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Volume 2, Issue 5
OCTOBER-DECEMBER '23
NEXT ISSUE: FEBRUARY '24
Carlos Martinez
2
FALL 2023
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
01
COVER: Saturn's Bouquet
by Carlos Martinez
04
Letters & Thank you
06
Black Nativity Reimagined
08
The Game: Soft Boy
THEATER PAGES
11
Measure for Measure
12
To Gather
14
Merry Wives of Windsor
16
COLUMN: Arte Noir
17
Art Collector: Jo Jo Stiletto
18
DON’T MISS IT!
20
Performance Listings
22
Visual Arts Listings
GALLERY PAGES
26
Alison Stigora
28
Dawn Endean
30
Carlos Martinez
32
Lad Decker
34
Hanako O'Leary
36
Lauren Iida
38
Whiting Tennis
40
Sharyll Burroughs
42
uckiood
44
Nahom Ghirmay
46
Mary Anne Carter
MASTHEAD
ERICA TARRANT Editor/Designer
MARTY GRISWOLD Publisher
MARY TRAVERSE Design Consultant
ANDREW MCMULLEN Distribution
SIMON SHAW Admin Assistant
ERIN CRAVER Accounting
ONE REEL BOARD OF DIRECTORS: Elisheba John-
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inson, Marcus Charles, and Mikhael Mei Williams.
ONE REEL EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR Marty Griswold.
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2022 Arts Organization of the Year!
elcome to PublicDisplay.ART’s performance preview
issue, where we turn our attention to upcoming stage
productions. What better way to adapt to the darkness and
coming rain than sitting amidst an audience poised in antic-
ipation for the curtain to go up? Look to our listings to see
what’s happening on every stage across the city at a glance. It
offers something that you’d be hard-pressed to find online —
a comprehensive view through the end of the year that allows
you to plan ahead and not miss out on anything.
One of the most exciting shows is the all-new, reimag-
ined production of Langston Hughes’ Black Nativity,
coming to the Intiman in partnership with The Hansberry
Project. Why, pray tell? You’ll find the answer in Vivian
Phillips’ engaging interview with director Valerie Curtis-
Newton. Suffice it to say, if soaring voices from a rousing
citywide gospel choir is what it takes you to get into the
spirit of the holidays, look no further.
Just as we got underway on this issue, Gemma Wilson,
who has covered theatre for us this past year, was snatched
up by the Seattle Times. We couldn't be happier knowing
her talent has been tapped by the Times to expand their
performance coverage. This forced us to reexamine how
we approach the performing arts and I think we nailed it
by turning to those who know best.
In this issue, you’ll find a sneak peek of three upcoming
productions through the eyes of four participants. Each piece
offers up personal photos and coverage in their own words
(or, in the case of one, through the words of Shakespeare him-
self) that provide insight into the people and the work behind
what you’ll see on stage. We're so happy with the results, we
plan to continue with it in future issues.
Speaking of the future, here’s an update on what’s next
for PublicDisplay.ART. As a non-profit, community-supported
publication, we continue to work to find the funding neces-
sary to keep going. We’d like to express our thanks to all the
folks who responded to our message in the last issue. Your
support shows us that our work has been appreciated and
that some of you are invested in seeing more of us next year.
While the issue you hold in your hands will be our final
issue of 2023, we understand how important it is to you to
have an ongoing print resource covering the arts in Seattle,
and we aim to make this happen! After a short hiatus, we
plan to resume publishing PublicDisplay.ART next year.
Our first issue of 2024 will hit the streets in early February,
and if all goes well, we plan to continue publishing every
other month through the rest of the year.
Of course, it will take money to do this, so if you haven’t
had the chance to donate to One Reel, we encourage you
to consider this. Because we need your support to con-
tinue to provide recognition to local artists and to bring
you arts coverage you can turn to when navigating your
way through Seattle’s arts scene.
The good news is that you might notice that this issue
has quite a few more pages in it. It is, in fact, our biggest issue
yet. This is largely due to the bump in advertising from local
businesses and organizations who see value in supporting
the arts through PublicDisplay.ART. Their investment paid off,
and because we are not wholly dependent on advertising, we
were able to reinvest those dollars into another eight pages.
The additional pages allowed us to expand coverage to
Seattle’s stages without sacrificing our coverage of visual art
and artists. By not being forced to cut content to accommo-
date more advertising, our advertisers have an uncluttered
platform to showcase their events to a receptive audience.
Everyone wins!
If you want to expand your knowledge of local artists
worthy of your attention, buckle up and turn to page 26. I
dare say that the eleven featured artists in this issue make for
a wild roller-coaster ride that showcases a dizzying range
of artistic styles. From well-established critical darlings to
little-known artists bursting on the scene, this issue’s lineup
is a great reminder of the level of talented individuals whose
work contributes to Seattle’s cultural relevance.
Hop over to our ongoing columns for coverage of local
filmmaker Justin Emeka’s new short, Biological, as well as
an overview of his previous works presented in partnership
with Arte Noir. Art Collector, our rotating series that offers
art collectors the opportunity to share their experiences
purchasing and owning art, features burlesque performer
Jo Jo Stiletto, whose passion for letterpress works and
screenprints offers an inexpensive opportunity to collect
works that resonate with their own queer aesthetic.
And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how much I
enjoyed Amanda Manitach’s feature on Seattle-based
Peruvian artist Rafael Soldi. As a prolific writer and artist,
Amanda has mined the deeply personal stories that inspired
the works of Soldi's exhibit, Soft Boy, currently on display at
the Frye. It’s a show you don’t want to miss. For more visual
art exhibits, dance performances, and stage productions,
we recommend you check out over the coming months,
turn to page 18 for DON’T MISS IT!
