Lindy Hume creates a contemporary production of Verdi’s tragedy which explores, rather than overlooks the sexual assault and misogyny that is rampant within the opera. Bringing a relevant Rigoletto to audiences in a post-#MeToo era takes a feminist perspective and some inspiration from modern-day political figures.
Why did you update Rigoletto?
Lindy Hume: The problem with not
updating Rigoletto is that a Renaissance-era codpiece-cloak-and-hose
setting in a fictional court of Mantua lets the licentious Duke off the hook
for his appalling treatment of women. Verdi turned a famous philanderer into a
rock star by giving him some of the best music to the most misogynistic lines
ever written (Act 1 “it’s this girl or that girl, they’re all the same to me …”
and in Act 3 “women are unreliable …”). These are two of the most jaunty,
charming, popular tunes in the entire operatic repertoire, with a bravado that’s
guaranteed to win the audience over. Even contemporary audiences in a
post-#MeToo world, who can’t help but gasp at his shameless audacity and
brazenness, adore those arias—which is what makes them so brilliant! I created
this production for New Zealand Opera in 2012. I found inspiration for the
spirit of this bad boy Duke of Mantua in Silvio Berlusconi, the former Italian
Prime Minister, who at that time was breezing through his “bunga bunga” sex
trial with his signature blend of political incorrectness, immaculate
tailoring, and dazzling—if cosmetically enhanced—smile. Where better to set the
debauched action of Rigoletto than the colorful, charismatic,
spectacularly excessive “Berlusconi Court”? Even now that Silvio has retreated
from public life his reputation is the stuff of legend.
So, this interpretation isn’t about
It’s not explicitly Trump’s
America, or Berlusconi’s Italy, but a modern, highly recognizable version of
the dystopian, brutal, corrupt society Victor Hugo and Verdi imagined as the
background for the tragedy of Gilda and her father. The court’s treatment of
Monterone, the heartbroken father of a girl whose reputation the Duke has
publicly ruined, quickly descends from boredom to murder. Tired of the old man
ranting, the Duke sentences him to death in a state-sanctioned execution. As a
feminist and a fan of Verdi’s wonderful observation of human behavior, how
could I resist bringing these worlds together in an imagined scenario where the
excesses of obscene wealth, the corruption of high political power, and the
moral void of the court all vibrate with an undercurrent of fear, violence,
misogyny, and criminality? This is the world of Verdi’s Rigoletto, and
Why do you choose to explore sexual
assault in the theatre?
As we have seen in recent years,
particularly through the #MeToo movement, sexual assault is an issue across
society that women have been living with for centuries, and increasingly have
decided to confront wholesale. My response is not only from the perspective of
a feminist woman director, but from that of an average audience member (opera
audiences are mostly women, as you know). For years, I’ve been frustrated that
this art form has not called out sexual assault and violence, but often
celebrated it. For example, Wikipedia says: “the Duke sings of a life of
pleasure with as many women as possible,” and mentions that “he particularly
enjoys cuckolding his courtiers.” In the most famous and beloved operas—Rigoletto,
Don Giovanni, Carmen, Tosca, Madama Butterfly—the
tragic heroine is part of the vernacular. Sopranos must rehearse how to fall,
be stabbed, brutalized, and thrown across the room, behaviors they would never
accept in real life. In 2019, if opera aspires to be a progressive,
future-focused art form with relevance in contemporary society, then it must
evolve and be responsive to a changing society. The topic of sexual assault and
violence against women in opera is right there in front of us, either to explore,
or to ignore.
Originally published in Seattle Opera’s Rigoletto program. Used with permission of Seattle Opera.
During a workshop
of Kiss My Aztec! in New York City this March, Artistic Associate and Assistant
Dramaturg Katie Craddock huddled up with John Leguizamo and Tony Taccone in a
wee writing studio to learn about the inspiration for this show, the political
function of comedy, and their creative partnership.
Katie Craddock: John, where did the idea for this piece
John: I wanted to create a space for our Latin stories, in the same humorous way I’d seen on Broadway with shows like Spamalot and in movies like Blackadder. The general public doesn’t know a lot about Aztec history—for instance, the Aztecs had libraries full of extensive codices, but many were burned by colonizers. Erasing history was (and is) a means of controlling a people.
Tony: When we were auditioning actors for this show, it
was really depressing to me how many people had the same two or three shows on
their résumés. It was a clear reminder of the paucity of Latin work, and it’s
horrifying—there’s no established assumption yet that this work should be done.
So you find yourself carving a new pathway, and John’s obviously done a
brilliant job of insisting on that—in an inviting way. His genius is that he
has found a voice and built a comic relationship with people across many
backgrounds that wanna hear from him.
John: And Tony’s been my accomplice. I love working with
Tony because he’s a beast for storytelling and narrative; there aren’t too many
people on the planet as passionate and obsessed about proper storytelling as Tony.
