a href="https://www.barrons.com/articles/broadway-takes-another-hitshut-until-junewhile-producers-plot-a-comeback-01602934466" target="_blank">Broadway is closed until at least after Memorial Day</a>, but very likely later. That's not just me being out of a job; that's an entire economy in trouble. That's actors, technicians, ushers, producers (but they'll be okay), musicians, costumers, painters, electricians, carpenters out of work for over a year. Residually, because those artists are out of work, adjacent industries suffer: restaurants, rehearsal studios, retailers, tourist shops, food carts. Times Square is a dead zone.<br /></p><p>Your knee-jerk reaction might be, “well, they should get a new job,” but consider a few things. First of all, you're still doing all those things in the first paragraph. Artists are required to make those things—all the shows and movies you watch, all the music you listen to, all the cartoons and comic books you read. Not to mention, all the clothes you wear and places you eat and shop were and are designed by artists. Second of all, many of us are highly skilled in our field—but woefully unskilled in others. Our usual second jobs (restaurant work, retail, temping) are much more scarce. And it's not like we have the money to go back to school. (Or that the schools are open.) Third of all, during <i>normal</i> times it was hard enough getting work and having people treat us appropriately (decent pay, good working conditions, etc.), but now it's nearly impossible. Artists are known for their resilience throughout history. This pandemic may be a true test of that resilience.</p><p>Many artists were already living on a knife's edge before the pandemic: gig to gig, barely making rent, no money for health care. Now we are appealing directly to anyone who will listen. We are <i>begging</i> for people to pay us for the art we are making <i>for them</i>. For <i>you</i>. That just shouldn't happen, don't you think?</p><p>If anything I write or make or do inspires you to support this artist, please consider <a href="https://www.patreon.com/kevinfstory">joining my Patreon</a>. If you love someone's art, put your money where your heart is.<br /></p>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-31218551677679714382020-03-27T18:34:00.004-04:002020-03-27T18:34:45.523-04:00Helping Each OtherAn anecdote, with Mr. Rogers' “look for the helpers” quote in mind:<br />
<br />
I flew into JFK from my painful Dubai departure yesterday afternoon.
Numbly, I went through security and the necessary CDC check, claimed my
bag and the bag of my absent spouse, and walked toward the taxi stand.
Someone offered me a cab ride along the way, giving his price, but I
knew I wouldn't be able to pay for it. I turned him down and trudged to
the stand where the yellow cabs were. I didn't have enough <span class="text_exposed_show">money
to take any cab, really, but I could put it on a credit card and worry
about it next month. Anything to get into my bed and sleep for a bit and
avoid the outbreak. I was put into a cab and we set off for the Bronx.
Just outside the airport, the cabbie drove over a pothole and popped his
front left tire. We crawled to the shoulder and he got out to look. I
noticed he had trouble getting out, something with his back. I thought
for a second about what to do... Should I call for another cab somehow?
Would they pick me up on the side of the Van Wyck? But I was in no rush,
and I could tell this guy needed a hand. He couldn't get a hold of
anyone to come help him. He asked if I could help. I joked that he was
lucky, I was one of the few New Yorkers who knew how to change a tire. I
quickly found his spare and the jack, loosened the lug nuts, raised the
car, switched the tires, and tightened everything up. By the time the
cabbie got a hold of someone to come help, I was done. “It's okay,” he
said into his phone. I was his gift from God.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
And truly, it was all a gift from God. I got back home without being
charged cab fare. And despite all the bad that happened to me over the
last few days, there are these glimmers of hope. I am reaching out into
the universe for so much help right now. But, I can be a help to someone
else, too. I am also a helper.<br />
<br />
So, sure, look for the helpers when you need help. But if you can, if you are able, be one of the helpers yourself.</div>
Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-68584309038946679972020-02-21T23:27:00.000-05:002020-02-21T23:27:30.123-05:00Visa UpdateWe finally got some good news (though, of course, it was bad news, but it gave us good news in the end). The State Department emailed us to say they had gloriously and fabulously lost our paperwork. Bad that they lost it, but good we finally heard from them! We rushed to fax the paperwork (it all having been saved on my computer) and within a week it was processed. The State Department gave Grace a Favorable Recommendation to have her two-year ban lifted. Now, on to USCIS, where they will make the final determination. With luck, this will not languish on and we will finally be able to move on with our lives.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, we have been excitedly planning our exchange of vows in Kenya, scheduled for next month. Being out of the country for so long has me worried a bit about income and making ends meet, but I am hopeful that my various undertakings (writing, teaching, performing) will come through and we will be able to survive. If Grace can get her waiver, we will be on a fast track to both of us working again. She will undoubtedly work much more steadily than I, given her field (finance) and depth of education.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'll be sure to post again when we hear from the government next.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-53311397336020358712020-01-19T12:46:00.000-05:002020-01-20T18:00:32.962-05:00Love Without BordersGrace and I met in New York City in May 2018, and let me really begin by saying it was never Grace's intent to come to America to find someone to fall in love with. That just happened anyway. One of Grace's cousins suggested she get on one of the dating apps following a painful un-engagement just to move on more than anything. Meet some people. Have some fun. Then come back to Kenya and think about what you really want. Grace wasn't looking for me. But she found me.<br />
<br />
And I found her. After years of living without feeling, of acting like I was feeling but really trying to sort out the pain from my own relationship trauma, I was finally feeling real feelings again. I was finishing up my master's and living in a city my heart beats in time with. I was ready to find someone like Grace.<br />
<br />
This story isn't really about love, though. It is about love. But I really want to talk about immigration.<br />
<br />
Grace was in America on a J-1 visa, which is a visa related to cultural exchange and learning. She, with her bachelor's and master's in finance, was working as a trainee accountant at the New York branch of BayernLB, a German bank. But what did I know about visas? I was in love! We clicked quickly, initially over music, because she said she liked classical music. She had lived in London for years; I've only been twice, but I appreciate British culture. We both like Indian food and taking long walks through the city. And coffee! How did I ever think I'd make a relationship work with someone who didn't like coffee? I don't know. Anyway. We clicked quickly, and Grace became the first romantic partner I took to Thanksgiving dinner in years. A month later, we were engaged.<br />
<br />
It was around this time that I started to get interested in visas and immigration. Because, when you're about to marry a non-citizen, as a U.S. citizen, you start to wonder about these things. I learned that Grace's J-1 visa came with a two-year ban. This meant that, for a total of two years (cumulatively, not all at once), Grace would need to stay in Kenya before she could even apply for, say, a permanent residency (the so-called green card). Getting married wouldn't change that. So, I pressed Grace to apply for a waiver. There are several reasons you can have your two-year home requirement waived, the simplest being that there's no objection from your home government. The whole purpose of the two-year ban is to foster cultural exchange. The idea is that you come to America to learn a skill that you can then use in your home country to help them out. The thing is, according to Grace, there are accountants all over the place in Kenya. There's no reason for her to go back. She likely wouldn't even get a job as an accountant there, despite her experience and education.<br />
<br />
The process of getting to even apply for the waiver took some time, mostly due to some foot-dragging on Grace's part, and also due to some brushing off from the sponsor of her visa. J-1 visas are generally sponsored by a third-party, a company whose mission is to foster some kind of cultural exchange. In Grace's case, her sponsor was the German-American Chamber of Commerce. Why German-Americans might be interested in cultural exchange between Kenya and the U.S., I do not know. All I know is they took their time putting a letter together, only after Grace sent an email expressing concern over the timeline. (If only we knew then how long we would be waiting, and still are waiting, to hear from the Department of State...) Their letter allowed us to get a no objection statement from the Kenyan Embassy in Washington, and we were able to send Grace's paperwork to the Department of State at the end of July 2019.<br />
<br />
Some web searching and the J-1 visa waiver website indicate a timeline of about twelve to fourteen weeks to process the paperwork and forward a recommendation to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. But, we should see a status update on the website once the paperwork is in the system.<br />
<br />
One month went by. Still no update on the website. There was no contact information other than an e-mail address, so Grace sent them an email.<br />
<br />
Still no response, no update. I send an email. I also call one of the phone numbers sent back in the auto-response. The poor subcontractor on the other end of this call probably gets hundreds of these a day. J-1 visa waivers are the only thing this guy can't help with. He says to email the same email address.<br />
<br />
Grace's visa expired in October, and she had one month to leave the country. What a daunting prospect! We had been living together since April, we were in the middle of planning an international wedding, already talking about kids and where to move next and all these things. And there was still silence from the government about her case.<br />
<br />
I was worried about her reentry into the United States. The horror stories are abundant in the media. I got no sleep for three weeks, including the week of Thanksgiving, when I couldn't bear to be at the family table without her. I went to Connecticut instead. I kept hoping nothing would go wrong, that the customs agents wouldn't bring my darling fiancée into another room for further questioning, that they wouldn't question her about what her intentions were coming back into the U.S., that they wouldn't make her sign documents against her will. These things had happened to her brother only a year earlier; we still have no explanation or update on that situation.<br />
<br />
And nothing happened. Grace got through security without a hitch. The customs agent did ask multiple times whether Grace was planning to work or not. (She was and is not until our paperwork comes through. She's not dumb. But, of course, she would like to be working, if only to give her something to do during the day and to help support our family.) But why should I have to bear all this anxiousness over it?<br />
<br />
It's been about 25 weeks since we sent out the paperwork. Almost half a year. Last week I sent a letter to my senator asking if there's anything their office can do. We would like to get on with our lives. Wouldn't you?Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-88947803148741510232019-09-22T11:51:00.000-04:002020-01-16T11:52:06.819-05:00Am I a Composer?When I was in high
school applying for college, the thing I wanted most to do was study
musical theatre. Moreso than that, I wanted to get more into what
theatre was in general. I’d been in a number of shows with school
and with community groups. But I still had no clue what I was doing.
I applied for a few schools and went through rigorous audition
processes, most of which cut me after the dance call. I was not a
dancer. I had a little tap under my belt, but my body is not cut for
ballet, and I was never afforded the opportunity to study dance. We
didn’t have the kind of resources to make that kind of thing
happen. My mom thought it was best to focus on one talent, since it
was all we could afford, and so I ended up doing a lot of music
programs. I begged to go to a theatre program, but it seemed out of
the question.
