Crooked Fool: Theatre is grind culture is ableism.

I have an old, faded bumper sticker on my car that reads, “I can’t. I have rehearsal.” I’m sure it was given to me as a gift, though I can’t remember when or by whom. I do remember laughing when I first held it in my hands, mostly out of genuine mirth, understanding the joke, but partially also out of ruefulness.

Though there were a few earlier experiences with middle school classes and the like, I first became involved in theatre “for real” when I was 14 and attending Interlochen Arts Academy. On top of a 9-hour school day, I was expected to complete multiple large projects each semester, complete a certain number of community service hours, attend mandatory performances, rehearse for my own performances, and practice classical guitar on a regular basis, all in addition to the typical high school homework. I can’t remember for sure if this was ever explicitly said, but it very much seemed like we were being prepared to work at this level indefinitely “out in the real world.” And I have. My work ethic changed as a result of my time there, and even some grad students I know marvel at the kind of schedule I often keep.

In part because the arts are so undervalued and underfunded in the US, many of us cannot fund our lives through our hard-earned creative skills alone. Perhaps Interlochen was preparing me for the reality that I’d likely have to hold down a fulltime survival job in addition to any creative work that I wanted to do. If that was the case, they’re unfortunately probably right. Having dipped my toe into the world of professional theatre, that is in fact what I and just about everyone I know has had to do.

But the failings of late-stage American capitalism aside, we need to take a breath when it comes to the emphasis placed on work ethic. It’s not healthy for anybody, but when it’s also slamming the door in the faces of Disabled artists.

In theatre, I was taught to accept a 3-hour rehearsal after an 8-hour workday for weeks on end. I was conditioned never to consider adding a conflict after the rehearsal schedule had been posted, whether the reason was an unexpected family obligation or a debilitating migraine. I was taught to ignore bodily needs, pain, and exhaustion if they were going to in any way alter the flow of rehearsal.

I can remember a show I did when I was 16 where I was asked to stand at attention onstage for a large portion of the show, which set off days of back pain. I finally gave in and asked the director if I could kneel down during rehearsal. He agreed, but no mention was ever made of altering the blocking so that I wouldn’t be in pain, and I didn’t dare ask. At the time, I accepted pain as something I would have to put up with in order to put on a good show. “The show must go on” and I would have to “leave my baggage at the door.”

A solid decade later, my perspective has changed, and I’m gonna call it: that shit is ableist.

When we demand this level of grind from artists, on top of reducing their bodies to value-making cogs in a capitalist machine (even if the machine is gloriously creative), we are making tacit assumptions that all bodies have the same capabilities and use energy the same way. We assume that if something is hard, but doable for me, and doesn’t cause too much damage to my body, then it must be true for someone else. And by refusing to make accommodations, we’re basically saying that if a body can’t get with this overwhelming program, they don’t deserve a spot in the room. Their point of view is eliminated from the crucial discourse we take part in through the arts, ensuring that dominant and often oppressive perspectives are never challenged. And if we assert that making rehearsal and performance spaces more accessible in some way erodes excellence, we’re not only laying bare our own lack of creativity and vision in coming up with solutions, we’re also asserting that disability-friendly theatre, and thereby Disabled perspectives, will always be less than.

Some years after that back pain-ridden production, I ended up going through major spinal surgery in the hopes of correcting the pain and visible spinal deformity that I’d dealt with for my first decade in theatre. Less than a year later, I began an intensive program in physical theatre at Dell’arte International. With class 9-5 every day, nightly rehearsals, and attendance policies that made it nearly impossible to take even a day to care for one’s body, I can see where some might question if that’s really the place for myself as a Disabled performer to be. But this, again, is actually a question of my right to make art, to make my perspective heard, and to use my body, Disabled or no, in the ways that I choose. If you’re saying that this space should not have accommodated me, what you’re actually saying is that I should not have the right to make theatre.

I ended up not only completing the program with flying colors, but being voted ensemble director by my peers. I was one of seven graduates that year. But by the end of the program, I was also reckoning with a difficult truth: the culture of theatre, as it stands now, is inherently ableist and would make no space for me. I spent a solid year after leaving the program genuinely thinking that I was going to have to throw in the towel on over a decade of work and stop performing. If I couldn’t push through pain and fatigue and beat my body into performing in ways that were convenient and desirable for able-bodied educators and directors, what hope was there?

Capitalism only values bodies if they can produce, and for this reason, bodies like mine are not valued. Sacred and ancient though it may be, theatre culture has, on the whole, also adopted this thinking. And in addition to denying Disabled artists a place at the table, this thinking reduces all bodies to their production capacity. An actor is not valued as a human being until they can get cast in a large production, satisfy their director, and bring in audience. And if I’m being honest, I’ve felt that dehumanization keenly even when disability was not the main issue I was experiencing during a show.

But what if we took accessibility as a creative challenge? And what if we decided to value the human beings in the room beyond their ability to keep a convenient rehearsal room and sell tickets? Doing these things does not erode the quality of theatre; in fact, taking on these new, innovative, creative challenges may serve to elevate the artform further. What possibilities have we stubbornly refused to explore?