Also, he’s half Puerto Rican. That is so exciting for me—I wanna reach in there
and grab that Puerto Rican in him, and tell him that he’s okay.
Tony: That’s a real thing for me. I started unconsciously pursuing Latin work about 15 years ago. Susie [Medak, Berkeley Rep’s managing director] pointed it out—she said, “Do you realize how much Latin work you’re doing? Your dormant Puerto Rican genes are blooming here.” But it was working on Latin History forMorons that drove me to make a conscious effort to examine my past, and actually research it. I went back to my mother and relatives and took their oral histories. It’s part of my heritage that could be lost—I need to recapture it and understand where I’m coming from. The pressure on my mother to assimilate was immense. She’s 92 years old and teaches Spanish to this day, but her upbringing was about trying to get in there with white people to succeed.
John: That’s what happens. I grew up in the hood, and
all my friends were Latin and Black, but then when I got to college I was like,
“Oh my God, I sound different than everybody, I talk different, I have
different vernacular, and slang. I need to un-ghetto myself if I’m gonna
succeed. ’Cause obviously I rub people the wrong way, and I just stand out too
much.” But then I went to auditions and I’m like, “Wait a minute. They want me
to be a gang leader, a drug lord, a janitor, or the killer in the episode.” And
I’m like, “Wait a minute! I just went through this whole process of
assimilating as hard as I could.” So quickly I learned that it didn’t matter
how hard I worked, I would not be cast as lawyers or doctors.
Tony: Is that how your solo shows were born?
John: Absolutely. I thought, “Where are the Latin stories?
Why aren’t we anywhere?” I needed to make material for myself. ’Cause I knew we
were funny, I knew we were intellectual. I knew we had great stories to tell: present,
past. So that became my life’s work. You ask yourself, “Why does this matter?
What am I doing to change culture?”
This is a piece you are writing but not performing in. Is
that something that you knew early on?
John: No, I was writing it for myself originally,
about 10 years ago. It was a play then, not a musical. It wasn’t gaining traction.
They said it was “funny, but, Aztecs?” They just didn’t get it. I had a lot of
stories like that. Stories about Latin culture had no traction in Hollywood or
TV. They just couldn’t get it.
How did you decide to not act in it?
John: Well, when it became a musical I was like, “I’m
out.” I mean I’ve got an amazing voice, except for pitch or melody; otherwise
you’d love to hear me.
Why did you make it a musical?
John: I think the impetus was Spamalot. The
way they turned Holy Grail into a musical made me think, “Wow, maybe I
can do that with my Aztec piece.” But then I realized I can’t write music, and
started working with Benjamin [Velez] and David [Kamp], who can.
Tony: But the sensibility of a lot of the music comes
from John—the comic spirit we’re tapping.
John: And you. Tony wants songs to move the plot
forward. When I first started writing the musical I thought songs were like in
an opera; they could just reveal the unconscious, or just be about emotion that
you didn’t see. But it can’t—
Tony: In a musical you have to keep the momentum.
It’s a difficult art form. The many elements have to feed each other…and we are
trying to write a nontraditional musical. It’s a crazy new hybrid. There’s more
book than usual, and we’re doing this Elizabethan/urban slang combination—this
colliding of worlds. ’Cause it’s set in the 16th century.
What do you find exciting or useful about that
combination of period and modern language?
John: I wanted to create an Elizabethan patois. A Shakespearian language with ghetto slang. I love it in my ear—that juxtaposition. I’ve always loved slang, American vernaculars, and urbanisms. I grew up with that, and love hearing it combined with the Elizabethan language.
Are you hoping bridging that linguistic gap will make
people draw parallels between the 16th century and now?
Tony: We never lose the sensibility that we are in the present day watching a theatrical event.The frame of the show breaks the fourth wall; it’s a company of actors saying, “We’re both sharing this same world with all its contradictions, challenges, fucked-up-ness, and beauty. And we are all gonna now look at what happened back in 1540.” We’re always trying to make the audience connect it to their own experience today. A lot of the contradictions and injustices are the same, which is depressing.
John: I mean, yes, things haven’t moved as far as
we’d like, but we have to remember that progress is never linear—it goes
backwards and forward, it’s not steady.
Tony: Yeah. I’ve only been alive in this period of
time, but it seems to me from studying history that—
John: Oh you’re much older than you let on, come on. Didn’t
you actually polish Cortés’ helmet?
Tony: What a bastard.
John: Yeah, Tony’s drawing from personal experience when
we’re talking about the conquest.
Tony: Exactly. Oh, the horses were brutal. What was I
You were talking about history.
Tony: Right. We tend to fall victim to mini cycles of
our experience. Trump is elected, so we think, “Oh my God, there’s been no
progress. We’re back to square one.” But that’s not really true historically,
as John was saying. There is a war going on now. But our sensibility tends to
be dominated by the present moment and we forget that if we look back at
history, there’s always a struggle.