Thank you for making PublicDisplay.ART an ongoing part
of your art discovery process. We are honored to share with
you what we love most about living in Seattle, and we remain
committed to bringing more coverage your way in 2024.
Until then, enjoy your arts journey.
Cheers,
Marty Griswold
Executive Director, One Reel
Publisher, PublicDisplay.ART
Publisher's Note
4
FALL 2023
@tavo331
Great question!
Empower youth by supporting artistic expression
through diverse art programs! Start with children in
public schools.
Pay grade school teachers to take art classes.
Bring local artists to give workshops and com-
pensate them generously for their time and energy.
Thank you for keeping it real.
@lad.decker
Prioritize housing and mental healthcare for people
at risk of homelessness. Speed up the waterfront
construction. It shouldn’t take forever to develop a
road and sidewalk.
@myyinyangself
Grantmakers and funders who don't treat artists like
corporate commodities. Yes, artists need money to
create work but what if you can't pay your rent or
fix your car? It's difficult to make work if you can't
sustain a basic quality of life.
Artists have value beyond how much their work
sells for. We need more funders who emulate the
MacArthur blueprint.
@slip_belltown
Expand programs allowing artists to occupy empty
storefronts. Create incentives for property owners
and educate them as to why art improves neighbor-
hoods and communities.
Mandate a limited number of months a property
can be empty before the owners have to allow an
artist community to occupy the space.
@jamiecurtismith
I have a MILLION ideas, and we really should create
a manifesto to circulate to politicians, so I'll start
throwing out some of the ideas here.
@triviapuppet
Timely administration of contracts and grants.
@lana_blinderman
Like the folks above said - Universal Basic Income.
Also truly affordable, public housing.
@b.noah.art
Basic income, a lot more grant money not tied to
"public benefit" but simply support for artists to do
their work, since it buys time to do so. Vastly increase
government purchases of artists' work, then give it to
interested citizens based on income levels. Artist sup-
port funding right now is pathetic. BOOST IT!
@sheklein
Create more live/work spaces by offering an incen-
tive to building owners. Fund artists to work in
schools, community centers, and retirement homes.
Bring back a CETA or WPA-type program. Fund artists
to do temporary experimental projects to activate
all parts of the city. Add to cultural offerings like free
museum entry, increase and value art programs in
education beginning in elementary schools. Create
alliances between artists and industry.
@suzannekaufman
Have more affordable art studio spaces.
@apiaryartanddesign
Making other life resources more affordable- rent,
food, childcare.
@co________.seattle
More frequent and larger grant opportunities for
individual artists!
@liturnerart
More funding opportunities for older women artists.
@cadelkennart
money
@patansart
Help Friends of Inscape maintain the coolest art build-
ing in Seattle and not sell to someone who wants to
make it something else. friendsofinscape.org
@artistsupclose
Substantial investments in arts news coverage.
There just aren't enough journalists writing about
the arts in Seattle.
@tedhuetter
I second the suggestions about reopening vacant
street-level spaces to creative small businesses and
artists of all kinds. Do not encourage the closed-
door storefront exhibition spaces and instead make
them open and active.
Artist-residence programs, open galleries, and
workspaces for arts and science. Mix it up to make
them lively and surprising venues that will enliven
an otherwise dying neighborhood for downtown
residents, businesses, and visitors. Convince land-
lords and developers that it's not only good for the
community but for the bottom line as well. There
are many exciting new possibilities to replace some
real estate formulas that simply don't work any-
more. As the song says, just got to accentuate the
positive, and eliminate the negative...
@jkcalladine
Affordable studio & gallery spaces
@therealcherieb
Opportunities to create community among artists.
@sydney.mullins
Provide open calls and venue opportunities to area
curators! I see tons of open calls for public art and
group shows, but very seldom calls for independent
curators working with local artists. I am seeing that
echoes here a lot- it all boils down to MORE VENUE
and STUDIO SPACE!
@jamiecurtismith
Local municipalities can connect artists, real estate
agents, and developers to do a better job promot-
ing local artists, through corporate contracting, art
rentals, cheap/free venue usage, and promotion
@smcaseattle
Money money money
From the Universe of Social Media
ast week, we posed a question on social media: “What more can local government
agencies do to support the work of local artists and strengthen our creative community
in Seattle?” We were pleasantly surprised by the number of comments we
received. With another local election on the horizon, we thought we’d
share some of these in hopes that our politicians will take note and that
you’ll keep these in mind when you vote. If you have ideas as well, please
join the conversation: @publicdisplay
6
FALL 2023
escribed as jubilant gospel music, dramatic dance,
Black vernacular, and Biblical narrative, this staged
holiday tradition has been a staple in Black communities
all over the country for sixty-two years strong. In Seattle,
audiences enjoyed Black Nativity from 1998 through
2012. Now, the classic is coming back!
Intiman Theater has tapped Valerie Curtis-Newton to
bring new life to our beloved classic. She is co-founder of
The Hansberry Project, University of Washington School
of Drama Head of Directing, and celebrated theater direc-
tor. Just after opening her latest directorial gem, Andrew
Creech’s Last Drive to Dodge at Taproot Theatre, I spoke
to Curtis-Newton about her vision for Black Nativity.
Following are excerpts from that conversation.
How did Intiman Theatre make the decision to bring
Black Nativity back?