<br />
<br />
Luckily, I had gone
to Tanglewood the summer before my senior year (on scholarship),
where the final week was spent auditioning for the music school at
Boston University. It was the only program I got into, and they gave
me a scholarship, which meant I could actually go.
<br />
<br />
A number of good
things came out of my time at BU, but I was not a happy voice
student. My voice teacher once remarked, in front of a fellow
student, “For Kevin, being a student is an extra-curricular
activity.” I know now that she missed the mark. I loved being a
student; I didn’t love being a vocal performance student.
<br />
<br />
And I wasn’t a bad
music student. I got into junior-level music theory and senior-level
sight-singing in my freshman year. I was reportedly one of two
students that year who aced the entrance exam; unusual, especially
for a voice major. The thing was, I didn’t feel like I belonged
there. I wanted to do theatre. I auditioned for a student-run
production of <i>Bat Boy</i> in my
first semester and was cast as Pan. Doing that production taught me
that my classical singing wasn’t going to cut it in musical
theatre. I needed a more flexible voice capable of handling multiple
styles. It also taught me that movement was more important than
dance; you need to look comfortable on stage or
else the audience is going to be uncomfortable. Finally, it made me
realize how unhappy I was studying voice alone.
I needed to get out.
<br />
<br />
As
a consolation, and since I was there already, I decided to attempt to
transfer into the composition department. This side-line was inspired
by my father, who was a failed composition student. (Not a failed
composer; I actually quite like his music: songs and gospel tunes in
a jazzy-pop style, a little bit of rag. He has never been proactive
about getting his work performed or published outside his little
circle. At least, not in my lifetime.) I started writing music when I
was thirteen, and I’d always wondered if I was any good at it. No
one seemed to like my pop-style songs. They always came out too dark,
with lyrics that were too cerebral or just plain awful. I wrote some
music for church, though, which people seemed to love, and I wrote
instrumental pieces. I started writing my first musical with a high
school friend of mine who, conveniently, was also at BU. We had an
informal recital, the freshman class of voice students, where,
instead of singing, I asked to play one of my piano pieces, a
suite pretentiously titled <i>L’imagination</i>.
It was fairly well-received, so I resolved to contact the head of
composition at BU, an avant-gardist called Richard Cornell. He
invited me to send along some scores, which I did. In hindsight,
perhaps, I should have included recordings, because my actual music
writing may not have been clear enough. But I thought, surely, he’s
a composition professor, he should be able to understand at least
what I’m getting at.
<br />
<br />
After
not hearing back for
a while, I finally confronted Dr. Cornell in person. I
was surprised to find him a short man—shorter than me, and I’m
not tall, not that his physical stature is as important to the story
as his professional stature.
He told me he wouldn’t be
recommending me for a transfer because my music wasn’t good enough.
“Accompaniment in search of a melody.” Those words have haunted
me for some time now. At the time, though, I said, well, maybe music
isn’t your thing. I started looking at theatre schools to transfer
to.
<br />
<br />
My
fourth semester at BU, I gave up. I stopped going to classes, I
skipped exams. I was done. Part of this was unrelated to learning; I
was depressed from a failed
relationship, and I was torn.
On one hand, I loved living in Boston, and I loved my friends. On the
other hand, I needed to get out. The funny thing that happens when
you don’t go to your classes is that professors either give you an
incomplete or they fail you. And when you get an incomplete or
failure in a class, it doesn’t count towards your credit hours. I
suddenly found myself without enough credits to be a full-time
student at BU, and my scholarship was revoked. Thinking I just needed
one more semester to figure myself out, I wrote an appeal letter in
hopes I could come back in the fall and then get my transfer
paperwork in order to be somewhere else by spring. By mid-August, I
hadn’t heard anything. The prospect of not going to <i>any</i>
college in the fall was daunting for some reason. I needed to be
<i>somewhere</i>.
<br />
<br />
I
knew about this small performing arts college on Long Island (the
Land of my People, for better
or for worse) and thought in
a last-ditch effort that I would just walk in and see what their deal
was. My thinking was that I would go and inquire about the theatre
program and, if I liked it, I
could apply to begin in the spring. So, I drove to Five Towns College
towards the end of August. Within two days, I had auditioned and
secured a scholarship to study theatre, beginning the following week.
I wrote to BU officially
withdrawing from their music school. The day I started class, I
received a letter reinstating my scholarship at BU. Too late,
Terriers. Too late.
<br />
<br />
Thus,
I became an actor and, inadvertently, a scholar of the theatre. I
studied every aspect. I became the student accompanist, a teaching
assistant for multiple classes, a master electrician, an occasional
assistant stage manager. I
directed a world premiere of a play I’d done a reading for as my
senior project. My first
musical had its first (and only) table-read. I wrote my second
musical by myself using a bunch of songs I’d been writing over the
years; it later got a new book by Travis Leland and received two
staged readings, one in New York City. In one of my midterm reviews,
a professor told me I should consider getting a PhD. It
didn’t seem likely then, but now it’s on my bucket list.
<br />
<br />
My
first gig out of college found me on the professional company at
Theatre Three, a small-but-mighty non-union theatre on the north
shore of Long Island. I had music directed a few things there while
in college, including their summer Musical Theatre Factory. When the
artistic director found out I wrote music, I was given my first
commission: to give a new score to his children’s show <i>Little
Bo Peep and the Great Lost Sheep Caper</i>.
I joined the company because I wanted to be on stage and be immersed
by the world of theatre. Writing music and lyrics and (occasionally)
full shows was sort of icing on the cake, a little side-gig. I
realize now it gave me an opportunity to try things out and learn the
art of composition as I went.
<br />
<br />
I
still didn’t consider myself a “real” composer, even as I wrote
for church choirs and for the theatre. I studied scores I loved. I
read books. But first and foremost, I was an actor and a director
trying to make a way in this crazy industry.
<br />
<br />
I
moved to Los Angeles and back. I got my master’s in Performance
Studies from NYU, in part to prove that I could succeed at a big
university and in part to lay the groundwork for a PhD. Somehow along
the way, I ended up at the 92<sup>nd</sup>
Street Y, that great New York cultural institution, writing more
children’s theatre and getting praise from their School of Music
director.
<br />
<br />
Then,
as a fluke, I applied for the BMI Lehman Engel Musical Theatre
Workshop and got in. It’s changed my whole outlook. Now, finally, I
see myself as a composer, legitimized by a prestigious institution and regarded by my peers.
Perhaps my purpose all along has been to create musical theatre
instead of just be in it or direct it.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-26418220597654286062019-09-09T12:20:00.001-04:002019-09-09T12:20:07.313-04:00Making Art, Doing the ThingI've given a lot of thought to this business of art-making. It's not an easy business. One of the major hurdles in the art-making business is, really, the whole business aspect of it. It's not too hard, once you've mastered your craft or even have an inkling as to what you're doing, to produce art—and good art, at that. The tricky thing is being able to sustain yourself—in a capitalist society which tends to value art not on its overall effect on society (as culture, as memory, as knowledge, and as vessels of affect/feeling/emotion) but rather on either its more practical effects or its trendiness or (more infuriatingly) its potential to be trendy. It's a wonder we get any art-making done.<br />
<br />
What's an artist to do? We have to ask for help to survive, but we live in a society (especially in toxically-masculine America) which disapproves of asking for help. Asking for help, it seems, connotes a weakness, which makes one less valuable to society, or, at least, to Steve in accounting, or wherever. The reality is that asking for help connotes a <i>strength</i>. You can ask for help, and be asked for help in return, and you are stronger for it. And <i>we</i> (society) are (is) stronger for it.<br />
<br />
Much of my thinking on this topic has been influenced by the amazing performance artist (I call her this; not sure she would agree) and musician Amanda Palmer. She has a book called <i>The Art of Asking</i> as well as a TED Talk which goes into detail about all of this from an artist's standpoint. And so, we create art, we ask people to pay for the potential for art, and art gets made and made again and again. We help each other. We build a stronger community and (with hope) a better society.<br />
<br />
Recently, two big events have helped me put this into perspective.<br />
<br />
You may or may not know that my friend Jade Rosenberg and I are writing a musical called <i>A Time to Speak</i>, about a young woman who inherits her father's company at the turn of the last century and must join the women's suffrage movement in order to protect her father's legacy. We asked a lot of people for help in order to put together a video of one of our songs, “The Way of the American”. This particular song is sung by the workers in this company, which is a textile manufacturer in New York City. The workers are mostly female, immigrants, potentially former slaves or second generation freed, potentially indigenous people. These are the kinds of people working in factories in America at that time. (And at this time?) We chose this number specifically because of its potential for parallels to our current era.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Jade helpfully stepped up as director for the shoot, since I had to play an instrument due to one of our musicians cancelling at the last minute. (But we only had one cancellation, which I think is pretty great!) She had our singers try to embody the emotional journeys of each of these factory workers, even though our singers were in their own clothes and singing in a dance studio. I think the effect works to highlight the universal-seeming nature of a struggle to make a better life.<br />
<br />
There is no way we could have made this video without help. We got help from the singers and musicians, who gave up time to make this happen. (We gave everyone some money for transportation and food, but not the kind of wage one would expect for doing this kind of work.) We got help from Adam Blotner, who filmed, recorded, and edited the video and audio for us, and from my soon-to-be-spouse, Grace Odengo, who also filmed and took photos. We got help from Megan Doyle at the 92nd Street Y, who gladly let us use Studio 92 for our shoot. And, behind the scenes, we got help from <a href="https://www.patreon.com/atimetospeak" target="_blank">our patrons on Patreon</a>, a number of whom have been giving us monthly monetary support since we started this project in September 2016.<br />
<br />
And we hope that our art helps people; if not, we hope it at least brings people joy or some kind of feeling; if not, we hope people just like it. If not, it still exists and has effect and meaning in its own way.<br />
<br />
I was reminded of this important piece, where we have to help each other as artists. I was accepted into the <a href="https://www.bmi.com/theatre_workshop" target="_blank">BMI-Lehman Engel Musical Theatre Workshop</a> as a composer last week. The BMI Workshop is incredibly prestigious. Some of the alums are Alan Menken, who has been the house composer for Disney for the last thirty years; Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty, who wrote <i>Ragtime</i>, <i>Once on This Island</i>, <i>Seussical</i>, and others; Kristen Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez, who are responsible for (among other things) <i>Frozen</i>; Jeanine Tesori, who did <i>Shrek</i> and <i>Fun Home</i> and a bunch of shows in many different styles. The list goes on, and I'm still pinching myself. But what I'm getting at here has to do with the entrance form they had us fill out when we got accepted. There was a page where they asked what skills you had to offer to your fellow workshop attendees: do you sing, or dance, or play the piano, etc. It was the open invitation to help each other which made me realize what this BMI Workshop is all about, why it's so successful. It's about skill-building, to be sure, and it's about producing work. But it's also about producing <i>community</i>. The people I work with in this workshop will be a part of my community now, and I will be a part of theirs. This community already feels different than the one I entered into at NYU, many of whom I do not keep in regular contact with (though I should). The BMI Workshop focuses on the collaboration and the community building. We're all already together.<br />