John: We progress and we regress.
Tony: It’s an ebb and flow. But hopefully the ebb
doesn’t take us so far back that we can’t return from it.
On that rather dark note—this piece is full of outrageous
humor, but it’s about a murderous oppression and attempted erasure of a people.
It’s relentlessly silly, but makes powerful assertions about identity and resilience.
Why is it important for you to be telling this dark story with humor?
how I grew up, so that’s my sensibility. I had a very difficult upbringing, and
humor was the thing that saved me and my family. And I think part of why I grew
up that way is a consequence of the conquest. Like when I even look at some of
the violent games that we played in Queens—Hot Peas and Butter, Manhunt, and Knuckles—they’re
all games brought on from the conquest. There was such abuse of people, and
abuse of families and children. So, I wanted to create this dark world, but
also assert that there’s always hope. No matter how dark it is, no matter who
the president is, and how much he’s trying to destroy decency and respect of
others, it’s still a great time where women are rising in power and Latin
people are getting their due. We elected many women, including Latina women,
into office in the midterms. A lot of great things are happening even in this
a perfect answer, John. The more personal answer for me is that I was the class
clown because I had a massive speech impediment. I could not talk in complete
sentences until I was in seventh grade. Being funny was the way out—the way to
be liked. So I married that personal experience to a worldview. I realized comedy
could invite people to look past their own prejudices, and that became part of
my aesthetic. Look at Dario Fo—an amazing, political Italian comic who won the Nobel
Prize [in 1997 because he “emulates the jesters of the Middle Ages in scourging
authority and upholding the dignity of the downtrodden”]. Read his acceptance speech—it
was very controversial that a clown won the fucking Nobel Prize, but he was a
major political thinker using comedy to make people pay attention.
Tell me about the show’s range of musical genres.
wanted a broad bandwidth of Latin music—the salsa, Latin freestyle, merengue,
reggaeton, cumbia, as many of the beautiful aspects of Latin music as we could
squeeze in, and the dances that come with them. We even throw a tango in there.
Our music is everywhere these days. Cardi B is Dominican, and she’s the highest
selling female rapper in the world. You got Bruno Mars, he’s Puerto Rican, and
he’s doing the pop thing. And then you got Camila Cabello, she’s Cuban and
she’s doing a more Latin R&B sound. Latin music goes everywhere, and so
that’s what we try to cover, though it’s impossible to completely achieve—the A
to Z of Latin music.
What are each of your favorite genres of Latinx music?
John: There are many styles that I love, but in
particular la Sonora Matancera. They’re a Cuban/Afro-Cuban group that started
in the 1920s—they made Cuban music that permeated Latin America. They were
incredible crooners and wrote beautiful love songs.
Tony: Salsa, ’cause of my mom. Tito Puente was my
John: No! Oh my God, you’re illustrious.
What would your mothers think of this show?
Tony: Well, our mothers get along famously. My mother
loves everything I do because I’m doing it.
John: I’ve been a huge pain in my mom’s ass trying to
get her to understand the culture she came from, to help her understand her
indigenous roots. Every time she sees my pieces, she learns something about
herself and the culture she came from, and it’s great ’cause then she
influences her friends.
Which character in the show do you most identify with?
John: It’s gotta be Pepe; he’s the artist saying,
“Look, we matter, we count.”
Tony: Yeah, it’s the guy who’s trying to be funny and
popular, but he’s doing all the wrong things.
John: We don’t win at basketball, we don’t win at
football, we don’t win all the fights, but hey, we’re funny and interesting.
This is part two of two of Johanna Pfaelzer and Lisa Steindler in conversation, in which they continue their discussion of intergenerational leadership in theatre and supporting artists in the Bay Area.
Johanna Pfaelzer is
the incoming artistic director at Berkeley Rep Theatre and Lisa Steindler is
the executive artistic director of Z Space.
Lisa Steindler: Hopefully we’ll have young
leaders running mid-size organizations sooner rather than later and, in ten
years, they will be running the regional theatres with so much more expertise
under their belts. With so many people leaving the field after many years in
leadership roles, I’m not sure we have adequately developed or created
opportunities for the next generation to take up the reigns.
Johanna Pfaelzer: I think for women, especially,
figuring out how to balance parenthood and these jobs is a real issue that we
must pay attention to. How can we retain women as leaders and create the
flexibility in our structures that will enable them to stay within these
organizations? I was really lucky to be working for a working mother—Carey
Perloff—when I became a parent.
Steindler: One hundred percent agree. I feel
most excited about that right now, in this moment in my career, to foster and
mentor three incredible millennial women who are all way smarter than me. They
have a lot more knowledge about the world of twenty-year-olds and the
technology that goes along with that, and I believe that is crucial to the
relevance of an organization. That merged with the historical knowledge of the
organization and the field that I bring to the table, we have a pretty robust
Pfaelzer: I also think different generations of
theatremakers are thinking about what theatre can do as an art form in really
different ways. I don’t think it’s solely generational but I do think there’s a
reason that, when we look at the twenty-year-olds and the thirty-year-olds in
our field, they’re thinking about collaboration, about the process of how and
why and you make work together, in a much broader way. They’re going to demand
that of the institutions, and the structures are going to have to adapt to
their vision, and they should.