Pre-pandemic, there was a meeting to figure out if the
original players who were still around would want to
be a part of making something happen. It didn’t arise
out of those conversations, but the idea didn’t really
die. Jennifer Zeyl and the folks at the Intiman reached
out to me and said, “We found it in our budget to do a
version of Black Nativity this year. We’d love for you to
direct it. Are you interested?” My response was, “I think
the community needs a gathering moment, and so yes,
I’ll participate.” I needed everyone to understand that we
are not trying to do the Black Nativity that people are
familiar with. We want to honor that, but we also want
to make it something different. We were able to get Sam
Townsend as the chorale director and Vania Bynum to
do the choreography, and I will work with the actors. So
we have a nice triumvirate of people who were famil-
iar with what Black Nativity used to be but who are all
interested in a new spin and in starting a new process
of evolving it.
How difficult do you think it will be for people who
may have only experienced the Black Nativity that has
been traditionally produced here in a particular way, to
embrace something different?
This is definitely something that we have thought about.
We don’t have Patrinell Wright with us anymore. We don’t
have Reverend McKinney with us anymore. Anything we
try to do would be trying to live up to those standards
of a certain kind of excellence. I’ve been thinking about
this a little like sorbet, the palate cleanser before the next
course. This just gets people focused again on having a
Black Nativity gathering and mustering the energy and
support that lets Intiman know, and other producers
know, that the community wants to have it back and
wants to have the feeling of gathering back.
You mentioned Sam Townsend, who will be the chorale
director. Starting there, how big of a choir will we see,
and will voices from the past also be incorporated into
this new version?
It will be around 20-25 voices, and Sam is reaching out
to folks, many of whom have done it before, so yes. there
will be some familiar voices and then there will be some
new voices. We’re trying to open the door to new things.
We’re not completely untethering it. We are putting our
own stamp on it, but the cornerstone of that first act is
what it has always been.
Another element is the choreography, and you men-
tioned that Vania Bynum would be doing that. What, as
the director, are you looking for in the choreography to
move the story forward?
I think we’re interested in it being as muscular a story as
possible. The movement and the dancers add that phys-
icalized element. The expression of worship and praise,
and the theatricality that comes through the dancers, is
important. Vania understands that. But again, we have this
great legacy handed to us by these folks who have gone
home and left it for us to do. The great thing about legacy
work is that we are expected and entitled to make it our
own. That is, in fact, what our role is – to take the gift that
we’ve been given and make it our own, reflecting our cur-
rent time, and to leave it for those who are going to come
after to do the same thing.
I believe that Kabby, Pat, and Reverend McKinney
would expect us to do no less. I don’t think any of them
would be hell-bent on our just repeating what they did
and stifling our own impulses and our own artistic voices.
I think they would be happy that we find something to
build on from what they have already made.
It’s a really joyful piece. Can you describe the kind of joy
that you hope audiences will experience in this new imag-
ining of Black Nativity? What do you want them to feel?
The desire to tap your foot, be moved to rock from side to
side, to find yourself smiling, to laugh or shout amen here
and there whether that’s your tradition or not. I also want
us to share the fact that we’ve come through some things.
There have been things that we’ve come through as part of
our history as Black people in the Americas, the United States
in particular. We have reason to celebrate our faith. I feel the
opportunity to express that, and to share that kind of elation
that comes from it, and the release, is important. There is
something amazingly powerful about a multitude of voices
joined together, sharing worship, sharing praise. That does
something to the spirit, and that’s part of the joy feeling I want
folks to have — a lightening of the spirit and a sense of being
part of something bigger than themselves.
One of the reasons I make theater is because I love the
idea that it can help people feel less alone. This produc-
tion is exactly the kind of work that inspires us to feel a
part of something. If people come out of the theatre smil-
ing at each other and giving a “howdy neighbor” nod we
will have done a good thing.
Given that Black Nativity audiences were part subscriber
base and part Black community, do you think this is
going to introduce you as a director to a new audience?
I think there are a lot of Black folks that have not seen my
work. As an artist, you could get tied into knots wanting
people to love everything you do. I hope to bring my level
of expertise and a sense of discernment to the work and
give it the best we’ve got with the resources we have.
Do you have a measure of success?
If the people involved in making it ultimately feel proud
Intiman Theatre + The Hansberry Project
Black Nativity Reimagined
by Vivian Phillips
of having made it. I would love for the people in the audi-
ence to enjoy it. I absolutely would. I’m trying to bring out
the best in the people who are making it so that we have
our own sense of community, and then we can offer the
invitation to the greater community to participate. If a few
heads nod during the production I’ll be okay.
Will you do it again?
Let me get through this one first and we’ll see. If the people
like it I’d be happy to do it again. If they like the idea of it and
I’m not the one to direct, I’m okay with that, too.
I guess I hear you saying that you believe that Black
Nativity is an important production to be annualized.
Absolutely! And it might in fact be good for it to move
from director to director and for us to see lots of iterations
of Black Nativity.
Will there be songbooks?
Yes, there will be! We decided that the program would
likely be a songbook. In the second act, some of the actors
will share some of Langston Hughes' poetry. Not the ser-
monette, but actually some of Langston Hughes' poetry.
Some of it is definitely religious in nature and some of it is
just Langston’s view of Black folks in the world.
What is your history with Intiman Theatre?
When I first moved here in 1993, I met a few Black
women who introduced me to the community. Tawnya
Pettiford-Wates and Jackie Moscou, who were kind of
the mavens of Black theatre at that time. Jackie was
working at Intiman directing Flying West, and I was
a grad student and asked if I could assistant direct.