I will be the first to say that theatre is sacred. But so am I. And you can’t make theatre without people.

A Crooked, Queer Meditation on The Fool

The first tarot deck I ever bought was the Fountain Tarot, and their description of the Fool reads:

“Suspended between spiritual and Earthly existence, the beautiful Fool is the newly born soul embarking on a bright adventure…Though some find his quest absurd, he is not swayed. With an open heart, he is led by the inner voice of his true Self.”

In the major arcana, the Fool comes first in the deck, before many other archetypes such as The Priestess, Magician, Devil, and so on. The Fool has yet to experience either the highs or the lows of their journey and relies on their inner compass to guide them. Because they don’t have much experience to draw from in their journey, they have to become comfortable living in the unknown.

The Muse Tarot, a favorite of mine, includes a poem at the end of every card description, and for the Fool Chris-Anne writes:

Fearlessly jump into

The sea of the cosmos,

The spinning potentials are calling

maybe a little foolish today

yet better done fool-like

than stalling

Chris-Anne reminds us that sometimes we don’t have the luxury of knowing what’s going to happen or what the right course of action even is, and we still need to act. The show must go on.

One of the greatest steps I took in my artistic journey was embracing the fool. This was both an act of taking the pressure off myself to know everything, and acknowledging the ways in which I’d have to trust myself and my own inner knowing over industry norms that want nothing to do with a Queer, Disabled, Deformed femme actor. The rules as they existed left no space for me.

My own Fool journey was one of coming into deep understanding of the power of transgression. When I was training as a clown, one exercise involved thinking of a common activity, and then coming up with as many ways as possible to screw it up. How many ways can we do the most basic thing wrong? And where is the joy in doing so?

The Fool often doesn’t know how to do things “right” and may not even have any concept of the socially sanctioned ideas of right or wrong, good and bad, acceptable or not even are.

I think back to my childhood self. I was viewed as “crazy” for laughing too loud and too much, or just making weird noises in general, particularly when I wasn’t supposed to. Simultaneously, I was viewed as “angry” because I just couldn’t accept things that I knew deeply to be wrong. Whether it was through laughter or soapboxes, I was calling out absurdity.

Britannica describes the Fool as “a comic entertainer whose madness or imbecility, real or pretended, made him a source of amusement and gave him license to abuse and poke fun at even the most exalted of his patrons.”

The entry goes on to say that the Fool is “often deformed, dwarfed, or crippled…”

You’re telling me…

I spent the first decade of my time in theatre with a 90-degree curve in my spine. This was never meant to be a statement on anything; we perform with our bodies, and this was the body I had.

This Fool asks: Who determines beauty, and why can’t it include me?

Judith Butler said, “Gender is a performance that is repeated and becomes constructed through time.”

In this quote, Judith Butler is addressing the concept of performativity, which they discuss often in their writing on gender. Though it may be tempting to think of performance as something imaginary and fundamentally unreal, Butler argues (as paraphrased by me, a Fool) that performance affects very real change. To perform is to change something. Performing gender makes it real. By taking actions associated with and attempting to look like a given gender, human beings create gender. And it can be recreated anew, and it can look different than before. (It’s worth noting here that the Fool archetype has a long history of breaking down gender norms; my own clown, Pookie Ra Ra, is meant to be a teenage boy, but has noticeable breasts because I don’t like binding).

The Fool asks: What else can be performed differently? How can we change the show? What can we make and remake?

The Fool doesn’t necessarily have the answers. But they are not held back by what is. They remind us that where we lack answers, we can create them.

The Fool reminds us to embrace the unknown.

What the Fool offers us is hope.

“Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act.” – Rebecca Solnit

Modern Sensibility for KIDS

Seems like more artists have been making waves in house-related art!  A group of architects was recently commissioned to design dollhouses in the styles of their choosing.  If you think you know what a dollhouse should look like, guess again.

These houses were on display at the London Design Festival last month and were auctioned off to raise money for the children’s disability charity KIDS.

And you know what is even better than art raising money for charity?  Art directly influencing charitable causes.  Each house was required to contain “a unique feature to make life easier for a child who is disabled.”

How cool is that?

What I love about each of the designs is the abstractness that still maintains its functionality.

Children with their uninhibited imaginations, can make playhouses out of anything.  Blankets, couches, and some string have made for some of the best (not to mention coziest) residences of my life.  What I love most about this endeavor, is that it brings modern architecture (and modern aesthetics) into the consciousness of youngsters and also raises the public’s consciousness of children with disabilities.

When I was young there seemed to be a stigma around modern and abstract art (not to mention a major one around kids with disabilities that still persists today).  Both modern art and disabled people can be labeled as inaccessible, or foreign, and as something that only a small niche of society can appreciate.  These dollhouses demonstrate that the niche of modernism can extend beyond the adult age group and that modern art can be something useful and pedagogical.  It can be integrated into the everyday activities of four and five year-olds and be something that sticks with them all their life.

Who knows?  One of these dollhouse designs may inspire the next charitable Frank Lloyd Wright.