Steindler: Absolutely, they should. Here at Z
Space we’re all about failure in a good way, being able to take artistic and
organizational risks without fear of failure. Taking on a leadership role
involves a steep learning curve and the navigation of multiple relationships,
during which myriad risks are encountered where one might potentially fail. But
if we’re intentional about creating this new leadership model, supporting young
leaders, and building from within the Z Space family to engage and invest in
new and diverse leadership, we can quite possibly achieve much greater
milestones while taking risks and minimizing failure.
Pfaelzer: Indeed! And that question of failure,
not like I’m obsessed with it right now as I’m in the middle of season planning
or anything, but the model of New York Stage and Film is based on the idea that
you get to take huge risks. And that we as an organization can turn to a body
of artists in any given year and say: “Go big. We’ve got you and we can keep
the stakes low.”
One of the challenges for me, going into an institution with Berkeley Rep’s scale, is to make sure that some piece of me can keep that notion alive. For myself, for the artists in the building, and to bring an audience into that as well, to help them understand that the task of an artist isn’t to give them polished perfection. Because theatre is this ephemeral, living, breathing thing, how do we let that notion of transformation and risk and change and attempt and failure be part of the process, delight, and specificity of how the show is then experienced?
…failure can become a very nourishing aspect of the creation of great work. If we’re afraid of failing, we will get a certain type of work that can be calcifying…
Steindler: Once you put it into a context of
process, people are super excited about that. They’re generous. And failure can
become a very nourishing aspect of the creation of great work. If we’re afraid
of failing, we will get a certain type of work that can be calcifying,
potentially. That frightens me. You and I have both dedicated our lives to new
work and to creating space where these things can be explored and then actually
We’ve been looking at a strategic plan and one of the
classic questions that came out of it was: “Who are we serving?” And my answer
was very different than the answer of these younger women leaders I am working
with at Z Space now. My answer was: “We’re serving the artists.” And their
answer was :“We’re serving the audience.”
Pfaelzer: The younger people working in your
organization said serving the audience?
Pfaelzer: Wow, that surprises me.
Steindler: It surprised me too, it’s
fascinating. But they’re really clear about, “If we don’t have a fully
inclusive audience, we don’t have an institution.” And I said, “If we don’t
have artists creating excellent work, what are we serving the audience?” It is
chicken and egg, but it exemplifies one of the many benefits of distributed and
Pfaelzer: One thing you mentioned, which I
thought was really interesting in these moments of transitions, was about new
work, because it can take a company so long to partner with an artist to make
something new. From first conversation through commission through early drafts
through development, to realization in whatever form that is… When a transition
happens at some midpoint along that trajectory, what happens to the piece? What
happens to the institution? What is it for an artist who has a deep
relationship with the artistic leader who first made that commitment to them
and a real, honest expectation of realization within that structure? What is it
for the incoming person to say: “Oh, great, here’s a bunch of stuff I get to
fall in love with” or “The pipeline has been primed for me in fantastic ways.”
That’s not an entirely hypothetical thing, given where I sit
right now, because the Berkeley Rep team has been so extraordinarily generous
in saying: “Let it be a clean slate for you.” And, on the other hand, there are
decades of relationships with artists that Tony Taccone, the outgoing artistic
director, has established that I want to make sure I’m aware of and honoring in
appropriate ways, and, frankly, can avail myself of.
Steindler: I think it’s tremendous that Berkeley
Rep has handed you a clean slate. It’s a little scary to have that
responsibility in a relatively new community for you, in which all those
relationships already exist. But the blend is potentially so rich. And because
you’ve been doing this for quite a long time, especially with new work in New
York, and now again on the West Coast, you’ve got really established relationships
with a vast roster of great artists. I imagine there’s a lot of crossover from
those relationships. But the question is what do you inherit and what do you
blend in of your own to open those doors wider to achieve your aesthetic.
I’ve always thought about creating pipelines and working in concert with other organizations here. So if an artist begins working at Berkeley Rep, moves to a project at the Magic, comes to Z Space, and then goes on to A.C.T., we’re really working in concert with one another, and together we make it possible for these artists to actually make a meager living. And hopefully we are creating a pool of artists who will stay and see a viable career here in the Bay Area.
Pfaelzer: That also provides the opportunity to
marry an idea or a particular piece to the organization that would best serve
it at a particular place in its lifespan.
Steindler: That’s true.
Pfaelzer: I think of the vibrancy of what Campo Santo does in a space that is inherently smaller than at the Geary Theater, which is part of A.C.T., for instance. If we can all be thinking a bit more collectively, one of the things to consider is what stories demand to be told in which mode? What is it to sit outside at California Shakespeare Theater and experience the story in that environment?