Assisting Jackie on Flying West at Intiman was the first
theatre position I ever worked. Once I got out
of grad school, (former Intiman artistic direc-
tor) Kate Whoriskey asked me to direct All My
Sons which was the last show mounted at the
old Intiman space. I did Trouble In Mind when
Intiman came back, as part of the first festival
that Intiman did in its revived state. I did Dirty
Story, Bulrusher, and Wedding Band for them
as well. I’ve directed 5 or 6 shows for Intiman.
You also have a pretty deep history with local
Black playwrights. Talk a little about the Black
playwrights that you’ve worked with as well.
Andrew Lee Creech wrote Last Drive to Dodge,
and I’ve worked with him on two or three proj-
ects. I’ve been working with Reginald A. Jackson
on The History of Theatre, and we premiered Part
One in January of this year. We will do a work-
shop of Part Two in October. I’ve worked with
some of the women writers from The Mahogany
Project, Alma Davenport’s (Restoration of the
Arts) project, and I’ve worked with Cheryl West.
We’ve got a lot of writers in town who are doing things,
and more of them coming along all the time. Part of what
The Hansberry Project is trying to do is give them a life-
line, an oxygen hose to keep them going until their work
catches traction.
I’m hopeful that people will get a sense of how you have
been working on behalf of the Black community of writ-
ers and playwrights, actors, choreographers, and Black
Theatre for a very long time.
I am really proud that many of the theatre structures in the
city now include people of color in decision-making posi-
tions. We remember going on and on for a very long time
when we weren’t represented in decision-making. I feel
proud of the work that has resulted in the next generation
having the opportunity to shape our experiences — and
the theatre landscape — in Seattle. A lot of what I do is
behind the scenes but the fruit of what I do is very visible.
What’s that one thing you always tell the cast or play-
wrights that you’re working with?
I tell them that I go through the process, and I pray for
the moment that it doesn’t suck. If we can get to a place
where we know it doesn’t suck, then art is possible. I also
tell them that I promise if they give their all I will not let
them look bad!
Prior to this year's Black Nativity revival, the play was performed at Intiman from 1998-2012. These are images from that rich history of past performances.
Director Valerie Curtis-Newton.
8
FALL 2023
cross the screen, the staccato flash of a fireball
cracks open the black night sky. Mushroom plumes
of smoke, glowing warm from within, swell upward from
the earth and cut short the sleep of five million dreamers.
It’s March 2003, and Rafael Soldi has just arrived from
Peru to Washington, D.C. along with his father, mother,
and two older brothers. He is 16. His father, a marine biol-
ogist for the Peruvian government, has been appointed
to a position in the US Capitol. The week of their arrival,
America invades Iraq. As they unpack their belongings,
a theater of war loops on every television screen, every
channel, 24 hours a day: landscapes rinsed in night-vision
green, the drill of bombs permeating the most intimate
corners of the home.
Twenty years later, Soldi’s parents have long since
returned to Peru. He remained in the US to study art, then
settled into gallery work in New York, eventually finding
his way to Seattle.
His solo exhibition at Frye Art Museum, Soft Boy,
revisits his 16-year-old self and the search for a memory
inextricably tethered to that period of transition. Like the
haunted taste of madeleine dipped in tea, the memory
has lingered in the mind, in shadows and half-formed, of
a game played by boys of a certain age. But as an adult,
when Soldi began to think back on the game he wasn’t
sure it had actually happened at all, or if it was some-
thing spun in the depths of his mind.
Thus unfurls an exhibit that is part reality, part dream-
scape. Amid a field of wordplay, horseplay, dress-up, and
role-play, the exhibit is a dissection and invocation of this
hazy, but critical thing.
The heart of the exhibit is a video, Soft Boy. It con-
sumes an entire room of the museum, three wall-size
screens wrapping around, enveloping the viewer in the
glow of projection. For nearly 16 minutes a series of small
dramas unfold, a succession of vignettes woven between
the screens.
It begins with the sound of softly thudding feet—a dull
drilling thumpthumpthumpthump. A figure materializes: a
schoolboy running in place. His face is a little angelic, a little
listless. He’s running nowhere, in a nondescript room, in a
nondescript uniform of white shirt tucked into khaki pants,
as though being put through paces like a horse.
A group of schoolboys are introduced, one by one.
Their faces are fresh, hearty, delicate like porcelain. With
long arms and broadening chests, they’re half-grown
men still in their nymphal stage, bodies not yet hardened.
The video unfolds and they begin to play games of frolic-
some torture and sinister teasing.
“We called it cargamontón,” Soldi says. “It was a kind of
playful, brawling, pig-pile type game. The bully would pick
out the skinny kid or the gay kid or whomever the target
was, and they would wrestle him to the ground til he was
fully pinned against the cement floor. And the other kids
would run, jump as high as they could, then land really
hard on top till he was suffocating under a pile of bodies.
I started thinking back to these rituals of my youth, rituals
that enabled intimacy and contact and touch.”
hough he had an impression that something like this
had happened, he could never picture it exactly. He
reached out to childhood friends to ask if they remem-
bered. While some drew a blank, others retained faint
recollections but not much more.
Finally, Soldi found physical proof in the archives of
YouTube. Videos had been posted by Peruvian teens in the
early 2000s—before iPhones and social media—when kids
were bringing digital point-and-shoot cameras to school
and filming themselves. In those uploads, he found flick-
erings of the feeling he remembered.
“I was looking for something riding this really fine line,”
he says, “moments that sometimes feel like utter pleasure,
of being entangled in sweat and bodies, but that also felt
scary, dark, and overwhelming.”