<br />
I am interested to see where all these collaborations go. And when I say collaborations, I'm talking not just about the different artists getting together and making work. Collaboration is as much about society coming together in come way. Patrons collaborate with their resources as much as a singer collaborates with their voice. The project can only exist in community. Something to think about.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-71281160506349409512019-07-03T09:44:00.001-04:002019-07-03T09:44:47.924-04:00Officially Introducing Rogue PedagogyStarting a new business takes a bit of energy and patience. That energy and patience must be multiplied when your new business is (technically) a theatre company, you're doing it (technically) by yourself, and you (technically) don't have much money to lay out for it.<br />
<br />
Of course, <a href="http://www.roguepedagogy.com/index.html" target="_blank">Rogue Pedagogy</a> is different from a regular theatre company in a number of ways. For one, our—I use “our” when talking about Rogue, even though for all intents and purposes Rogue is really just “me” at the moment—our definition of “theatre” is more broadly defined. Grotowski boils it down to two basic ingredients: an actor and a spectator. What interests us is the sort of exchange that happens, first, between the actor and spectator, whether in what is generally considered a “normal” theatrical setting or not; but also, in what happens when, as Boal has shown, you begin to turn the spectator into the actor. We are interested in this exchange because of something Diana Taylor has said, which is that performance can (and should) be taken seriously as a means of keeping and transferring knowledge (and memory—she sort of uses the two terms interchangeably, which is perhaps not wrong).<br />
<br />
Which leads us to the educational component of Rogue, the “Pedagogy” part. It's a bit of a loaded word, as someone told me when I was explaining about the company. Nonetheless, it captures something of what Rogue is after. I've mentioned before that the phrase “Rogue Pedagogy” was coined by a professor of mine, Ann Pellegrini, to describe, in part, the work I was doing on my thesis. The intention was to say that we were presenting “pedagogy gone rogue” and not some sort of method of instructing aspiring thieves. But thievery is not out of the question, in the sense that knowledge should be (and, really, is) free for the taking. Harney and Moten have outlined their ideas on the “undercommons,” that place which exists outside of but also within the university as a means of knowledge and idea exchange. In the stories of Robin Hood, the outlaws are made to look like thieves by a put-upon government, when in reality it was a band of citizens trying to rightfully take back what was theirs from a thieving monarch. A methodology for this take-back of knowledge comes from Rancière, who asserts the existence of universal intelligence among humans—everyone is born with the same amazing, almost magical, ability to learn. Intelligence is not quantifiable; it either is, or it isn't. Therefore, if everyone can learn, then what can we do to not stand in the way? What can we do to help without creating a force of “stultification” (Rancière's word) in learners? This is a problem area Rogue seeks to explore through theatre, through performing arts, through workshops, through interfacing with educators.<br />
<br />
Rogue's <a href="http://www.roguepedagogy.com/about.html" target="_blank">mission and philosophy</a> covers a lot of ground. We are really hoping to make some difference in the world, even if it's a small one. There's too much ignorance in the world, which drives the divide we see socially and politically. There's too much de facto segregation in the culture industry, which bleeds into society, since art reflects life reflects art. We're hoping to find others who feel similarly, those who might be willing to help support us, especially in our fledgling stage. If you think this might be you, I would invite you to <a href="https://www.patreon.com/roguepedagogy" target="_blank">take a glance at our Patreon</a> and consider becoming a patron.
<br />
<br />
We have announced our first thing, which is going to be a workshop for performers (although all are welcome to participate). My friend and artistic colleague Francesca Caviglia has agreed to lead a two- or three-session class called Body Work.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Starting a new business, a new project, can be tough. I'm really hoping what I'm doing with Rogue is something the world can use, and I've been feeling so strongly lately that we all need to be doing <i>something</i> about what's going on. If you have any thoughts about any of this, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment here, or contact Rogue directly through the various social media or the website.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-9859276671043703792018-12-26T10:16:00.000-05:002018-12-26T10:16:12.745-05:002018Despite its tumultuousness almost globally, 2018 was a year of accomplishments for me. I earned my master's from NYU Tisch this year, after a lightning-quick program of only nine months. I've applied to two Ph.D. programs in hopes of continuing that study. I've been working enough to survive in New York City, which is a great feat alone. Some of this work has put me in front of the camera, an avenue I'd like to explore more going into the future. I've been directing and teaching, singing and playing, acting and writing—using all of my skills to put together an artistic and academic life.<br />
<br />
In 2019, I'm launching <a href="http://www.roguepedagogy.com/" target="_blank">Rogue Pedagogy</a> to further explore that artistic and academic life. As I wrote in my recent application essays:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Rogue seeks to exploit the primary relationship that defines theatre, according to Jerzy Grotowski and others. An example of this definition can be found in Tadashi Suzuki’s essay “On Acting”—theatre is the specific space where the actor and spectator interact. The actor-spectator relationship is explored by a number of artist-theorists in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, including Augusto Boal, who writes about turning the spectator into an actor through his interventions such as Forum Theatre. By utilizing performance strategies from these and other artist-theorists through the lens of [Diana] Taylor’s work (and others’), Rogue hopes to produce theatrical and workshop experiences which can foster learning. Learning is especially important given the current political climate, where so much of the discord between people can be found in educational disparity. (Some of this has to do with the will to learn, following Rancière, who rightly notes that learning can only take place if the learner has the will to learn. Where there is no will to learn, there is no learning.)</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Through learning, we learn about each other. By learning about each other, we become more tolerant of each other—not the sort of tolerance which allows bigotry and hatred to flourish, but rather the sort of tolerance which understands difference as merely a part of the human experience. Learning encourages curiosity, which breeds understanding. This is why, for me, there is no greater contribution which can be made to humanity than the fostering of learning; and this is why I feel it is so important to share performance’s power to change minds—as both a cure and a warning.</blockquote>
I'm starting 2019 off with a stage show, <i>The Buddy Holly Story</i> at the Engeman Theater in Northport, N.Y. I'll be continuing my work with American Immersion Theater and singing with Calvary-St. George's Parish in New York City. And, of course, Jade Rosenberg and I are still writing a musical we hope to have finished in 2019.<br />
<br />
So, may the new year be filled with abundance, peace, and hope—for you, for me, for everyone!Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-65122078203633279022018-12-25T21:55:00.003-05:002018-12-25T21:55:56.059-05:00MarriageMy relationship with the concept of marriage is a bit fraught. I went through my first divorce at the age of thirteen, when my dad decided he didn't want to be with my mom anymore. At the time, he painted it like it was Mom's decision, but that's not really what happened. My second divorce occurred when I was just out of my undergrad. That time it was my stepmom who made the call, but it wasn't without reason; and, being older, I was able to see her side very clearly. My dad's actions forced me out of his circle as well, and it's been strained ever since, even as now he is on his third family. I went through my own divorce beginning about five years ago, an ordeal that left me psychologically scarred.<br />
<br />
A lot has happened since. A lot of healing has taken place, and in the past year and a half, I have felt myself again. It's been a journey, and I am grateful for all the stops along the way, all the people I have met, and all the friends who have stuck with me despite the darkness and pain I've carried with me.<br />
<br />
They say that, historically, marriage is a business transaction. It's a merging of assets to create a larger fortune, or to expand one's territory, or to gain prestige. The relationship between marriage and love has been argued extensively. <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> might be about that, though <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i> takes the concept to its absurd conclusion—and still ends with all the couples neatly arranged, all the love settled and ordained. I've been of the mind for some time that love can be true, lasting, and even consecrated without the mantle of marriage thrown upon it. Yet, marriage has its visibility in the law, and so I see the benefit of getting married as an addition to the love two people feel, not as a necessity.<br />
<br />
This is all to say that I've met someone. She's a perfect fit, made to measure, a match I would go to the grave with. As much as I know there is no real need for marriage to sanctify our love, I understand its importance. The act of marrying is one that J.L. Austin recognized as one of the basic performative utterances—in being said, it is done. The marriage ceremony is all performance, but that performance has a certain power, a particular meaning. It is a ritual which many communities perform, though in different ways and with slightly different meanings and purposes around the globe. There is a spiritual aspect which weaves with the communal aspect. It allows the community to participate in the shared love, and, for those who believe, it invites the divine presence into a shared life.<br />
<br />
It is hard to know what the future holds, but having a kindred spirit share your path makes it better. I hope we may be able to always see that benefit, and to always see the good in each other, and support each other through the darkness and pain which always inevitably arises. Patience, understanding, and love is the only way to heal the world.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-76024124747570011972018-12-21T23:27:00.001-05:002018-12-21T23:27:53.755-05:00Reflection on a Final in Fred Moten's Class<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsgNtxJQ-KXvkYeW7XUEOjX0UAex6j5uEPJXb4dYIxsxps0l0RQcM-7sIxpSuKBwD4NTzJdFuxaVNO8IKj8LFzwP2Uf-rzOIfdYHCRCJK2yyy5iAfcBUulM9ouEG5Uf-_n_u-GcGhVKc/s1600/lemon-ligon-final.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1255" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsgNtxJQ-KXvkYeW7XUEOjX0UAex6j5uEPJXb4dYIxsxps0l0RQcM-7sIxpSuKBwD4NTzJdFuxaVNO8IKj8LFzwP2Uf-rzOIfdYHCRCJK2yyy5iAfcBUulM9ouEG5Uf-_n_u-GcGhVKc/s320/lemon-ligon-final.png" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An excerpt from the scroll.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Some of the members
of the class put together an eighteen foot scroll comprised of the
work done through the course, as inspired by or adjacent to our work.