…I do think that there is a way that we as organizations can be better, do better, at creating those opportunities and being thoughtful about how we build and sustain a larger, more diverse pool of artists creating great new work.
Steindler: When Mark Rucker first got to A.C.T.
as associate artistic director, I remember he was very interested in how we
keep the Bay Area artists here, how we create an environment they will invest
in, so they stay here and don’t go to LA or New York? An idea he had that I
loved, but we never got to bring to fruition, was to sit down as six, seven,
eight organizations and say, “Let us create a season for these actors. Let’s
look at these fifteen actors and make sure that six or eight of us can find
roles for them.” It’s a challenging idea, but it’s something we could revisit.
Because there really is an issue here.
The pool of artists has shrunk over the last decade plus,
and it’s not being replenished to the degree it should be. I think it’s largely
due to the cost of living. And I do think that there is a way that we as
organizations can be better, do better, at creating those opportunities and
being thoughtful about how we build and sustain a larger, more diverse pool of
artists creating great new work. Which in turn will serve our audiences… Back
to the interests of my younger colleagues.
I can’t wait for you to be here, to play with you and
support you in any way I possibly can.
Pfaelzer: That makes me so happy and so reassured.
The only thing that’s making this transition not entirely terrifying is that I
feel like I am walking back into a place I know and love, one where I have such
admiration for the people who are there, doing the work.
Joanna Pfaelzer: I’ve started already, at least in a very part-time way, in that I’m planning the 2019–20 season. But I won’t be there full-time until next September. It’s been a while since the Bay Area has actually been home. I left American Conservatory Theater (A.C.T.) to come back to New York in June of 2007.
Steindler: So it’s been a decade. Things have
changed, but you know the Bay Area still. We’ve been through a couple of booms
and busts since then, artistically, economically, socially.
Pfaelzer: That seems to just happen there; the
ups and downs are dramatic.
Steindler: They are. That’s a question I’m interested in because four of our large theatre institutions here—TheatreWorks, A.C.T., the Aurora Theatre, and Berkeley Rep—are all undergoing leadership transitions within two years. I’m very excited and hopeful about this next phase for the artistic community of the Bay Area. What will it look like in five or ten years? What sort of partnerships can be forged? What kind of work will be done? It’s the Wild West again.
How do you envision yourself in your new leadership role,
working with the artistic community of the Bay Area? What are some of the
partnerships you hope to forge; how do we become stronger together? I believe
if Berkely Rep is strong as an arts organization then Z Space is strong as an
arts organization. It’s not about competition. We all make each other stronger,
ultimately. Although a little competition is inevitable, and healthy.
Pfaelzer: I couldn’t agree more.
Programmatically, I don’t yet know what that could mean and it would be super
presumptuous of me at this point to walk in and say, “Hey everybody, here’s the
plan.” But I do feel like there’s a real openness and Pam MacKinnon, the new
artistic director of A.C.T., and I have started talking about this, and I know
Susie Medak, the managing director at Berkeley Rep, and Jennifer Bielstein, the
new executive director at A.C.T., are having these conversations as well, about
what we can collectively do to make the Bay Area a viable place for artists to
lead grown-up lives, and therefore for them to continue to commit to the
Steindler: That’s a great start. I’ve been
thinking about creative ways to address those very challenges. I’m part of a
kind of think tank put together by the Rainin Foundation. We’re focused on creating the best possible
conditions for art to be made and looking at different models of
Did you read the article David Dower wrote about these transitions in
Pfaelzer: Yes. I felt immediately years behind
in my own thinking.
It’s hard to walk in as the new person, so how do you position yourself and implement your own ideas and aesthetics while honoring the past?
Steindler: One of the things he touched upon is
that any organization transitioning leadership will inevitably lose artists,
board members, patrons, and subscribers. All organizations undergoing these
transitions are vulnerable to these losses. It’s hard to walk in as the new
person, so how do you position yourself and implement your own ideas and
aesthetics while honoring the past? What are your thoughts on how to navigate
that or where you do you see the challenges?
Pfaelzer: I went from New York Stage and Film to
A.C.T. and then back to New York Stage and Film. So it was a funny trajectory,
but I think you’re asking an incredibly important and really, really
complicated question. When I first came into New York Stage and Film, it was a
company with three founders—Leslie Urdang, Max Mayer, and Mark Linn-Baker—who deeply
identified with and were hugely invested in the organization. And, at that
point, in 1998, they were very hands on in its day-to-day operations.
One of the things that the four of us learned over a period
of five years was how to share not just the management of the company but the
relationships of the company. But we had time to do it because there was
essentially a multiyear transition in that case, so there was time for those
artists to get to know me and there was time for me to get to know them. And it
was a conscious choice to say, “These are people who are extraordinary in their
field and who have this deep sense of identification with this company and I
want this to continue to be a home for them.”