Earlier this spring, Soldi traveled to Peru to embark on
recreating his memories of cargamontón in film. He found
a director (who, incidentally, had attended the same pri-
vate boy’s school in Lima as Soldi) and hired ten Peruvian
high school-aged boys. Then for two days they filmed in
a black box studio, recreating the movements of the ritual
as Soldi remembers it. What emerged over the course of
those days was something alchemical. Given minimal
prompts and no further direction, the boys began acting
out their own, organic iteration of cargamontón, falling
into the raucous, ordered
disorder of the roughhouse
ritual. Like the hazy images
haunting Soldi’s memory.
Just like the images haunt-
ing YouTube.
The clips from YouTube
find their way into Soft Boy
in the form of a suite of four
aquatint
photogravures
made from still images Soldi
captured. Collectively titled
Cargamontón, the black
and white prints are aggres-
sively stark and factual in
contrast to the dreaminess
of the video. Soldi softens
that starkness by blowing
up the stills to nearly life-
size proportions, using the rosin powder of the aquatint
process to create velvety tones and edges that dissolve
into the shadows.
Redolent of the interlacing channels of the video,
each image of the series offers a unique point of view of
the pig pile: one image spies the game from a distance,
the perspective of a passerby or participant hanging back.
Another lunges closer, into the tangle of the brawl. Pulled
in closer still, the third image hovers over a boy pinned
to the ground, his face broken into an ecstatic smile, one
hand languidly draped across his belly, the other half-
raised as if to shield his face. The most intimate of the
frames is pulled in impossibly tight, face-to-shadowy-face
with the attacker, a brow furrowed with concentration. Or
is it furrowed with pleasure? There’s no way to tell in this
impossible closeness.
Hung seamlessly side-by-side, the ink of one print
seems to bleed into the next. They flash by in one breath-
less, jarring, euphoric blur.
hat does the word cargamontón mean? There’s
not a word for it in English, but cargamontón
translates roughly to “gang harassment.” When Soldi
asked around—asked the young actors in his video, his
nephews, and other Peruvian teens—it seems none of
them play the game anymore. They just bully online now.
These days, the term cargamontón is primarily used in
the Peruvian vernacular to describe politicians ganging
up to exert pressure on one another, or political acts of
coercion.
A word lost in time and translation seems fitting: in
the story of Soldi’s coming of age, migration, sexuality,
The Game
Rafael Soldi's Soft Boy at the Frye
by Amanda Manitach
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FALL 2023
Measure for Measure
West of Lenin
October 26-30
www.freeholdtheatre.org
easure for Measure involves characters in a world where their
full, complex humanity cannot exist — make mistakes, learn,
and try again. The Duke and his community are imbalanced by the
pinched intolerance of the city's cultural climate. The Duke senses
the crisis and his own failure and sets out to find a way to fix the
imbalance. Director Robin Lynn Smith describes the play as "a story
of human forgiveness that makes space for the whole person."
#1 The moment captured
between Angelo (Sylvester
Kamara) and Isabella (Ayo
Tushinde) is identifiable if
you’re familiar with the play.
But did you know that the
intricacies of creating this
physical relationship involve
more than just the actors
and director? Our fight
choreographer (Morgan
Grody) and intimacy
choreographer (Sarah
Harlett) both help craft the
quality and length of touch,
speed of movement, and
even when and exactly
where actor-to-actor
contact happens.
#2 Measure for Measure is
not a musical. However, this
show boasts a large variety of
instruments, which musicians
Anne Mathews and Valerie Holt
expertly employ to create the
score of the show, composed
by Gino Jevdjevic. If that wasn’t
remarkable enough, Anne
and Valerie will be on stage
singing and playing live at every
performance! (Note: Josh Kenji
isn’t playing Candy Crush - the
songs are in Latin.)
#3 Well, well, well — if Mistress
Overdone (Truxton Ivory) has to
*thworp* that fan, we know she
has got some tea ready for the
spilling, honey! To find out about
the latest drama in
Vienna you’ll want to
see the show. The little sparkles
in her eyes are full of hot gossip.
#4 Freehold’s Engaged Theatre
program allows us to take
stories to incarcerated people
who have been discredited by
society, sometimes discounted
as human beings altogether.
Taking shows into prison
settings requires a minimalist
approach when it comes to
elements of design. The rules
about what we may bring in
for a performance are many
and non-negotiable. In this
production, we use live music,
dance, and rhythm soundscapes
to create a vibrant world that
engages people with the story.
(Pictured left to right: Hanna
Abrahamson, Ronnie Hill, Lola
Fukushima, Sylvester Kamara).
#5 Director Robin Lynn Smith
dissects specific beats of a scene
between The Duke (Shawn
Belyea) and Claudio (Josh Kenji).
The choice to floor-sit or perch
upon a box truly gives a glimpse
into the instincts of stage
artists in their natural habitat: a
windowless room from which
important and beautiful stories
are born. Ah, nature. Or rather, a
mirror to hold up to it.
Ayo Tushinde
Isabella
Ayo is a Seattle actor
passionate about
creating through
intersectionality
and inclusion in our
ever-shifting soci-
ety. She has enjoyed
working with local
theatres, including
Cafe Nordo, Living
Voices, ACT, Intiman,
Seattle Public Theatre,
Seattle Shakespeare
Company, and The
Seagull Project. Ayo hopes to continue bringing new
light to the texts of our favorite old dead white guys.
#1
#2
#3
#4
#5
and language are inextricably intertwined.
