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Manila Pages
- Part 5
KIRSTEN
GREENIDGE
Boston,
MA
Once
I started writing plays, I fell in love. And I can honestly say
I that I rarely think of writing for other genres. I think in the
future I may try a novel, but other than that, very few other types of
writing present the kind of mystery that I want to explore in the same
way that I do when I write for the stage. There is something transformative
in hearing your words performed that does not happen in poetry or prose.
The fact that human beings are speaking in front of you, breathing the
same air as you is something movies can't offer, either. Also, so
much can go wrong when reading or performing a play. When a reading
or production goes well, when all the different elements of theatre work
in concert, there is such a feeling of accomplishment, and what's beautiful
about that is that it is shared with other people: there's nothing that
satisfies and completes in quite the same way.
That
said, it can be challenging to be a playwright in a culture like that
of the United States, where a career in the arts is not as valued as a
career in finance or technology. Because theatre can be such an
expensive endeavor here, theatre companies are under enormous financial
pressure, and economic survival can often take precedence over presenting
new and relevant work. Since I am both a woman playwright and a
black playwright, I feel as though I am sensitive about the demographics
of who and what gets produced in this country. The last statistic
I heard was that seventy-three percent of the plays produced in America
are produced by men, and that of that seventy-three percent, relatively
few are new plays and still fewer are by new writers.
With
those statistics, the likelihood that I will become some sort of overnight
phenomenon, produced all across America is slim. So I find I face
the challenge of rejection often, but not nearly enough or with enough
ferocity to make me consider taking up another profession. It's
dismaying to be rejected. Especially when it comes to something
as subjective as art. And something that I love so much. It's
challenging to keep writing when it can feel as if it wouldn't matter
if I never wrote another word again. In the United States we have
a variety of development programs for new work. Although development
programs can be an entry-way for new work by new writers, they can be
challenging because you talk to so many people with so many different
opinions about your work, with so many different biases, that it can be
awfully confusing to remember to listen to your own voice first, while
considering the voices of others second. It's a close second, though,
because I have also learned that there are many, many highly intelligent
and extremely generous theatre artists out there who are dedicated to
encouraging new work by emerging writers.
Another
challenge is to avoid being labeled or pigeon-holed as being a "black"
writer, or a "woman" writer. Whenever I am asked to participate
in a development program or reading series, I always wonder "Did they
choose me simply to fill a slot? Or because they like my work?"
I don't think I should ignore those questions or their answers (we haven't
come that far yet) but I can't let those questions adversely affect my
work.
Also,
I would have to say the development environment itself can get frustrating.
You spend a week with collaborators you may or may not know very well,
and at the end, you've created this entity that isn't quite a play yet,
because it hasn't had the chance. The worst can be taking a play
from theatre to theatre and never see it fully performed.
Finally,
because I don't have a steady office job as my means of support, it can
be difficult planning the mundane events of life, like acquiring health
insurance or starting a family or buying a house, because there is a lot
of uncertainty involved.
For
the most part, however, I feel more than fortunate to live in a place
where my voice, once heard, is valued, where I had the opportunity to
choose to write, to choose to develop and study my craft. Without
something as fundamental as that, I am not sure where I would be able
to let my voice be heard.
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RHIANA
YAZZIE
Los
Angeles, CA
A
Message to Playwrights Around the World from Rhiana Yazzie, Navajo playwright.
Recently I was involved in a staged reading in a renowned new works play
reading festival. My role was a literary assistant. It was
barely a functional position, it was more like a glorified fly on the
wall. I appreciate and relish the opportunity to watch the process
of an emerging playwright and veteran director trying to create something
new, something innovated, because I want to be that playwright too, one
day. But it wasn't too far into the two-day rehearsal process that
I began to feel antsy and began to feel that my time was being wasted.
Maybe
because the playwright, like myself, was a minority that I felt like his
play should have said something more. The play was a convoluted
homage to violence and did not offer anything more than albeit, entertaining
fiction. I heard myself saying over and over in my head, "I
don't have time for this kind of fiction, I don't have time for this kind
of fiction!" I know that there is so much in my heart that
I want to say, that I need to say, which is why I am a writer, and I was
frustrated with the way his story missed an amazing opportunity to say
something meaningful and to give a voice to something that has never had
the chance to speak in a world, in a country that swallows lives whole.
I don't like to hear stories without purpose and without the ability to
move. Use the opportunity to tell the audience about the hidden
places and lives that never see day light. Use your story to give
validation to muffled voices, to let an audience know that my people are
alive and tell them this is how we get through our lives living in the
cracks. I crave a story that has a purpose, that says something
important. I need to be moved and I want to see how people solve
the problems of their hearts in conflict.
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MARTHA
RICHARDS
Northampton,
MA
In
1994 I created The Fund for Women Artists, a non-profit organization dedicated
to challenging gender and other stereotypes and to increasing the employment
of women in the arts, especially women in theatre, film, and video.
In our first nine years we have provided direct fundraising services to
hundreds of women artists, and we have raised over $2.2 million including
an endowment of $425,000.
I
love to talk about how I started this wonderful and growing organization
in my kitchen with only my trusty laptop computer, because I think it
is important for women to realize that we have the power to build our
own organizations. In fact, I don't think we will ever get cultural
institutions that truly suit our needs unless we build them ourselves,
and more people should consider this option.
But
you can't really understand The Fund for Women Artists unless I start
the story a little earlier. My usual version ignores a key question,
namely, "What the heck was I doing at home in my kitchen at age 44 instead
of working a full-time job as I had all the rest of my life?" The
truth is that I was recovering from a broken heart.