Steindler: Was it two or three years that you
worked side by side with them?
Pfaelzer: Two years before they made me an equal
partner with the three of them. And then there was a slow shift where we
evolved our leadership structure, but it didn’t really formalize until I came
back in 2007, after five years at A.C.T., and they stepped back and made me the
company’s first artistic director. I think the reason we all felt so
comfortable with it is that we knew each other deeply, there was a real shared
sense of values. And not just values, but practices. One of the things we’re
anticipating here now as we embark on the beginning stages of a search for the
next artistic leader for New York Stage and Film is realizing that we’re going
to have to do it in a very different way. And that feels both exciting and a
Steindler: Different in how it normally happens?
As in you can’t just hire a headhunter and put it out to the field, but that
you have to be much more creative, transitional and invested?
Pfaelzer: Yeah. New York Stage and Film is such
a uniquely structured company, and I think there’s a real openness on the part
of the founders and the board to think about what leadership might look like
Steindler: There was a study that Emiko Ono from
the Hewlett Foundation wrote
in 2016 called Moving Arts
Leadership Forward. It was about looking at organizational structures
and how we can rethink and prepare for the next twenty-five years, which I took
to heart. We just celebrated Z Space’s twenty-fifth anniversary this year. And
so what do the next twenty-five years look like. We have started the process of
creating a distributed leadership model.
The idea of distributing leadership, and this burden or joy, depending on the moment or month, is to share all of that, but also to share the creation of the art as well.
Pfaelzer: What does that mean to you, and what
does it mean specifically about Z Space?
Steindler: Like all executive artistic directors,
I bear the burden of the failure or success of my organization. It’s on my
shoulders alone, or at least it feels that way. I think, organizationally, that
can be a very precarious place to be. The idea of distributing leadership, and
this burden or joy, depending on the moment or month, is to share all of that,
but also to share the creation of the art as well. It doesn’t necessarily mean
there are four artistic leaders—it’s about being very thoughtful in where
everyone’s expertise lies. Someone may be more creative, someone better with
finances, someone more operational. And you work together from those zones, but
you are working as equals.
On an organizational chart those are equal leadership
positions because they are all integral to the success or failure of the
enterprise. But you have your expertise in each of those places, and that
hopefully creates more ownership. You need to be very clear about who has the
responsibility for what, who’s accountable to whom, who is consulted and who is
informed, so there’s not redundancy. But it’s critical we create opportunities
for the next generation to enter the field and let them know there is
opportunity for growth and leadership potential.
Steindler: Hopefully we’ll have young leaders running mid-size organizations sooner rather than later and, in ten years, they will be running the regional theatres with so much more expertise under their belts. With so many people leaving the field after many years in leadership roles, I’m not sure we have adequately developed or created opportunities for the next generation to take up the reigns.
Encore asked TeenTix if one of their members from the TeenTix Press Corps program would contribute a piece about what teen activism means to them. Huma Ali shares her experience as an activist and feminist as a teen today.
As I’ve gotten older, activism has become increasingly popular among my peers. Maybe it’s because we desire a sense of belonging, have discovered unwavering principles to hold on to, or seek to create change—each individual has different motivations. But collectively, my generation has found power in our voices. As students, we have begun to speak out about the changes we want to see in society. We’ve planned walkouts, formed clubs and attended protests—we have become activists. But while some of us have pursued activism, another group has set out to bring us down. Growing up among a fairly kind bunch of students, it was unusual to see kids doubt the activism of their peers. Yet, I have come to realize that such a reaction is inherent to activism; someone will always second-guess you.
In the seventh grade, I befriended an upper-class student who introduced me to activism and the need for it in today’s world. Until that point, I had been under the impression that conflict was absent in our world. I thought war was a tale of the past, and that we lived in a utopian society. To some extent, I blame my elementary school curriculum for this because every Martin Luther King Day lesson left me, and other students, thinking that racism didn’t exist anymore. Well, I soon realized that’s not true. I learned that the world is not a perfect place. The world probably can’t be perfect, but it can be better. I became an avid human rights activist, labeling myself a feminist. Activism provides an outlet for individuals to support their beliefs in a way they will be heard. The power of their words allows for change, in a society that needs it.
We’ve planned walkouts, formed clubs and attended protests—we have become activists. But while some of us have pursued activism, another group has set out to bring us down.