Palimpsest is seen throughout in the layering of text and images (and
textual images). There is no sense of where to begin or end, given
the orientation of the text in all directions. The piece is
disorienting in its orientation and presentation. The invitation was
made to have other members of the class add to the scroll,
participation being part of the piece. There could be a circumvention
of the typical mode of knowledge production expected of the
university subject: the book or the paper does not need to be crammed
into a particular format. This piece evades the capture of the
university as knowledge object, though might be subsumed under the
category of artistic work (if they could in some way monetize its
creation). If the collective work of the piece points to a sort of
absurdism, it is the absurdism of the institution itself which is the
piece’s focus. The expression of frustration permeating the piece
does not obscure the evidence that knowledge has been transferred or
produced in the process.<br />
<br />
The only element that might not be
entirely evident in looking at the object is the presence of an
indication of a palimpsestic time. This temporality is more evident
in the performance of the object’s creation. Conversation goes on
around as the object is added to, appended, modified only through
addition and not erasure. Layers placed on top of other layers still
afford the spectator or viewer an opportunity to examine all the
pieces, the bits which form the assemblage of the piece. The symbolic
gesture of the piece is one of continuation—of continuing study,
of a communal always working towards. In this way, the piece retains
both its performativity on the outsider and performance within its
community. The point at which addition to the piece ends confers upon
the community its move from performers to spectators in the
performance being acted on by its residual performativity.
Importantly, no one has an ideal vision for this piece, no utopian
horizon. The vision is mere existence.<br />
<br />
<i>4 May 2018</i> Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-88810105470552368502018-10-26T12:14:00.001-04:002018-10-26T12:14:48.213-04:00Sacred SpaceWhen I was teaching high school in California, I attended a workshop on the Get Lit program as part of the regular training that teachers undergo to keep their educational skills fresh and relevant. Get Lit exposes high schoolers, especially those considered “at risk,” to poetry in an attempt to get them to respond and connect to the world around them. One of the things we talked about was creating a “sacred space” for writing. The thought had never occurred to me that we artists, writers included, create these spaces for ourselves to work.<br />
<br />
When I think about the term “sacred space,” I immediately think of a church sanctuary, being the traditional form of the sacred space—that is, it is a space reserved for the sacred. It is infused with spirituality in some way; reverence hangs in its air. We go there to worship. It stands to reason that we might designate more than one place for the sacred; and, as the act of creation might be thought of inherently as divinely inspired, it's no wonder we should seek a sacred space in which to do our own creation.<br />
<br />
The act of writing, like other arts, is a release. It's a means for us to deal with our days, our lives, through more than just talking about it. If we write poetry, we may just write it for ourselves, but the effect is still there. (The effect amplifies when you share your work and someone else says, “I understand.”) When we write, we become our own creators, using these tools called words to make sense of our world, or create new worlds entirely. As we might know, the Abrahamic God was fairly judicious with a certain spark of creation. Here are some lessons we might glean about creation and sacred space from the Big Guy Upstairs.<br />
<br />
<i>God creates in God's own time.</i> As creators, we need to find our own time to create. If you write or create art better in the morning, then make that your time. Block it out on your calendar.<br />
<br />
<i>When God creates a sacred space, God starts with light</i>. But you might start with furniture, or simply location. Find a place that feeds you. A sacred space should feel spiritual, calming, connected. When I was living in Los Angeles, my sacred space is usually outdoors; if I didn't want to go far, I'd sit out on my balcony, in the chair I bought at a church yard sale on Long Island. In the Bronx, where I live now, my office area has plenty of windows to let in the light, and I use incense to create a pleasing spiritual atmosphere. You might designate another part of your home, a corner of a room, perhaps, near a window. Put furniture and objects there that feed your soul. Play with the light and art on the walls. Find your spirit and your quiet center. Maybe music or ambient sound, like a waterfall, will help. Maybe some candles can set the mood. Once you have the perfect combination, hold onto it. This is your sacred space.<br />
<br />
<i>Attached to your sacred space is the idea of ritual.</i> For some, the fact that they write in their sacred space daily is ritual enough. That doesn't do it for me, and the Bible is filled with references to God's love of the ritual. So, come up with a ritual for your sacred space. It might be a prayer, or yoga, or some other meditation. It might be something tactile like doing a quick puzzle or washing your hands. As for me, my ritual is making coffee or tea. Find a ritual that speaks to you and your space.<br />
<br />
<i>Finally, God saw his creation was good.</i> We don't always produce the best work. Not everything we write is the next <i>Great Gatsby</i>, and not everything we paint is <i>Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte</i>. (<i>Sunday in the Park with George</i>, anyone?) But, as creators, we have to affirm our work positively. We did it. There's no reason to put down our own work. The act of creation is in itself good, so why downplay it?<br />
<br />
And for us, in our sacred spaces, we must hold onto hope that, whatever we do, we can make the world a better place, one stroke of creation at a time.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Adapted from an article originally published in </i>The Good News<i>, the newsletter of Faith Presbyterian Church of Valley Village, Sept. 2015.</i></span> Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-36004056280047439392018-06-08T12:09:00.000-04:002018-06-08T12:09:10.940-04:00More on Newark in the 1960s<i>Here is another piece written by my grandfather and typed up by my grandmother on 9 June 2010.</i> <br />
<br />
MY BIT OF HISTORY
<br />
by Rev. Harold W. Story
<br />
<br />
In the years of the 1960s, the racial prejudice and discrimination here in the United States of America was to be faced in turbulent and highly explosive events.
<br />
<br />
I was serving as Pastor of the Memorial West Presbyterian Church, 7th Avenue and South Orange Avenue, Newark, New Jersey, from 1962 to 1969. Racial riots broke out in cities across the country. Tensions increased in Newark also, and in the mostly black populated neighborhood where the church was located. White vs. Black. For example, I was elected to be a Trustee of Area #3 Community Center. At our first meeting blacks took over in our place.
<br />
<br />
There were threats to invade the church and disrupt worship. I was told that they could use our church building to better serve their community. I had tried to make our congregation do that by being a more inclusive and welcoming church to all persons from the area.
<br />
<br />
I used the word “inclusive” rather than integrated as I believe this was the meaning of Jesus Christ for us; for example, Jesus’ parable of the “Good Samaritan” who came to help someone—a Jew, perhaps—as they discriminated against the Samaritans (much like Jew vs. Arab today). Two persons went by without helping the man, but finally one not of his race or religion came to his rescue.
<br />
<br />
In a society where segregation was so widespread, I tried to make a difference—hoping that members of our church would work at change among the races of our society. Many black people had moved from the South up to the North seeking better treatment—only to find the same racial problems there.
<br />
<br />
Martin Luther King was spokesman for racial equality as a challenge to the nation. The Greater Newark Council of Churches members were asked to go to Alabama to join Dr. King in the March from Selma to Montgomery that was held on March 21-25, 1965. I was on my way and met a woman member of my Church. She asked where I was going; I told her I was going to go with a group from Newark to march with Dr. King in Alabama. She told me I should not go; my work was in Newark. I told her I needed to help ease the racial problems in both places.
<br />
<br />
We flew to an airport in Alabama close to where we joined the march for the final two days. There were many protesters to meet us. The newspapers claimed we were trouble-makers, socialists/communists who came to stir up trouble. As we walked behind Dr. King, I saw both black and white persons along the route watching our peaceful march. Fortunately, our group did not face the attacks as some had, although we were shouted at by angry protestors in the crowds.
<br />
<br />
Governor George Wallace had called in police to block the protesters. In contrast, we assembled en masse to hear Dr. Martin Luther King give one of his deeply moving speeches. (Also, earlier, in 1963, I went to Washington, D.C., to hear Rev. Dr. King give another great speech, “I Have a Dream,” at our nation’s capitol.) Sadly, though, Martin Luther King was killed on April 4, 1968. His dream is still alive as some of us are trying to make it a reality—for all persons regardless of race—in our American society.
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
Just one experience I had during the time of the inter-racial troubles in Newark in 1967. I was down the street from my Church, walking as other clergy were to help ease the tension in the City. I saw a group of people gathered in front of a Chinese laundry, looking into the windows of the store. Two dogs were barking inside. I asked why the people were there and was told that they were concerned about the owner, whether he was alright—dead or alive.
<br />
<br />
I then saw a convoy of the National Guard trucks coming—called then to restore order within Newark. I motioned to the men in the first jeep to stop. Two came over to us and asked what I wanted. I told them the people were concerned about the safety of the Chinese owner—whether or not he was in the store and alright. Also, whether his dogs should be fed. Two of the soldiers drew their rifles ready to shoot, but I stopped them, I stopped them—we only were concerned to help the man. They lowered their guns.
<br />
<br />
I asked them to wait; I went to the corner candy store to use the phone … I had been told that the laundry man’s name was Mr. Lee. I knew there were Lees who were members of the First Presbyterian Church of Newark on Broad Street. So I scanned the Lees until I found one at an address near the church. I phoned and asked the person if a Mr. Lee who owned the laundry on South Orange Avenue in Newark was there. He answered, “I am his cousin; he is here with us and is alright.” How about that!