It
wasn't a person who had broken my heart, but a job. From the beginning
of my arts career, I had dreamed about being the head of a theatre in
a medium sized city where I could settle in, find colleagues, and build
an audience for the kind of bold, provocative theatre that I love so much.
With great effort, I had finally gotten a job as the Managing Director
of a regional theatre, and then just five years later I quit and found
myself sitting in my kitchen crying.
What
happened? Glass ceiling? Sticky floor? It was a complicated
situation. There were relentless financial pressures and the usual
constellation of theatrical personalities, but what finally did me in
was a gnawing sense of alienation from the work. As a manager, my
role was to support the artists by supervising the fundraising, marketing
and accounting functions, but the artists in charge were all men.
In the five years I was there, we only did one play by a woman playwright
(and a dead woman at that), and we had no women directors. I kept
having uncomfortable moments where I could see that many of the characters
on our stages were stereotypes, but as a manager and not an
artist, I didn't see a way of changing them. Also, I was painfully
aware of the salary differences between our male and female personnel.
I
can remember a turning point in my final year. We did a period piece
for the holidays about a Southern family getting ready for Christmas dinner.
Most of our audience members were white and they seemed to be enjoying
the show, but one night there was an African American family sitting right
in the front row with a very excited little girl who was about ten.
As part of the "Southern" dialogue in the show, there was a point where
one of the white actors casually used the term "nigger." I found
myself looking at that family. It was supposed to be a festive holiday
show. Even though it was dark, I could see that little girl wince
and turn to her father in shock and disbelief.
I
was never quite the same after that, because I identified so deeply with
that little girl and that wince. I had been that wide-eyed girl
in love with the stage when I was ten, and seeing her reminded me of all
the painful vulnerability I had felt and still feel as I experience limiting
stereotypes - about gender, about race, about sexual preference, about
size, or other issues. I was back in touch with a whole range of
feelings, and I could not hide by keeping busy or pretending nothing had
happened. I felt compelled to do something, but I wasn't sure what
it was.
This
brings us back to 1994 when I was sitting in my kitchen. I needed
a way to experiment, and I started The Fund for Women Artists not with
any answers, but with a question: "How can we create an organization that
will support artists who want to challenge gender and other stereotypes
and make sure that they are fairly paid?"
It
turns out this is a wonderful question, a question that I can work on
happily for a very long time. It's also a very sociable question,
because it is far too complex for just one person. We have to form
teams to create viable solutions.
I
want to leave you with two thoughts. First, I want to say that my
broken heart turned out to be a good thing even though it hurt a lot,
because it forced me to stop for a while and think about what I wanted
to do with my life. The Fund for Women Artists has accomplished
great things in its first nine years, and I am confident that we are moving
in a good direction. If any of you are suffering from broken hearts
or quiet despair, I hope my story will encourage you to work through your
grief and search for the values that mean the most to you. As my
mother always taught me, "It's not how many times you fall down, it's
how many times you get up that counts."
Second,
as we start our second decade at The Fund for Women Artists, we are moving
in bold new directions. We are determined to build an organization
that will have a lasting impact on the role of women artists in our society,
and we are looking for collaborators.
Since
we receive a steady stream of calls and emails, we know that there are
amazing women artists all over the world who are struggling to create
works reflecting a more just society. We are awed and inspired by
these women, and we dream about what will happen when they have the resources
to express their creativity fully. We are convinced that they can
change the world, and we want to help. Please join us if you can.
For
more information, please contact us at info@womenarts.org
or visit our website at www.WomenArts.org .
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MALLORY
CATLETT
New
York, NY
This summer I was at a dramaturgy conference that was focusing on diversity.
Due to my recent work on the THE FIRST 100 YEARS
I
realized that we were talking about this issue almost exclusivley from
the perspective of new play development. No one was talking about
diversifying the cannon, for example. I was thinking historically,
and it occurred to me that history hasn't favored diversity; and that
we often think about the problem from the front end. It would be
wise to think about the issue from the back end in an effort to more fully
support the work of playwrights today.
In terms of the cannon, from what I can tell, the reason it is a rich
source for us even today is the way in which playwrights have recycled
and reconsidered the stories of the past. Any one play may
have many plays and production histories in its wake. Somewhere
behind WHO'S AFRAIND OF VIRGINIA WOOLF is DANCE OF DEATH. It is
this referencing of writers in the past and the constant reintegration
of that material into the present via the voice and vision of playwrights
that leaves the rich trail for directors, actors and audiences to walk.
In 1695-96 London produced a season of plays that had one of the highest
percentages of female playwrights in Anglo-American history. By that time
woman had been writing for the professional stage for only 25 years.
What is wonderful about that season was there
were several plays that were adaptations or critiques of other plays previously
written by women. So there was this instinct early on for women
to refer back to and rethink and recycle the work of their
predecessors. They didn't have a long history but they knew it,
and they dealt with it in their work.
I think we underestimate the power of knowing our history and letting
it have some influence on our work. Theater history tells us that
a play gains currency and richness exponentially when it grapples in some
way with the past. Women have been writing
plays and using the theater to tell compelling relevant stories for hundreds
of years. That work and those stories need to be recycled and reconsidered
by playwrights today. So I guess I'm thinking about knowing one's
history and making work that reflects that knowledge. It is an obvious
point and probably not particularly interesting, but our history allows
us to stand on rich ground when we work. We don't have to constantly
reinvent the wheel. I don't think this preoccupation serves us well
or makes for interesting theater.
Have a good trip,
Mallory
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