REVIEW: A Prison, a Prisoner, and a Prison Guard : An Exploration of Carcerality in the Middle East and North Africa

Featured Image: Marc Nelson (left) is an Illinois-based artist whose work documents the war crimes, and human rights violations occurring in Syria, Yemen, Myanmar, and the United States, and is featured in the exhibition. He is pictured with his friend and martyr of revolution Mazen Al-Hamada, whose verbal and visual testimony are also featured. Mazen was forcibly disappeared and later murdered in the “slaughterhouse” prison of Saydnaya in Damascus, only days before the toppling of the Assad regime.

CW: Depictions of Torture (Illustrated) and Discussions of Carceral Violence, Torture, and Death

The notion of human nature implies certain universalities amongst all people, suggesting an intangible connection between everyone who has ever lived, everyone alive now, and everyone who has yet to live. The tangible products of creative expression that we call art could be described as the physical manifestations of human nature. Thus, an artist’s humanity and identity become immortalized by their act of creation.

But what about those who cannot create art freely? Whose voices are silenced by carceral institutions designed to dehumanize and disenfranchise? Human nature does not simply vanish, and neither do those who are incarcerated.

A Prison, a Prisoner, and a Prison Guard: An Exploration of Carcerality in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) is only the second exhibition I have encountered dedicated solely to incarcerated and prison-impacted artists and communities, a troubling reality I believe reflects the overwhelmingly negative Western and global attitudes towards incarcerated people.

Curators Susan Aboeid and Sumaya Tabbah of The Hafathah Collective, with organizational collaboration from U-M Students Organize for Syria (SOS), in partnership with U-M Library, and with support from the U-M Arts Initiative, have created one of the most poignant traveling exhibitions I have ever had the privilege of viewing. The geographic coverage of the MENA region is extensive, with prison art from Algeria, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine, Sudan, Syria, and Yemen, effectively revealing the devastatingly similar carceral realities of these countries. The exhibition, however, resists exceptionalism by asserting that prisons in the MENA region are not bad because the area is bad, but because the prisons and those who run them are detestable. Untitled by Unknown, Undated, Yemen is a visual testimony smuggled out of prison by an unknown artist, depicting methods of systematic mass torture implemented in UAE-run prisons in Yemen. This piece grapples with the exhibition’s tension of understanding prison art as testimony versus aesthetic, the former allowing the works to transcend carceral geographies and speak to the visitors, who in turn, speak to each other. Thus, the gallery becomes a space for those who have survived these prisons but can’t go back, a chance to reconcile their experiences and emotions.Another work, Broken Oaths by Razaan Killawi, 2021, Syria, depicts former Syrian president Bashar al-Assad atop excerpts from his inaugural address, “…a speech laced with assurances of unity, reform, and national pride — words that starkly contrast the realities of oppression, fear, and violence experienced by Syrians” reads the object label. Much like Assad weaponized language to legitimize injustice and oppression, the prison experience is carefully designed to legitimize the disintegration of communities under the false notion of “protection”. What is truly protected within these prisons is the truth — the truth about the unbearable reality so many people experience, which they can only later describe as “being suspended between life and death”.

Whether we are separated by oceans and borders, language and culture, walls and bars, or armed guards and authoritarian regimes, we remain forever connected to our family and friends on the inside. This heart-wrenching exhibition, which will remain open until March 30th at the Hatcher Library at U-M, reminds those of us on the outside that those inside are still with us. I implore everyone who is able to take the opportunity to be with these artists through their immortal testimony, and hear their voices which will not be silenced.

REVIEW: Sasha Velour in the Big Reveal Live Show

The historic stage of the Michigan Theater sits sparse, except for a comfortable cyan lounge chair, a cozy floor lamp, a vintage two-knob TV, and a dainty desk with Sasha Velour’s The Big Reveal: An Illustrated Manifesto of Drag neatly atop it.

On screen behind them, a prerecorded Sasha Velour dangles a disco ball from an elegant, silver finger. As Jennifer Lopez’s Waiting for Tonight begins to play, Sasha caresses the disco ball with her other hand, and as a spotlight appears on the cyan lounge chair, the audience waits with bated breath.

In an instant, the chair blanket is yanked back to reveal…

Sasha Velour…inside the chair…and I was gagged by possibly one of the best live reveals I’ve ever seen.

Her ruby lips gleamed unobstructed through a face-sized hole, as she began to lip sync sections of Kylie Minogue’s futuristic In My Arms, Dionne Warwick’s forever cherished A House is Not a Home, and Brandy’s *perfect* rendition of In My Own Little Corner.

As the chorus of Britney Spears’ Stronger begins, Sasha sheds the chair from which she came, only to become…

Sasha Velour…the chair, again…I was gagged again.