When Soldi arrived to America, he didn’t
know he was gay. He also didn’t know
English well. The piece mouth to mouth
comes together as yet another game in the
puzzle of the exhibit, this one of wordplay.
By flanking the entrance to the theater,
mouth to mouth serves as a preface to Soft
Boy, a (rite of) passage through which the
visitor must first proceed. The walls are
awash in a whisper of palest lavender. A
collection of words is scattered across the
lavender field, each hand-drawn in black
ink, bordered in a plain white frame.
They meander like an exploded dictio-
nary: “TOMB” is side by side with “BOY.”
“MARICÓN” with “DREAM.” “ROUGH”
next to “HOUSING.” This constellation
of words—both Spanish and English—
maps the experience of learning a
new tongue within the larger context
of shedding, becoming. As Soldi’s
comfortability with English increased
and familiarity with his native tongue
decreased, letting go of anxiety around
“getting language straight” was neces-
sary. By doing so, he came to embrace
all the misheard phrases at parties, end-
less slippages, and muddled meanings
made up in his head. In this strange
place, Soldi found pleasure in the
absurd poetry of misunderstandings—
like hearing “forest tongue” instead of
“first tongue.” (“I couldn’t stop thinking
about it,” Soldi says when describing
the impressions sparked by such slippages.
“What a strange and beautiful idea for the
forest to have a tongue!”)
In similar fashion Soldi elicits a poetics
in the dismantling of power and gender
structures embedded in Spanish, play-
ing with words like ci ci and sissy, or the
phrasing of queer terms in Spanish, such
as activo and passivo (top/bottom). What
does it mean to be passive and active in
such a case? Or the English “GUN” “MAN.”
“What is a man gun?” Soldi ponders when
unpacking the intricacies of mouth to
mouth. “A man who is a gun? When does a
man become a proxy for a gun, or a gun a
proxy for a man?”
The subtext of war is never far from the
story Soldi sets before us, nor the implica-
tion that violence is synonymous with the
process of becoming a man in a patriar-
chal age.
A 1981 photograph by Barbara Kruger
shows a tangle of grown men in suits,
wreathed in smiles, violently lunging at
one another. It’s stamped with the words
“You construct intricate rituals which
allow you to touch the skin of other
men.” Soldi pries this idea open wide. As
Soft Boy, the video, continues its infinite,
boyish, fever-dream loop, a succession
of coming-of-age rituals roll across the
screens: scenes of military drills where
boys adorn themselves with the froufrou
of war. Hands sheathed in crisp cotton
gloves grasping the hilt of a baton deco-
rated with pompoms. The fury of young
bodies colliding and entwining in the heat
of a soccer match. Games of submission
and mercy and wrestling meted out amid
laughter. In the final hours of film-
ing Soft Boy, the young actors were
instructed to simply stand still with
one another, to look into each oth-
er’s eyes. Given this cue, the tension
of the game dissolves. In the video’s
final scenes the pageantry of war and
violence subsides, the pig pile melted
into moments of disarmed quiet, pres-
ence, the tenderness of embrace.
The message whispered through-
out Soft Boy is one of tenderness, a
suggestion that the theater of mas-
culinity has always served to dress
up, to deflect something that exists
at the core of humankind: a softness.
That softness that can yet be reawak-
ened and stirred. This softness can be
reclaimed.
Rafael Soldi: Soft Boy
Frye Art Museum
Oct 7, 2023-Jan 7, 2024
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On The Boards
October 19-21
www.ontheboards.org
n the spirit of “gathering" (n./v.), To Gather supports and elevates the work of artists who use
movement to excavate the rich stories that exist within the Black and Brown dancing body.
To Gather is a celebration of dance artists residing and creating along the West Coast. Over
two weekends, guest curators Nia-Amina Minor and David Rue invite choreographers and per-
formers to convene and present new work to the Seattle community. To Gather supports and
elevates the work of artists who use movement to excavate the rich stories that exist within the
Black and Brown dancing body. This program encourages audiences and artists alike to witness,
engage, and commune while supporting new works.
#1 I am a member of Black
Collectivity. During our
show Practice of Return, oral
histories collected by Esther
Mumford helped to build our
understanding of 20th century
Black dance in Seattle. We were
deeply inspired by the amount
of precious historic details that
would have been lost if she did
not do the work to preserve
them. I went on to collect
five oral histories from Black
dancers here. This piece is
inspired by the stories that were
gathered.
#2 Regardless of their role
in the community or the
genre they moved in, many
of the narrators’ stories were
connected. Even if their stories
didn’t literally overlap, though
they often did, their shared
experiences aligned them. This
piece aims to embody their
interwoven histories as well
as the intimacy that repetition
brings to a community.
#3 An excerpt from this piece
will be shown at Wa Na Wari on
November 4th for the opening
of the Seattle Black Spatial
Histories Institute installation.
#1
#2
#3
Akoiya Harris
Choreographer
Akoiya Harris is a movement artist who examines how art
holds personal and communal histories through a queer
Black gaze. Akoiya weaves oral history, archival research, and
poetry into her dance. Her choreography has been shown at
the Seattle Art Museum, Wa Na Wari, Mad Art Gallery, Base Art
Space, Friends of the Waterfront, NW Film Forum, The Moore
Theater, and 12th Ave Arts. She has performed with Spectrum
Dance Theater, Will Rawls, Zoe|Juniper, Third Rail Projects,
and Black Collectivity. Akoiya has collected oral histories for
Wa Na Wari and Black Collectivity and participated in Black
Embodiments Studio. She teaches at Pacific Northwest Ballet
and Ailey Camp.