Freshman year I joined my high school’s Feminism Club. It was a nice space, quite positive and full of like-minded individuals. But a torrent of hate lingered behind the club. Many students thought it was unnecessary—and some still do. Another group tried to start a “Meninist” club. Many of my peers thought of feminism as a derogatory term, and often called our events, like one of our walkouts, “stupid.” But these people wouldn’t make time to understand the reasons behind our actions. It is safe to say that it wasn’t always easy to be a part of the club. Recently, someone defaced our “Feminism Club! Everyone is Welcome!” poster by adding a line that read “no straight males.” It’s hard to comprehend a student’s motivation behind writing such a comment because our club’s priority is inclusivity. In response, we created an arrow out of tape, at the tail of which was another poster reading, “This is why we need Feminism Club. This type of mentality is exactly what we are trying to overcome. Feminism by nature is inclusive. We hope you will visit our club with an open mind!” I hope they actually come to one of our meetings. If they do, I don’t think I’ll be mad at them for defacing the poster—I’ll be happy they showed up and gave feminism a chance.
Being a teen activist, the most important thing I have learned is that you must stay rooted in your beliefs. People have agendas, intentional or not. You need to know what you are fighting for. There is value in the ideas of others, but there is power in the ideas you form by yourself. Activism empowers youth to fight for their beliefs through a viable means, in which they are given a chance to influence change in our society—at the very least, this is what it has done for me.
Huma Ali is a junior at Lake Washington High School who is passionate about the power of words. She is a patron of the arts, an active writer and works to make teen voices heard through TeenTix’s Press Corps program.
Playwright Julie Taiwo Oni explores the difficult, yet necessary task of casting actors who authentically represent characters written and the effect this representation has on marginalized identities.
How do you cast authentically when there is not a single actor of a certain identity to be found within your community? If my mission as a playwright is to share stories of the underrepresented, then how can I cast an actor who lacks the marginalized identity my script requires? This obstacle is an important element of the current fight for fairness in casting, and I encountered it full-force on my own journey to find a Black teenage male actor with albinism.
As a Nigerian-American and a storyteller, I am in constant conflict between heightened awareness of widespread misconceptions of non-Western cultures (my global side) and sheer shock and horror at the encountering of some ritual practices (the good ole American in me). When I first heard about the persecution of PWAs (person with albinism) in Africa from my father a few years back, I thought it must be an ancient myth; I was mistaken. In fact, even today, Tanzania has one of the highest global rates of people with albinism, and they are frequently attacked and killed for the sale of their bodies to witch doctors for good luck potions.
To dramatize this unfortunate story, I wrote Chisel, a two-character play about a Black American teen with albinism and his interaction with a biracial Tanzanian art student. Sal, my teen protagonist, is in conflict with his albinism because he doesn’t feel that he’s accepted as a Black Lives Matter activist due to his lacking pigmentation. He therefore engages in an aggressive activity that lands him in a juvenile detention center. Alice—his counter—struggles with being mixed race in a culture that often resents non-native citizens. I finished a draft of the play and placed it aside a few years ago, mainly because I had no idea who would perform either role, especially that of Sal.
The representation struggle has become all too familiar these days, from the rampant cultural appropriation of hip-hop, to Katy Perry’s kimonos and dreadlocks, to the whitewashing and gender identity-crossing of Hollywood via the likes of Scarlett Johansson. Yet an important part of the conversation is the challenge of representing marginalized identities when privileged bodies are so much more accessible on casting couches. Constant rejection and appropriation discourages under-represented actors, making it even more difficult to get them into the room. The unfortunate result is that more privileged actors get more opportunities to hone their skills in all levels of theatre.
Sometime into my own representation journey, my friend Bri, who was set to perform the role of Chisel’s Alice for a reading, sat down to help me brainstorm possible actors to play the PWA male character Sal. We were at a loss. Would an audience be able to gather the full weight of the story—centered on the identity of a young man with albinism—if the actor playing the role did not have this condition? It felt so important to see him. We decided that the absolute minimum at that moment was to find somebody who would understand Sal’s journey intellectually and be willing to engage in conversation about the PWA plight. We decided to cast Tom, a TV actor and friend. The reading went well, but the question of course came up: was this play castable?
Is it worth the ongoing and discouraging search for an actor of a marginalized identity when there are so many of privilege willing to play the role?
I believe it is.
So, I persisted. Everywhere I went, to anyone I met, I mentioned Chisel and my struggle to find an actor. I spoke of the PWA attacks in my classes on culture. I emailed modeling and casting agencies. I asked my acting students for recommendations. The result was a sharing and tagging anytime a friend or colleague saw a story on albinism and a collection of books and magazine articles sent by friends, yet still no Sal.
Perhaps six months after the reading, I got a message from Tom: “I see the Tanzanian albino girls we talked about in rehearsals.” The girls were Tindi and Bibiana Mashamba, sisters who were in Los Angeles on refuge after Bibiana had been attacked and lost a leg and fingers. They were at his local lunch spot. My heart jumped with joy. “Well talk to them!” I waited impatiently. Hours later, he told me he’d lacked the nerve to speak to them: “I didn’t know what to say. Sorry.”