<br />
<br />
I went back to tell the crowd and the soldiers that Mr. Lee was alright safe with his cousin. The National Guardsmen left. A day later I walked by the laundry store and saw that bullets had shattered the windows, and bullet holes were in the laundry upon the shelves.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*** </div>
<br />
I tell this to say that the caring for others can be done by and for anyone regardless of their race or religion, thus to make real the hope of Dr. Martin Luther King and the teaching of Jesus Christ in their speeches and sermons.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-49284818407453327402018-06-08T10:42:00.000-04:002018-06-08T11:53:52.061-04:00Remembering Harold W. Story<i>A remembrance written by my grandfather on 9 July 2010. He passed away on 8 June 2018 at the age of 91. This was typed by my grandmother; the ellipses are in the original.</i> <br />
<br />
MY SERVICE TO GOD AND COUNTRY<br />
by Rev. Harold W. Story<br />
<br />
I had begun studies for the Presbyterian Ministry at Bloomfield College and Seminary, Bloomfield, New Jersey, in 1944. I had an exemption from the military draft as a student preparing for church ministry. I received a draft notice, so I volunteered to go into military service (choosing the Navy) during World War II, serving from 1945 to 1949. I became a Photographer’s Mate 3/C—had served at Camp Detrick (Chemical Warfare), Frederick, Maryland, after training at Boot Camp, Bainbridge, Maryland. Trained at Naval Photo School, Pensacola, Florida. I then served at Naval Air Field at Jacksonville, Florida. Assigned to the Naval Photographic Center, Washington, D.C. I worked on printing machines doing reels of film—top secret motion pictures, including atomic tests and missile tests.
<br />
<br />
I resumed study at Bloomfield College before summer of 1950, when I was recalled into the Navy. I reported to the Brooklyn, N.Y., Navy Yard. We boarded a train at Hoboken, New Jersey, taking us across the country to San Francisco, California. There, we went onto a transport ship taking us over the Pacific Ocean to Yokosuka, Japan. We rode by train across Japan to an as-yet-unknown destination. During that train ride, we crossed the city of Hiroshima. I looked out the window to see the horrible destruction that had been caused by one of the atomic bomb blasts. (The other was at Nagasaki.) I shall never forget those sights—reminding me of some of the most extreme kinds of human warfare. Will we never learn from war that peace is so much finer?
<br />
<br />
In 1950, we were taken to report aboard the USS Eldorado—a communications ship (Admiral’s Flag Ship of that fleet of ships). We still were not told where we were going … I was below decks as we crossed the waters … finally, we were one of many ships joined in the amphibious attack against the Communists. I was in a war! This was the invasion by our forces at Inchon, Korea.
<br />
<br />
I could not see the war, being below decks … but I had fear as I heard the sounds of gunfire from the battleship and other ships as the troops went ashore.
<br />
<br />
I just had to see what was happening, so I went up the ladder to the main deck above. I prayed for those who were directly fighting the enemy and for the support of the other military men engaged in the war. I attended services held by the Chaplain. I was thankful that I had faith in God to help me.
<br />
<br />
Later, I was sent ashore to photograph landing craft, the many homeless refugees, the destruction. As I walked on the shore a man yelled to me, “Watch out!” There was a mine wire sticking up out of the mud a few feet away from me. I owe him for saving me. I went into a courtyard of an orphanage which was surrounded by buildings. I stood there alone when suddenly many children were looking at me from the windows. They were laughing at me … I was told they had never seen a red-headed person like me before.
<br />
<br />
Back at the photo lab aboard the Eldorado, I processed, developed and printed many pictures. One most interesting thing we did—a South Korean spy came back from the headquarters of the North Korean enemy with microfilm pictures which gave information, including numbers of troops, ships in North Korea and China. We processed these. General Douglas MacArthur wanted the U.S.A. to attack within China. President Harry Truman called MacArthur back home, refusing to attack China—although many Chinese had killed and wounded our American military personnel.
<br />
<br />
One day I became very sick. Yellow jaundice had colored my skin…I had acute hepatitis. I was put on a stretcher, put onto a line from our ship taking me across to another ship. I was taken to a Naval Hospital in Japan…near death. I was brought back to health and life with good care and a time of rest and recuperation at a small camp in the Japanese countryside.
<br />
<br />
In 1951, the war was over for me, as we left by ship for return to the U.S.A. We were at San Diego where I served at the Naval Air Station until my medical discharge on December 6, 1951.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
After my experiences, good and bad, in the Navy, I was granted a discharge from the Naval Reserve to resume my ministerial studies at Bloomfield College and Seminary.
<br />
<br />
I graduated from Bloomfield College in 1954. And best of all, on September 11, 1954, I was married to Ruth Haycock. I chose her to be my wife. She has been so good to me for these years, 56 years this September 2010, we have been together.
<br />
<br />
I was graduated from Bloomfield Seminary in 1958 and ordained to the Gospel Ministry of the United Presbyterian Church on my birthday, July 1, 1958.
<br />
<br />
I have been honored to serve as a Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Pittston, Pennsylvania (April 13, 1958 – June 24, 1962); the Memorial Presbyterian Church (after a merger, becoming the Memorial-West Presbyterian Church) of Newark, New Jersey (June 24, 1962 – May 27, 1969); and the Burlington Presbyterian Church of Burlington, New Jersey (May 27, 1969 – June 3, 1979). Clergy member of Lackawanna, Pennsylvania; Newark and West Jersey, New Jersey; and Long Island, New York, Presbyteries, respectively.
<br />
<br />
I received a call to become a Chaplain at the United Presbyterian Residence at Woodbury (Long Island), New York in the spring of 1979, starting in June of that year. This was a Geriatric Medical Care facility. Then I was a Protestant Chaplain at A. Holly Patterson Home for the Aged at Uniondale (Long Island), New York (November 1, 1989 – January 1, 1992). I last served as a Protestant Chaplain at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center at Northport (Long Island), New York (August 2, 1993 – January 31, 2001). Active member of Long Island Presbytery, New York, now retired.
<br />
<br />
These were some of my experiences serving God and Country.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-53683715225157249462018-06-08T10:20:00.000-04:002018-06-08T11:51:55.548-04:00Goodbye, Granddad<div data-contents="true">
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<span data-offset-key="7268u-0-0"><span data-text="true">My grandfather, Rev. Harold W. Story, has passed away this morning at the age of nearly 92.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7fbsm-0-0">He was many things in his life. He enlisted in the Navy at the end of World War II and served as a
photographer during the Korean War. He became a Presbyterian minister
and served in Newark during the riots. </span><span data-offset-key="17k39-0-0">He always found the good in the world. Everyone could laugh, and he was
just as fearless dressed in a clown costume as he was in Newark and
Korea. <span data-text="true">He always wanted to share joy, but was just as adept at dealing with serious situations. You might say that his real battlefield experience came <a href="http://blog.kevinfstory.com/2016/01/a-civil-rights-remembrance.html">in Newark during the riots</a>, protecting people of color in his church and community, and flying to Washington and Alabama to march with Dr. King. He was no radical; he was just trying to be decent to his fellow humans. Clowning was a way of getting people to laugh, regardless of their language or background, and maybe come together in that laughter. “Will we never learn from war,” he once said, “that peace is so much finer?”</span></span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="e6rkg-0-0"><span data-text="true">Raise a mug of coffee for Hal today, and tell your worst jokes. Make someone laugh. The world will still be a better place for it.</span></span></div>
</div>
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Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-91222908189967764632018-04-12T23:28:00.000-04:002018-04-12T23:28:53.732-04:00Technology in Jasbir Puar's Right to Maim<i>(Edited from remarks delivered in a lecture discussion on 10 April 2018.)</i> <br />
<br />
The grip of technology is all around us. The word “technology” has come to mean (according to the <i>OED</i>) “The application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes, especially in industry.” The root word “tekne” brings us more to the idea of art or craft. There is an idea of making, of how to make. In <i>Right to Maim</i>, Jasbir Puar explores the application of technology—technology’s uses for better, technology’s uses for “It Gets Better.” We want everything “bigger, better, faster,” as the old entrepreneurial expression goes. But technology is more insidious than that. Technology at the level of the everyday, of the human, can enable what Puar refers to as “slow death”—this “mode of neoliberal and affective capacitation or debilitation.” “Technology,” she says, “acts both as a machine of debility and capacity and as portals of affective openings and closures” (2). In this way, for Puar, technology seems to define what can alter the body, whether through medical procedure or mere use. “The distinctions or parameters between disabled and non-disabled bodies shift…scientifically, as prosthetic technologies of capacity, from wheelchairs to cell phones to dna testing to steroids, script and rescript what a body can, could, or should do” (xiv-xv). This computer I’m writing on becomes an extension of my bodily capacity (and/or debility), just as the computer or phone or tablet you’re reading on does yours. These terms <i>capacity</i> and <i>debility</i> work not necessarily against each other, as opposites; rather, Puar stages them as intertwined states of being which are in turn modulated by these concepts of <i>technology</i> and <i>slow death</i>. In her engagement of technology, she outright refuses what she calls “straightforward political cants”—I’m seeing the horse running off into the sunset at the end of a western—“straightforward political cants of a rational public sphere.” Here, she points to what might parallel a certain understanding of how nonsense works or can work; I’m thinking, too, about her explication of a temporality that is expressly non-chronological—a sort of nonsense time.<br />
<br />
One of our main themes we’re discussing is this idea of holding multiple sensations, so I just wanted to look at a technological instance in the text. In the introduction, Puar is talking about the suicide of Tyler Clementi at Rutgers University. On p. 4, she introduces this concept of lifelogging—the main activity of social media, right? We have to tell each other what we’re up to, how we’re feeling, etc. There is a struggle between the public and the private; these are my private thoughts, and in the privacy of my own home, I can post them to social media. That makes my private thoughts public in a way that might not necessarily make me feel like I am ceding my privacy. In this way, according to Puar on p. 5, social media creates “simultaneous sensations of exposure (the whole world is watching) and alienation (no one understands).” The sensations of exposure and alienation are held at the same time. She goes on to describe this use of social media as an extension of one’s self or body as “cyborgian,” and, as we see in Clementi’s case, the effects of social media use leads ultimately to an effect on the body. We are changed by technology use at the level of the quotidian, having noticeable effects on the affective tendencies of bodies. We are constantly forced to identify ourselves on social media—whether we choose to be truthful or not, the act of self-identification alters us further. Social media becomes a way of practicing different identities, trying things out, using the response of other social media users to judge ourselves. What Puar calls “lifelogging” becomes (or has become) an intrinsic piece of how we become who we are.<br />
<br />
These systems created between the body and technology are described by Puar as “action-at-a-distance technologies.” Clementi’s privacy was intruded upon in the cyber-peeping on his sexual activity, through a distance of cable and electronics; Clementi announces his intention to kill himself via the same technology. Puar argues that this is a form of touching, a new form, perhaps. The touching happens because the body is extended through this action-at-a-distance technology. It is as though Ravi and Wei were looking through Clementi’s window, hands on the glass on which Clementi would later write his note. There is a folding of space and time, as Fred Moten might suggest.<br />