She struts in a brocade gown of the same cyan fabric, cream tassels on her shoulders and hips, and chair arms accentuating her tightly-corseted waist…a hybridized perfection of camp, glamour, and humor on full display to close act one.

As the energy in the room quells, Sasha reflects on her grandmother Dina, who came to America from China as a Jewish immigrant during World War II and, “would always encourage me [Velour] to channel my inner diva.” Showing videos of herself as a child, Sasha cherishes these moments aloud on stage, gushing about how Dina’s love and enthusiasm shaped her as a child, and now as a performer.

In one of a series of hilarious video skits, Velour switches between various personas, who comment on drag’s significance across communities: a medium of history, of fun, of revolution. Velour asserts that drag can be anything, for anyone, and this fundamental freedom affords drag infinite power.

But what happens when this freedom is at stake? Unafraid of asking the difficult questions, Velour challenges the audience to both revel in the privilege of being able to attend her show and share in her sense of growing urgency towards collectively understanding what these next few years will bring, not just for the queer community, but for everyone the Trump administration seeks to erase.

Drag is not dangerous for children, and helps to embolden those who need creative outlets of expression… “I have always been Sasha Velour…drag has a spiritual mission to give each other the biggest gift in life — to be seen and documented as we really are…to write our own stories”. The Big Reveal is everything a drag performance should be: It acknowledges what drag has been, what it is now, and everything it can be, while somehow completely exceeding the expectations of any audience member or Sasha Velour fan in the audience.

Even if you didn’t have a chance to see Sasha Velour, supporting your local drag scene helps to contribute to the parts of her show that still sit within me as I write this — drag is more than just a performance, it is the establishment of ones’ identity in relation to themselves and their community. It is a way of surviving, thriving, and ultimately, existing in the world in a profoundly beautiful way. A way of life that has always existed, and will continue to thrive in spite of those who seek to refute it.

REVIEW: Caroline Shaw and Gabriel Kahane

What does it mean to “be infinite”?

Though one could ponder this, well, infinitely, Argentinian short story author Jorge Luis Borges does so in seven pages in his 1941 work Tower of Babel, which inspired Caroline Shaw and Gabriel Kahane’s newly-commissioned Hexagons, presented by UMS. In Tower of Babel, we follow a nameless, elderly man through an infinite, hexagonal library. Each shelf has randomly arranged books, each containing exactly 410 pages. While most pages have no discernible meaning, other librarians allege that it could take just one book to reveal the library’s secrets, and thus, the meaning of life. A profound paradox about human nature and the finite time we have alive, I entered the auditorium excited to witness philosophy come to life through music.

Kahane and Shaw had ideas to write operas about Borges’s text separately, a tension that remained musically unresolved on stage. While Kahane’s fascinating hybridization of singing and songwriting created mini-musicals, Shaw’s enrapturing yet foreboding vocal presence consistently grabbed my attention throughout, often waysiding Kahane entirely. While I marveled at the interplay between Shaw’s impressive choral singing and Kahane’s flowing piano melodies, which were undoubtedly virtuosic, the theatrical elements of the piece left much to be desired.

About halfway through, the performers pause, slowly producing two boxes of books. Placing them atop a desk near their instruments, they each switch on a reading lamp, and calmly begin pulling books from said boxes. Reading these random books aloud, they begin separately at first until the boundaries between their voices blur, and their words become more frantic, producing unintelligible chaos until they fall silent – a metaphor for a busy world that felt too on the nose for such experimental work. 

Perhaps my heart rests too heavily with Borges’s text, as the audible landscapes of Hexagons evoke feelings of restraint and nostalgia for a familiar past, than those of infinitude and unraveling chaos to find meaning I felt destined to hear. As Shaw longs,Oh, to be a blind librarian, I have lost any sense of connection between Hexagons and Borges and am bewildered by this dimension of longing for impairment. Furthermore, their decision to finish their performance with Kahane’s To Be American played into these notions of nostalgia that I found troubling. While they pined about escaping to the forests of Northern Michigan, I was left pining for something more than a personal requiem. The only seemingly infinite components of the performance were Shaw’s vocals cascading through the auditorium and my confusion. 

Hexagons rests at the edge of musical infinity: contemplative of the subject from a safe distance, yet not totally sure of how to manage the responsibility of creating aninfiniteperformance. As treasured books continuously become subpar movies, I am disappointed that the only meaningful dimension added to Borges’ philosophical text was music alone. Though I am excited by a future increasingly inclusive of experimental repertoire, my only hope is that it becomes a medium to embolden texts to exist beyond their pages — beyond the restraints of the written word itself, and within the infinite realm of music.