And here we encountered the next obstacle on our mission: the hypocrisy of drawing attention to albinism when the heart of Chisel’s story is about a desire for acceptance instead of social isolation. If I were to pass a Black male with albinism that looked like a possible Sal, what would I say to him, “You’re a PWA, I need you”? Fortunately, Tom saw them again a few months later and asked if they would be interested in meeting up with the Chisel team. They were overjoyed (probably because they recognized him from TV, but I’ll take it). Their host and co-founder of African Millennium Foundation, Malena Ruth, arranged for us to all have tea. During our meeting, they told the story of Bibiana’s attack, and we were all horrified by their trauma yet inspired by these two warriors.
If only these girls had been actors.
Despite these frequent roadblocks, I firmly believe that the theatre community can work together to hold each other up in the mission toward authentic casting. I think most of us want representation; the challenge is the grit that it requires.
A year or two after the initial Chisel reading, with a second reading under our belt but still no PWA actor for Sal, a new theatre colleague sent me contact information for a Black actress with albinism she’d heard about in Chicago. I emailed her a long, detailed, impassioned letter about my journey and how excited I was to be connected with her. I didn’t expect a reply. Ten minutes later, I got one. She was as excited as I was to be in touch.
I sent her Chisel and thought that perhaps I could find a way to cast her in the male role or adjust the script’s gender dynamics. She gave me the most heart-felt and thorough script feedback I had received, noting the ringing-true to her experience and sharing questions that came up. Casting her proved an impossibility because of the story’s essential commentary on Black male experience, but I promised to keep in touch and update her on the process. We made plans to collaborate in the future, and I asked if she knew any male PWA actors.
This is it, I said to myself, crafting another heartfelt email, this time, at long last, to a Black male actor with albinism. I got no reply. I was back to square one, even with some strong and inspiring ladies in my court.
A few weeks later, I was scrolling through my Instagram when I saw a post from @albinism_beautiful, a group I’d been following for years. It hit me that the members of this particular community might be worth approaching. The second I passed the profile of Jordan White, an eighteen-year-old young man from Atlanta, I knew I’d found my Sal. He was a Black teenage male with albinism with the description “Actor/Model.” I didn’t wait this time. I messaged him immediately and heard back within an hour or so. We began an ongoing dialogue about my play.
It turned out one of Jordan’s most prominent performances was tied to another PWA actor’s casting in a TV series shot in his city. Marginalized groups do have this profound ability to hold each other up, but we need to see that others respect our stories as well by pushing forth characters that are multidimensional—not archetypal. And we need the space to bring them to life ourselves. This is the key to representation.
On June 14, 2018, Jordan flew to LA for the first time to perform in a reading of Chisel at Pepperdine University, where I work. The Department of Humanities and Teacher Education generously hosted him for Albinism Awareness Day. After months of talking through the script and planning, we finally met in person.
I was shocked by this young man. He reminded me of the importance of life experience and observation to breathe humanity into a story. Jordan was an articulate, enthusiastic, hilarious and confident guy. When he entered the theatre, fresh off a long flight (and the first of his life), he greeted us all with handshakes and hugs, pumped and ready. I had anticipated—after all these years of studying the oppression of PWA—to encounter a shy and self-conscious young man who would need time to warm up to us; he was just the opposite.
“I like to be seen,” he said as we drove down Pacific Coast Highway after that first rehearsal. “I used to be mad all the time and hate the stares, but now I just smile.”
In a world of rampant cultural and identity appropriation, we have a responsibility as practitioners of live performance to allow the audience to experience another’s story truthfully. The joy of encountering an underrepresented actor onstage playing a character of his or her actual identity is too powerful to forego. The more marginalized actors see themselves represented authentically, the more they will start to fill our casting couches. The maze will dwindle.
Julie Taiwo Oni is a Nigerian-American playwright with an interest in exploring the African diaspora through narrative. Recent plays include nat&EM, Bunk, Denim, Black-Proof, and Chisel—a story that displays the oppression of people with albinism in Tanzania. Oni is Visiting Assistant Professor of English at Pepperdine University. julietaiwooni.com
This piece, Casting an Actor with Albinism: The Importance of Authenticity on Stage by Julie Taiwo Oni was originally published on HowlRound on August 2, 2018.
Here’s news from Seattle’s performing arts community and beyond.
Here Lies Love is being staged at Seattle Repertory Theatre. Here’s a first look and here’s a look behind-the-scenes. The David Byrne musical is a big deal. There’s more discussed about it here and here.
The Seattle International Film Festival is fast approaching. What is giong to be the opening night film? This one.
Seattle Opera is presenting Mozart’s famous work, The Magic Flute, soon. Take a quick gander at the coming show, here.
Also coming soon to Seattle is the musical of Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion. Romy and Michele were just recently cast for the 5th Avenue Theatre production.
Meany Center for the Performing Arts recently announced their 2017-18 season. Some highlights of the coming year can be found, here.
Congratulations to Wave Books. The local poetry publisher recently won the Pulitzer Prize.
The Pulitzer Prize for Drama went to Lynn Nottage for Sweat.