<br />
This idea that technology hails the era of the posthuman might be accurate, as more and more we tether ourselves to technology and become more “cyborgian.” But Puar also points out the critique of posthumanism as still existing in the realm of a colonial mindset, where, quoting Weheliye, the posthuman “frequently appears as little more than the white liberal subject in techno-informational guise” (30). And of course, there is Wynter’s assessment that we have yet to approach anything like a radical humanism at all (29). There may be much to gain from thinking in a posthumanist mindset, but much still has to be done to revise what is thought of as human first. As technology improves to further extend our bodies and our lives, we are faced with the prospect that none of us really can fit the mold of complete ability; the body singularly exists in a state of unachieved potential. As Puar says on p. 15, “there is no such thing as an ‘adequately abled’ body anymore.”<br />
<br />
The push for individuals to make and remake their own bodies necessitates, as Puar notes on p. 50, the making and remaking of the larger bodily assemblages that allow the individual bodies to exist. She calls for a “formulation…of new somatechnologies” which refuse neoliberal configurations of “body” and “society.” The real trouble is how to upend a system upon which one relies—a problem Puar states on p. 35 in regards to how trans bodies rely on the “medical-industrial complex” which simultaneously brings them life and death.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Work Cited</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Puar, Jasbir K. <i>The Right to Maim: Disability, Capacity, Debility</i>.<i> </i>Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2017. </span>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-25309472190253940762018-02-26T22:20:00.000-05:002018-02-26T22:20:47.500-05:00Music, Allusion, and Repetition in Indecent<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Though this early-20th-century Yiddish play had dazzled Greenwich Village audiences in 1922, the show’s producers worried that it might be too provocative for the less bohemian folk of Midtown; a pivotal love scene between two women was deleted from the script, much to the distress of members of the company. … Yes, that notorious scene that never made it to the main stem, even in the licentious Jazz Age, is fully rendered here — and not just once but in an assortment of fuguelike variations…. The dominant note of this erotic encounter isn’t prurience, though; it’s piety.” —Ben Brantley, <i>The New York Times</i> (18 April 2017)</blockquote>
Paula Vogel and Rebecca Taichman’s <i>Indecent</i> is a play about a play; but, of course, it’s more than that. Playing at Yale Repertory Theatre before its own (non-contentious) run on Broadway, <i>Indecent</i> takes as its subject the events surrounding the production of Sholem Asch’s <i>Got fun nemoke</i> (<i>God of Vengeance</i>). That play, written in Yiddish when Asch was in his twenties, went on to tour Europe—even after writers in the Jewish community tried to persuade Asch to burn it—before landing in New York in 1922. The attempted Broadway transfer ended with the arrest of the actors and confiscation of scripts. Vogel and Taichman’s work seeks to retell the history of that play using a small company of actors playing many different parts and three musicians trained in the idioms of klezmer music.<br />
<br />
One of my first impressions of the overall piece after I had seen it was how powerful it is; or, I suppose, how powerful it’s meant to be; or how powerful its creators wished it to be. Any piece which uses as a plot point the Holocaust certainly runs the risk of being described as powerful, immense, even unfathomable. The stories told in <i>Indecent</i> are told in an innovative way, mostly chronologically, but also disparately, as vignettes with connecting material in between, using projections to fill in gaps and provide translation as needed. I did feel like some of this connecting material was superfluous or distracting to the overall arc of the play; I would have preferred a more-fleshed-out examination of the central themes, but it is possible these connecting bits served to give the piece its own culture and vernacular. Shuffling between at least three languages (English, Yiddish, and German, though there may have been more), it might have been necessary to provide a unifying language for the audience and actors to agree on—the unifying language of music and dance. The most effective material landed when the whole company performed together, because there was a sense of the company working as a whole team, a vital theme in retelling this story.<br />
<br />
The music is an important element establishing a sense of the community involved. Klezmer music has a particular feel and pulse, being first and foremost a variety of dance music. The king of klezmer is the clarinet, but a number of other instruments are used traditionally, including violin and accordion. The music in <i>Indecent</i> is not all klezmer, however. The show’s playbill has only one note about the music (aside from copyrights), which is the following:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The song “Wiegala,” heard near the conclusion of Indecent, was written by Ilse Weber, a nurse at the Children’s Hospital at Theresienstadt. She sang this lullaby for the children in the wards. When it came time for the children to be transported to Auschwitz, Ilse Weber volunteered to go with them. It is said she sang this song in line to the chambers.</blockquote>
This might be an indication that every detail of <i>Indecent</i> has been thought of in order to achieve a particularly strong affective response from the audience.<br />
<br />
The set and lighting lend an atmosphere of undusted furniture in an attic. A large, low platform covers most of the stage. The finish is dark wood. The furniture is rustic. A mist hangs in the air. No masking hides the wings from view. The brick wall in the back is the only backdrop. Something which struck me was the use of projections throughout, whether as supertitles, as title cards, or, sometimes, as even part of the performance. In projecting these words, they became actions in the play themselves, performing in certain ways so as to affect the audience, but also seeming to affect the actors as well. At a certain moment, a musician might play a certain tone, and the scene will freeze. Caption: “A blink in time.”<br />
<br />
At the top of the piece, as the audience filters in with their sippy cups of wine and boxes of candy from the bar, the company sits upstage in a stoic line, facing the audience. There is a sense that these are characters frozen in time, but then one moves slightly and the sense changes to one of waiting. Now both spectator and actor are waiting for the play to begin, together. As the lights dim, the cast stands, and we see dust fall off of and out of their clothes. Initially, I perceived this as a bit of humor to start things off: The musicians start up a klezmer tune and the actors shake the dust off themselves from sitting so long before telling the story. But then, much later, the acting company has been sent to an extermination camp, and the dust falls once more out of their clothes—now clearly their own ash. The actors before us are ghosts, the reassembled smoke and ash from the chimneys of genocide. That we’ve seen the company acting, dancing, and singing together the whole while makes the moment even more heart-wrenching for some reason. We waited for the show to start together; is this the way it has to end?<br />
<br />
At this moment in the play is also the only piece of recorded music used in the show (at least, as far as I perceived), and it seems an odd choice: a few bars of the title number from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s <i>Oklahoma!</i> There is no line of dialogue or projection to indicate why the music cue is played; this piece seems to want even more explanation. What the casual theatre-goer might not connect: The extermination camp segment takes place in 1943, which is the same year <i>Oklahoma!</i> opens on Broadway. The use of this music cue seems to say, “At the same time as these events you’re seeing took place in Poland, people here in America were seeing <i>Oklahoma!</i> for the first time.” That is to say, while genocide was taking place elsewhere, “regular Americans like you, and you,” stood idly by—a theme which, as it happens, repeats itself frequently throughout the history of our troubled nation, even today. As for the use of this music cue to indicate all of this, I can’t be certain an audience understands; perhaps it goes by like so many other pieces in the show, as just another artsy thing they are doing.<br />
<br />
Repetition is a device used extensively throughout the play. The scandalous love scene is played three times, in three different ways, with the final time (fittingly, at the end) being the most fully realized: the scene is meant to take place in the rain, which the technical staff graciously supplies for this ultimate iteration. While it is the most fully realized version the audience sees, it also occurs as an outward manifestation of something happening inside Asch. It is unclear whether this is a product of memory or imagination. I was reminded of the idea of ritual purification in Judaism; only after washing can the body enter the temple. The rite of purification cleanses both the body of physical uncleanliness and the soul of spiritual uncleanliness. Does Sholem Asch purify the notion of non-normative love by including this scene in the rain? Does Vogel and Taichman purify Asch by including him in the rainstorm? This, too, is unclear.<br />
<br />
Another repeated scene is the final moments from the play within the play, when the father desecrates the Torah by throwing it to the floor in anger over his daughter’s actions. It is intriguing that the two scenes repeated most in <i>Indecent</i> are the very scenes which caused <i>God of Vengeance</i> to be labelled indecent in the United States. The repetition of the Torah scene was a device to show the various places where the company performed, in a sort of montage, one right after the other. A shorthand then developed; when the father raised the Torah over his head, the audience read that the show within the show was over, even if they couldn’t understand the dialogue.<br />
<br />
<i>Indecent</i> is, at its core, a play about movement, and some of that movement occurs across borders. In a note in the playbill, Paula Vogel says she “didn’t anticipate that <i>Indecent</i> would be as relevant today as it is; we are again witnessing an upheaval of fear, xenophobia, homophobia, and yes, anti-Semitism.” She points out that American borders are being closed in the face of this upheaval, much like they were in the 1920s. “We must remember where the closing of borders in the 20th century led nations around the globe.”<br />
<br />
By the conclusion, the piece felt whole but then didn’t all at the same time. If we are to follow the character of Sholem Asch in <i>Indecent</i>, it seems like there is no great realization or “aha” made. Asch, unsure of the potential for his play at the beginning, seems equally unsure at the end. Perhaps this is the point, that we are left feeling like the work Asch set out to do is not finished and needs to continue; that is, the work of writing theatre that tells non-Jews who the Jews are; that is, essentially, cultural education.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-37731422651820491722017-12-30T16:51:00.000-05:002017-12-30T16:51:10.539-05:00On Fences“The proliferation of borders between states, within states, between people, within people is a proliferation of states of statelessness,” according to Stefano Harney and Fred Moten. There is a certain creativity that comes from the liminal space between nation-states, a borderless border, a between-statehood, where home might be a distant memory, where home might be as real as Timboctou or utopia. <a href="http://blog.kevinfstory.com/2017/12/timboctou-on-borders-and-movement.html">(See my previous post.)</a> Harney and Moten might wonder where Karl Marx got his “inheritance of the hold,” but it may be because he spent most of his life in an absolute state of statelessness, a refugee status of <i>la nuda vita</i>, bare life. Giorgio Agamben took his notion of <i>la nuda vita</i> from Walter Benjamin’s <i>das blosse Leben</i>, mere or naked life, of which “blood is the symbol” and over which “mythical violence” holds <i>Blutgewalt</i>, blood-power. (The German word <i>Gewalt</i>, interestingly enough, means both <i>violence</i> and <i>power</i>. If a border has a certain power, it might follow that a border also has a certain violence.)