Milvia Berenice Pacheco
Salvatierra
Co-director and Performer
Milvia Berenice Pacheco Salvatier-
ra is an Afro Venezuelan perform-
er, choreographer, bodyworker,
poet, mother, and community
organizer. MÁS (Movimiento
Afrolatino Seattle) is the platform
where she can actualize and con-
tinue her empowerment work as
the Executive Director.
Photo by Victoria Kovios
Black Collectivity | To Gather
A series of eight works from different choreographers and performers, two of which
are shown here: Umalalengua Okan, by Milvia Berenice Pacheco Salvatierra, and Our
Constellations, by Akoiya Harris.
#1 Once upon a time there was
a little brown language
who traveled overseas in boats and on feet
#2 Here we are exploring
This language, big and brown
That our Marrun ancestors
Left to us in their way
#3 step by step, foot by foot
this language grew and grew
deep in mountains forest breeze
their message comes to you
#4 inmigrante y anak ng mga imigrante
descendientes de las masacradas
esclavizadas desaparecidas
pero no se han ido
#1
#2
#3
#4
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FALL 2023
Pilar O'Connell
Casting Associate
Pilar (they/them) is an actor, arts
administrator and a great napper.
They hail from Santa Fe, NM.
#5
#4
Merry Wives of Windsor
Seattle Shakespeare Company
October 25-November 12
www.seattleshakespeare.org
A Queer Adaptation
wherein neighbors look a little different,
but are just the same at heart
ur old friend Falstaff has a ploy to make easy
money: woo Mistress Page and Mistress
Ford and thus gain access to their husbands’
wealth. It shouldn’t be too challenging; he can
be quite a charming and insightful man when
it benefits him. He sends the mistresses notes
with declarations of love, but in a small town like
Windsor, everyone knows everyone else’s busi-
ness and Mistresses Page and Ford soon realize
their notes are exact copies.
Rather than take that insult lying down, they
make dates with Falstaff, scheming to be dis-
covered in flagrante by their husbands and so to
achieve their saucy revenge on the knight. Throw
in a cartload of other zany characters and watch
shenanigans ensue!
#1 "Why, then the world's mine oyster,
which I with sword will open."
(Pistol, Act 2 Scene 2)
#2 "Setting the attractions of my good
parts aside, I have no other charms."
(Falstaff, Act 2 Scene 2)
#3 "I hope good luck lies in odd
numbers."
(Falstaff, Act 5 Scene 1)
#4 A man of my kidney.
(Falstaff, Act 3 Scene 5)
#5 "All his successors — gone
before him — hath done’t, and all
his ancestors — that come after
him —may."
(Slender, Act 1 Scene 1)
#2
#1
#3
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FALL 2023
JUSTIN EMEKA
Showcases Seattle's Hip-
Hop scene in a new film.
ustin Emeka wears many hats and dons
multiple titles. His most proud titles
include father, son, husband, and brother.
Being a man whose roots are never far
from connection to family, Justin has found
artistic families as an actor, director, writer,
and now, filmmaker.
Like so many creatives from Seattle,
Justin found his artistic grounding at the
Langston Hughes Performing Arts Center.
Although the path has not been straight,
Justin returns to his creative roots in Seattle,
specifically the Central District, this fall to
shoot his short film, Biological, produced by
his Fargone Films company, whose mission
is to create films that celebrate the complex-
ity and resilience of the human spirit.
Through Biological, Justin gives voice to
his Hip-Hop roots and explores the realm of
dreaming big dreams but putting them on
hold in favor of family. The film is inspired by
his own life becoming a husband and father
at a young age and facing head-on the
challenges of making critical decisions that
could alter the lives of others for a genera-
tion or more. The primary theme of the film
swirls around the concept that “Sometimes,
our dreams become less important than the
dreams of those we love.”
Justin's theatrical impact on Seattle-area
audiences and the Black creative com-
munity was already huge. In 1995, Justin
created an original theatrical piece featur-
ing the then-nascent Hip-Hop community.
The piece, funded by the Seattle Housing
Authority, was called Pressure: A Hip Hop
Theater Experience, and featured 25 youth
from three of Seattle’s housing projects.
Mention peer pressure to a 40-something
Seattle Hip-Hop creative with roots in the CD,
and the eyes light up! It was a groundbreak-
ing experience that included performances
and workshops. We asked Justin how that
experience relates to this new film project:
Pressure was the first full-length production
I directed. It incorporated elements of Hip-
Hop music, dance, style, and art to reveal a
story onstage about the conditions of life for
young Black people in Seattle at that time.
The production gave me tremendous con-
fidence in my creative abilities as well as the
artists around me. It taught me to have faith
in myself and my community. Before that
time, I accepted my position at the margins
of the stage. Hip-Hop helped create a uni-
verse where we, young Black artists, could
live comfortably at the center. It inspired me
to always think about Hip-Hop as more than
a genre of music but rather as an artistic aes-
thetic and cultural force that still shapes and
informs my approach to directing as a craft,
as I move from the stage to the screen.
Beyond Pressure, Justin leaned deep into
sharpening his skills in performing arts and
community-building by founding Jungle
Creations, another place where young
people could create and share their voices
through spoken word, music, capoeira, and
acting. Justin worked to blend these differ-
ent artistic aesthetics as a way of expanding
the creative visions of the young people with
whom he worked and to also stretch and
find forums for expressing his love of Black
culture with his love for classical theater.