<br />
<br />
Bare life is a notion Agamben gets also from ancient Roman law. The <i>Homo sacer</i> was a person who could not be sacrificed in religious ceremony, but also could be killed by anyone without being tried for murder under the law. The <i>Homo sacer</i> was set apart from society, too sacred to kill and too easy not to. Bare life today manifests as the refugee, the marginalized, the migrant—those forced to have no home. Unwilling to succumb to the lawlessness of his own bare life, Benjamin made the ultimate refusal by exercising power over his own mortality.
<br />
<br />
Theodor Adorno, like Benjamin and the many others forced to flee genocide in Nazi Germany, felt his own bare lifeness during his refuge in America. “Every intellectual in emigration is, without exception, mutilated.” Perhaps he only speaks of the intellectual because it is his experience, but it seems apt to extend this characterization to all migrants, especially those forced to flee violence, hatred, and oppression in their homelands. “No individual” is “unmarked.” The borders set up by a “bourgeois” which has become “impenitently malign” help create a further demarcation on the migrant body. “The caring hand that even now tends the little garden as if it had not long since become a ‘lot’, but fearfully wards off the unknown intruder, is already that which denies the political refugee asylum.” For this, we build fences and walls. Those who align themselves with the state become “totally inhuman” in their quickness to dismiss human concerns for the sake of their so-called security.
<br />
<br />
They say that good fences make good neighbors, and the irony is not lost on artist Ai Weiwei, whose “multi-site, multi-media” public art exhibition in New York City takes that old saw as its name. Showing the marks of his own bare life, and with an eye towards “how populist notions often stir up fear and prejudice,” according to the brochure, Ai’s <i>Good Fences Make Good Neighbors</i> is meant to bring a public awareness to the “global migration crisis.” One of the major pieces in the exhibition, among over three hundred other pieces big and small, is “Arch,” located directly beneath the triumphal arch in Washington Square Park. “Arch” physically fills nearly all of the empty space within the archway with its birdcage-like design in silver steel. In the center at ground level is a tunnel lined in reflective material, cut in the extended two-dimensional shape of what appears to be two figures embracing. (This is a quote of a Marcel Duchamp creation for the entrance to the Gradiva art gallery in Paris.) In one way, you are free to pass through the sculpture; in another, you are not allowed to utilize the archway’s full space, restricting movement. “Arch” recreates a border in operation, where everyone’s passport is valid in the spirit of camaraderie—for now. As you might expect most members of the twenty-first century to do, there is a lot of selfie-taking within the reflective walls of the tunnel—a self-capture at the border.
<br />
<br />
Another piece in the exhibition is “Five Fences,” which, as the name suggests, is five sections of chain-link fence which have been affixed to archways on the north side of Cooper Union. When the fences were being installed, I thought that, perhaps, someone had decided to jump out of one of the portals, so the fences were a precautionary measure. This piece is perhaps not as effective as “Arch” or “Gilded Cage,” in the southeast corner of Central Park, simply because it is less interactive. The pedestrian is not confronted with “Five Fences” in the way that “Arch” alters the footpath, for example. Where “Five Fences” does confront is on the visual level, imposing as a mesh of incongruous steel fencing against the deep red-brown of Cooper Union.
<br />
<br />
How is it possible for good fences to make good neighbors? The existence of the fence to begin with signals a distrust of the other, predicating a breakdown of good neighborly relations. If the idea is to keep people “where they belong,” what happens when an individual has no place to belong, is stateless, a refugee, a bare life? What societal benefit is the state missing out on by imposing a policy of absolute non-entrance? What economy is being created around the fence, where money, goods, or services might determine your fitness to cross through? And then, what economy is created counter to that one, where tunnels might be dug or trucks might be trafficking, circumventing the fence?
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">References:</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Adorno</b>, Theodor, <i>Minima Moralia: Reflections from Damaged Life</i> (1951). Translated by E.F.N. Jephcott. London: Verso, 2005.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Agamben</b>, Giorgio, <i>Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life</i>, translated by Daniel Heller-Roazen. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Benjamin</b>, Walter, “Critique of Violence.” In <i>Reflections</i>, translated by Edmund Jephcott. New York: Schocken Books, 1978.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Harney</b>, Stefano and Fred Moten, <i>The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning & Black Study</i>. Wivenhoe, UK: Minor Compositions, 2013.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Public Art Fund</b>, brochure for <i>Good Fences Make Good Neighbors</i>, public art exhibition by Ai Weiwei, New York, 2017.</span>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-22539859110009743682017-12-29T16:51:00.001-05:002017-12-29T16:51:29.905-05:00Timboctou: On Borders and MovementThe modern border is a strange concept. No longer just a physical
line drawn between nations (another strange concept), the border
stretches to every major airport in the world. The border has its own
area, contains its own structures and strictures. The border doesn’t
keep people out; it keeps people in, only permitting certain qualified
individuals to exit through a certain door. I have seen the American
border in Paris and Dublin airports. British border patrol begins in
Paris’s Gare du Nord, a situation which no doubt will become more
complicated as the United Kingdom moves to leave the European Union. One
can cross into a border without leaving one’s geography and, sometimes,
without knowing it.<br />
<br />
The U.S.-Mexico border is a
contentious battleground and conduit for several ongoing “wars,” as
suggested by performance scholar Ruth Hellier-Tinoco in “Re: Moving
Bodies in the USA/Mexico Drug/Border/Terror/Cold Wars.” The title alone
indicates four wars shared by or fought between the two countries. As
Hellier-Tinoco points out, the war over this particular border goes back
to 1846, when the territory-hungry U.S. invaded and captured half of
what was then Mexico, in the name of Manifest Destiny. (It was their
destiny, so they manifested it.) Of course, we must remember that
colonialism ran strong in both nations then as now; think of all the
native people and culture displaced and destroyed in the process. Kofi
Agawu has highlighted the “oft-remarked illogic of colonial boundaries,”
pointing to “the increasingly urgent need to think beyond borders.”
Just as borders trap bodies trying to pass through, borders can also
entrap ideas, forcing a colonial gaze. As Fred Moten suggests, “The very
taking of an anti-colonial stance looks crazy, from a normative
perspective,” but using that perspective to come to “believe in the
world,” which is an “other world,” is imperative to the work that needs
to be done. Hellier-Tinoco does not directly address this, but focuses
instead for the most part on the here and now of the ongoing conflicts
in her analysis of Alejandro Ricaño’s 2012 play <i>Timboctou</i>.<br />
<br />
Ricaño
has created an absurd, darkly humorous piece which attempts, in
practice and in content, to rethink borders. The play’s production
presents a migrancy of its own, a two-way migrancy, having had a dual
premiere in Guadalajara and Los Angeles, using designers and actors from
both Mexico and the United States. Director Martín Acosta has said he
wants to cultivate “a dialogue of gazes between artists from Mexico and
the USA. The dual collaboration allows for a complex and rich framework:
the only way of tearing down walls and crossing rivers and tunnels
without visas, with the powerful flight of imagination.”<br />
<br />
On the U.S. side, <i>Timboctou</i>
was presented by the CalArts Center for New Performance at the REDCAT, a
state-of-the-art experimental theatre space in downtown Los Angeles. On
entering the space, one is confronted by a striking set design filled
with atmosphere. The playing space is enclosed on three sides by tall,
rust-colored panels; a large mound of interlocking chairs takes up
nearly half the space on one side; a big, boxy television hangs
upside-down in the center, suspended a few feet off the deck by a cable
from the lighting grid some thirty feet above. The panels form a wall (<i>the</i> wall, the border wall? a cell?), the chairs form a hill (Capitol Hill? they’re interlocked—it’s complicated. <i>“Take a seat, hombre.”</i>), the television hangs like a strange ornamental light (so it <i>is</i> an interrogation chamber? <i>“Why were you entering the U.S. illegally?”</i>).
During the play, the panels open and close, the mound of chairs
migrates, the television swings—all parts of the set, more than mere
objects, have their own piece to contribute to the overall performance.<br />
<br />
The action of <i>Timboctou</i>,
presented in an enigmatic fashion, takes place in contemporary Mexico
and involves different pairings and groupings of individuals: drug
runners, drug enthusiasts, the government (politicians, police,
military), migrants. The media is represented by a cameraman whose
captured images are shown on the dangling television. While the action
is in Mexico, the actors (both in character and in person) represent
both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border: the American tourist on vacation
in Tijuana looking to “score,” the Mexican politician taking cold calls
from the FBI, and so on. An international border is not the only border
in play; the borders between logic and illogic, comedy and tragedy,
possible and impossible are all under scrutiny. As the play progresses,
the lines blur, and it becomes difficult to see where any border might
be, if there is one. The notion of the border and its authority is
tested. Edward Said has written, “There is nothing mysterious or natural
about authority,” and the same can be claimed for the border which such
“authority” puts into place. “It is formed, irradiated, disseminated;
it is instrumental, it is persuasive; … it is virtually
indistinguishable from certain ideas it dignifies as true, and from
traditions, perceptions, and judgments it forms, transmits, reproduces.”
<i>Timboctou</i> is an attempt to call out the unnaturalness of the border and steal away its supposed power.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
The
notion of “Timboctou” is of a mythical place, a place that doesn’t
exist but you try to reach anyway (maybe Moten’s “other world”). An
immediate connection might be made to the concept of utopia, whether as
originally posed by Thomas More or as adapted (for the better) by José
Muñoz. More derived the term <i>utopia</i> in 1516 from Greek, meaning <i>not place</i>.
As a place (or no place), it’s something one can move towards without
ever arriving. Muñoz says the existence of utopia “reminds us that there
is something missing.” It functions as a comparative lens of idealism
through which to view our current world and see what direction we need
to move. The present is not enough: While utopia holds no establishment
of a certain futurity, there is a sense that the future is at stake when
we talk about the present, informed by the past. Furthermore, the very
idea of presence (and “its opposite number, absence”) is not enough:
There is some liminal in-between where the utopia exists or can be
accessed. In addition to a <i>not place</i>, it is also a <i>not there (yet)</i>.<br />
<br />
In <i>Timboctou</i>
the play, Chucho tells Dany about Timboctou, the concept, while they
perform an elaborate running choreography facing the audience:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I
can’t get rid of the image of my dad, Dany, talking about Timboctou
before he died. He always spoke about Timboctou as the furthest place on
earth. … I’m sure that no one knows where Timboctou is. … It’s absurd
to think of the furthest place on earth when the earth is round. …
Perhaps that’s why the earth is round, Dany—so that no one has to live
at the end of the world. … Before I die I have to go to Timboctou. No
one should die without knowing Timboctou, Dany. After all, it’s the end
of the world.</blockquote>
The invocation of Timboctou implies a
movement, just as utopia does. For Muñoz, “utopia is a stage, not merely
a temporal one, like a phase, but also a spatial one.” A stage of time
and space upon which a movement acts in time and space, a here and now
which moves towards a there and then. In the play <i>Timboctou</i>, the
movement is, thematically, across the border between the U.S. and
Mexico, in both directions. Objects and ideas are exchanged along with
the bodies. The actors’ movements in the play are highly choreographed
so as to accentuate subtext; the text, spoken mostly in Spanish with
English supertitles projected onto the wall panels, carries with it the
sort of “heightened mundaneness” I typically associate with Quentin
Tarantino films like <i>Pulp Fiction</i>. This heightened mundaneness is
a style where the conversation at the textual level seems
everyday—e.g., a light-hearted conversation about fast food—while the
context and subtext suggest higher stakes—e.g., the two men speaking are
hitmen about to commit murder. Hellier-Tinoco notes that in <i>Timboctou</i>
“spoken words tell one story, and bodies articulate another, as
corporeal forms, embodied postures, and multifaceted movement
vocabularies offer insights into relationships and connections, power
relations and attitudes.” It is interesting that Hellier-Tinoco uses the
word <i>embodied</i> to modify <i>postures</i>, seeming to indicate that she means <i>posture</i>
in the sense of an approach or attitude, or even a false impression, as
opposed to the way one stands (though embodying a particular attitude <i>would</i> affect the way one stands). In another connection to Tarantino’s work, the temporality of <i>Timboctou</i>
is non-linear, with elements of the plot presented as fragments out of
time. As each fragment is presented, connections are realized, and we
come to laugh at the absurdities while also cringing at the horrors each
new connection brings.<br />
<br />
Throughout her piece, Hellier-Tinoco relates the choreography used in <i>Timboctou</i>
to the wars, real or imagined, which take place across, around, and
about the U.S.-Mexico border: silent polar bears move around the space
ignored by two men, symbolic of the silent war the U.S. fights in Mexico
through intelligence agencies; two men perform a routine “reminiscent
of Laurel and Hardy,” symbolizing the predictability of the U.S. war on
drugs; two men run backwards and forwards in the space, the “running” of
drugs and guns. There is a choreography to how bodies move across,
around, and within borders, just as there is a choreography to how
actors move around on a stage. <i>Timboctou</i> mirrors the movement of everyday lives and asks us, in an indirect way, to rethink borders.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>References:</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Agawu</b>, Kofi, <i>Representing African Music: Postcolonial Notes, Queries, Positions</i>. New York: Routledge, 2003.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Harney</b>, Stefano and Fred Moten, <i>The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning & Black Study</i>. Wivenhoe, UK: Minor Compositions, 2013.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Hellier-Tinoco</b>, Ruth, “Re: Moving Bodies in the USA/Mexico Drug/Border/Terror/Cold Wars.” In <i>Choreographies of 21st Century Wars</i>, edited by Gay Morris and Jens Richard Giersdorf. New York: Oxford University Press, 2016.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Muñoz</b>, José Esteban, <i>Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity</i>. New York: New York University Press, 2009.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Said</b>, Edward W., <i>Orientalism</i>. New York: Vintage Books, 1979.
</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">“<b><a href="http://centerfornewperformance.org/projects/timboctou/" target="_blank">Timboctou</a></b>,” CalArts Center for New Performance website. Accessed 20 December 2017. </span>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-31981049898833636962017-12-14T12:00:00.000-05:002017-12-14T12:00:20.468-05:00Ocean VuongI just read <i>Night Sky with Exit Wounds</i>, a book of poems by Ocean Vuong published last year. It turns out that a good friend of mine went to high school with Vuong, and she happened to be in the same poetry class as him. She remembers his poetry being “pretty raw” and asked me if it made me cry. I didn’t press further, but I had the image in my head of Vuong reading his work in this high school poetry class and the students weeping around him. With him.
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It seems to me that most poetry is analyzed as if every word is spoken by the poet, in the poet’s voice. We ascertain intent as if that’s the reason the poet wrote what he wrote and there must be nothing else. I have a feeling this is because poetry seems impenetrable to many, even those who purport to critique it, but because it is written in languages we suppose to understand, we scramble when we confront what is not easily understood and instead seek to figure out what the poet <i>means to do</i> with these words rather than consider how the words <i>feel in our own mouths and ears</i>. Also, the voice the poet uses is not always his own. In a piece such as “Immigrant Haibun,” Vuong uses the voice of his mother. And there’s “My Father Writes from Prison.” And there’s “Of Thee I Sing,” from the perspective of Jackie Kennedy in Dallas, 1963. Many of these voices come from a past Vuong could not possibly have lived, and yet can bring so much life and presence to with his words.
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Poets, it seems to me, are drawn to certain words for their sounds and their images. In <i>Lessons on Expulsion</i>, poet Erika L. Sánchez uses the word “sucking” a lot, or at least enough to get me to notice it. Vuong uses a colorful vocabulary filled with names of flowers and sprinkled with his native Vietnamese (though he was probably not old enough to have learned a great deal of it in his home country, his family spoke it at home in Connecticut), but evocative repeated words and phrases (images) include hands (my hands, his hands, a boy’s early hands, blue thumbprint, blurred finger), shadows, mouths (and tongues), bullets, knives (blades, sharpening, cutting). There is a beauty to the violent, and a violence to the beautiful.
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My favorite lines might be these, from “Thanksgiving 2006”:
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My mother said I could be anything
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I wanted—but I chose to live.Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4663570339602190594.post-77022063405628425342017-11-30T12:14:00.002-05:002017-11-30T12:14:22.954-05:00Notes on Ferrante's The Days of AbandonmentAn absence of sense: I’ve seen it and experienced it myself three times in my life. My father divorced twice. The first time, it was my mother who had the absence of sense, and I think she’s been trying to regain it ever since. The second time, my father experienced the absence of sense which precipitated the divorce; my step-mother could see it, could see everything, but he was and probably still remains blind to it, trapped in the new fantasy of his third marriage. So as a child, I can relate to Gianni or Ilaria, who experience the absence of sense second-hand, who become subject to it in weird and unexpected ways. I am struck particularly by the scene of them hiding inside the old cannon, on cardboard which, as Olga says, “had made a bed for some immigrant.” There is this implication that the children have become migrant with her, or despite her; that through this change of state from marriage to separation they have been uprooted in some way and made inexplicably to lie in immigrant dwellings. I think also of the new door, how the door is necessary to keep something out, but also becomes the thing which entraps them in this home that seems at once familiar and foreign to Olga, which contains within it madness, sickness, and death. For things to be restored, there must be an intervention, which they make from inside to out by breaking Carrano’s balcony window, and which Carrano makes from the outside in through apparently his mere presence.
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The third time, I experienced an absence of sense myself. I was married to a childhood friend who became disillusioned with our marriage. She, too, sought the comforts of someone else and hid her affairs from me. We still went on dates, took trips, slept together. After a long trip to Europe, the faucet of her misdeeds (as I label them, having been hurt by them) began to drip. Over the course of months, everything was up in the air. I experienced my own absence of sense. Everything could be fixed and nothing could be done all at the same time. I felt like a stranger in my own house. My then-wife once accused me of acting as though she had died. To me, she had. I was in mourning. She eventually left in September, though we tried marriage counselling and still paid the rent together. I left the apartment in January. I didn’t have enough sense to deal with paying bills anymore, to deal with the particulars of our separation and eventual divorce. I barely had enough sense to keep my career going. I am grateful we didn’t have children or even pets. I was able to keep as much of my absence of sense to myself as I could. Yet, in Olga I see it all: delusions which talked me through small problems, the forgetting of mundane importances, an uncharacteristic sexual encounter, even the real problem of fighting ants in your home (which I would have sworn was driving me crazy in and of itself). To see Olga emerge with her sense, with herself, with her strength gives me hope that, perhaps one day, if not already, I will also emerge from my absence of sense, through a regular dosage of “a tisane of normality and repose.”<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Elena Ferrante, <i>The Days of Abandonment</i>, translated by Ann Goldstein. New York: Europa Editions, 2005. </span>Kevin F. Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00526239017379203269noreply@blogger.com0