When the original version of the MAAFA
was produced in Seattle in 2000, Justin
played a key role in creating portions of the
play that featured Seattle talent. Later, he
directed Seattle’s own version of the MAAFA
in 2003 & 2004, Sankofa Theatre, written by
his brother Gabriel Emeka.
Currently, Justin Emeka is the Resident
Director at Pittsburgh Public Theater,
where he recently staged an acclaimed
production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream
in Harlem. His directing and teaching
credits include work by legacy and con-
temporary playwrights including August
Wilson, Dominique Morriseau, Lorraine
Hansberry, Lydia Diamond, Arthur Miller,
Alice Childress, Amiri Baraka, Tennessee
Williams, and Shakespeare, among others.
Justin’s latest foray into filmmaking has
been aided by his being named a Fellow
in Television/Film Directing by the Drama
League, which led to a stint as a “shadow
director” for Disney, and the making of
his first short film, Six Winters Gone Still.
Biological, his second short film, pays
homage to his adopted home of Seattle
and its growing Hip-Hop movement of the
90s. Justin is always connected to his cre-
ative roots, and whenever possible opens
doors for others. It’s exciting to see him pull
one of Seattle’s most dynamic talents into
this project too, adding local entrepreneur,
musician, “underground educator,” and
rapper Rell B Free as the star of Biological.
This collaboration promises sparks for sure!
Through his life and his work, Justin
has been a leading stalwart promoting the
power of imagination, and he embraces this
power with each new project. As we globally
celebrate the 50th anniversary of Hip-Hop,
Biological brings a unique perspective into
the discourse. In Justin's own words:
Biological shines a light on a Hip-Hop
community in Seattle during the 90s that
was alive, vibrant, and largely overlooked.
Although the history of Hip-Hop is often
told through major centers such as New
York, LA, Atlanta, Chicago, and Houston, I
am interested in exposing the richness and
depth of Hip-Hop in communities where
you might not expect to look for it, such
as Seattle. I am less attracted to the battles,
competition, and urban warfare that is often
associated with the art, and more excited
about telling the stories of young Black
people who were able to use Hip-Hop as a
tool and ritual to build better lives for them-
selves, and/or just be better human beings.
ARTE NOIR is located at 2301 East Union, at Midtown
Square. Open Wednesday through Saturday, 11 AM-7 PM,
Sunday 12-6 PM. Closed Mondays and Tuesdays.
ARTE NOIR spotlights and lifts up the soulfulness
and power of Black art | artenoir.org
Art Collector: Jo Jo Stiletto
'm sitting in my wee apartment, ruminat-
ing on my small but mighty collection
of inexpensive silkscreen and letterpress
prints. As I ponder this excessively flamboy-
ant assemblage, a few tears dance down my
cheeks. These pieces are a joyful roadmap
to my identity as a queer artist, but they also
represent significant losses. They tell the
story of who I was, who I’m becoming, and
the characters I've met along the way.
The oldest piece in the collection is a
poster from a 2004 production of Hedwig
and the Angry Inch signed by actor Nick
Garrison. I saw the production repeatedly at
the Re-bar nightclub, wondering if I could
ever claim a tiny slice of that spotlight. At a
party once, Garrison looked deep into my
soul and said something life-changing. I
have no memory of what he said, but I’ve
been performing and producing shows ever
since. He passed away suddenly in 2022, yet
he’s still here whispering in my ear, “You're
shining like the brightest star.” Additionally,
poster artist Corianton Hale’s punk-inspired
design reminded me over the years to seek
out partnerships with brilliant artists like
Barry Blankenship and Rachelle Abellar to
create collectible posters for my own events.
A large, framed serigraph of The Queer
Pledge by Clyde Peterson and Kerstin
Graudins leans against my wall. It’s heavy,
both literally and figuratively. I first saw this
print on the sound booth of, you guessed it,
the now-deceased Re-bar. We thought that
club would stand forever! I recall foolishly
believing, “I’ll buy this as a bold declaration
of allyship!” Now, out to myself and others,
I realize how much I needed these words to
wash over me night after night.
My journey as an artist eventually led
to crossing paths with Chandler O’Leary.
She gushed about my burlesque produc-
tions. I raved about her illustrations. We
became fast friends. I’m still unable to fully
process her death earlier this year. I felt a
pang of regret not owning any of her Dead
Feminists, a sold-out series of limited-edi-
tion letterpress broadsides co-created with
Jessica Spring. Wandering the 2023 Tacoma
Wayzgoose, a celebration of printmaking, I
found her: A bright pink lady, an unofficial
member of the Ms. Labeled series. She’s a
quote from activist and performer Sylvia
Rivera, hand-lettered in a depiction of the
Stonewall Inn's facade. Like Sylvia, “I’m
tired of living with labels. I just want to be
who I am.”
This collection of queerness fits together
as a family. Each artist used bold graphic
design, complicated language, and bright
neon inks — especially my signature color,
vibrant pink. This is an archive of phantoms,
a winking nod to my journey of coming out
as a pansexual striptease artist and accepting
that I belong. It is a collection of irreplace-
able gems, though multiple copies were
made and each piece cost under $100 at the
time of purchase. I can practically smell the
inking process through my happy tears.
Jo Jo Stiletto is a burlesque producer, performer, and
historian, and is known as the Professor of Nerdlesque
– the leading authority on all things nerdy in burlesque.
Follow her @jojostiletto.
LEFT: Queer Pledge by Clyde Peterson and
Kerstin Graudins (prints still available!).
ABOVE: Hedwig poster by Corianton Hale.
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FALL 2023
by Marty Griswold