OK Luke… just write the thing. 

This project has spent a long time percolating. It’s time to take some real steps forward and continue doing what I had set out to do 3 years ago. 

decentre.ca is a network for marginalized artists looking for community. Many artists doing innovative work feel alone. I know how much frickin’ creative talent is in small town New Brunswick, for example (hey Sussex), and I also know that resources can be limited when it comes to finding your people and getting your work seen. The hustle is hard. But it becomes a hell of a lot easier when others are doing it with you.

Those of us who are “othered”, those whose experiences differ from the status quo, find it especially challenging to get our work where we want it to be. decentre is my humble attempt to close some gaps and help folks feel a bit more understood. It’s a project for artists decentring conventional ways of viewing the world. 

As with any new project, I’ve had many questions: What does that network look like? Who can be a part of it and why? Three years have passed and, apart from a few blog posts and interviews, decentre hasn’t grown too much. 

It’s time I kick things into high gear and get the ball rolling. I could ask myself questions for forever and never end up actually getting this up in the air. For now, here’s what I would like to provide: 

1. A space for you to read, listen, watch, and feel inspired. My hope is that something I or other contributors put on here will speak to you and provide insight in some small way for whatever it is you’re working on.

2. A resource for artists and creative types who are out there killing it but find themselves lacking in a sense of community. 

3. A sounding board for new ideas, old ideas revived from the dead, and thoughts you’ve been sitting on for a while. 

Let’s get the creative juices flowing and help each other learn and grow as artists. Meanwhile this thing will be growing itself, and I’ll be transparent with how it evolves. But hey, for now (especially now) let’s just start collaborating and connecting. 

Feeling a bit isolated with the creative project you’ve been working on? Well, I have a coupla degrees in theatre and performance and an admin job at a theatre. I want to lend an ear and help. If something’s out of my realm of experience I have friends I can try to connect you with. We all need empathetic support as we hone our craft… now more than ever. 

What are you working on right now? Or what have you been wanting to work on? What’s been bouncing around in your head?

I’m going to keep posting some thoughts on theatre, performance, community-building… and I’d like to profile some others who are doing remarkable things to bring people together. Follow along to catch up on some good news and see how folks are pushing boundaries and shifting the focus.

Questions? Thoughts? Leave a comment below. Love y’all. Talk soon.

“It’s only when diverse perspectives are included, respected, and valued that we can start to get a full picture of the world, who we serve, what they need, and how to successfully meet people where they are.” Brené Brown, Dare to Lead

What is decentre? What does it do?

The last two posts, “How Performance Can Break Stereotype (Maybe)” and “Rising Tide of Change”, give a small glimpse of the exciting performance work happening on the East Coast. Theatre and performance artists are challenging the status quo from a place of courage and wholeheartedness. Stretching beyond the boundaries of traditional bums-in-seats theatre, these artists are owning their personal vulnerabilities and redefining Atlantic Canadian culture. If Atlantic Canada is framed as boring, which it often is, these artists are pushing beyond the frame and carving out a new creative path.

Here, I describe how decentre aligns itself with these brave artists and how it prepares artists for further creative risk-taking. The post outlines what decentre can offer as a digital commons: an online space that welcomes vulnerability and listens to those living and working on the margins. There are two parts to this project: online content and creative mentorship.

1. Online Content: Important ideas

The blog posts explore the many creative perspectives within Atlantic Canadian theatre and performance. The podcasts amplify creative voices that are often muffled. There are multiple ideas presented on this website, and many more to come. I’m trying to make decentre less about me, so please leave a comment below to join the conversation. To quote Beyoncé:

If people in powerful positions continue to hire and cast only people who look like them, sound like them, come from the same neighborhoods they grew up in, they will never have a greater understanding of experiences different from their own. They will hire the same models, curate the same art, cast the same actors over and over again, and we will all lose. The beauty of social media is it’s completely democratic. Everyone has a say. Everyone’s voice counts, and everyone has a chance to paint the world from their own perspective. (Beyoncé, Vogue, September 2018)

decentre presents work created by East Coast artists with different perspectives. It also provides sustained, collaborative support for those new to theatre or approaching it in unconventional ways. It’s a place to strengthen your theatre or performance creations through honest conversation and a variety of perspectives.

The ideas and resources on decentre.org are yours for the taking.

2. Creative Mentorship: Putting these ideas into action

Want some hands on assistance for a play you’re writing? Have a new performance concept and want an outside eye? decentre is ready to turn the light on the creative projects you’ve been keeping in the dark.

I and some other professional artists/arts workers are creating online mentorship programs for those who want to take the next step and confront the status quo: creatives who are tackling material outside of the mainstream. We want to reach out and listen to how you are approaching your creative process, and be available to you to provide any sort of insight when needed.

I’m personally offering my services as an academic, artist, and arts administrator to listen to your ideas and help you shape them into a successful creative project. We will soon outline the types of things I and others on the team can offer, including biweekly video calls, dramaturgical input, directing tips, and more. In the meantime, reach out if you’d like to chat about how we can collaborate.

A friendly resource and an honest guide: that’s what decentre is becoming. And as it starts to grow and take shape, I’d like to take the time to talk about its core values. It’s a creative commons for people who live and work on the margins, ie artists who wish to burst out of their own personal boxes, but why does decentre believe that creative risk and vulnerability is important?

I’d like to start with an anecdote. I hope this sheds light on what decentre is trying to do.

Lately I’ve been posting confessional videos on my personal Instagram. I live alone and I’ve been feeling too lethargic to socialize. Honestly… I’ve been lonely. I record myself speaking through my fears and problems, and it’s really just so I can hear my own voice. Instagram has been my confidant.

My recent Instagram story was about how people’s expression of vulnerability requires heightened listening. I spoke about how people plan responses in advance and how we need to be practicing genuine curiosity and empathy instead.

Interest in what others are saying allows them to feel safe. Connecting to their emotions allows them to feel heard.

In my experience, when I have a lot of emotional baggage and attempt to articulate challenging concepts, it’s important I feel like others can empathize: like they can connect with what I’m trying to say. Even small instances of dismissal can cause damage when we have our entire hearts on the line. And artists have their heart on the line more often than anyone. That’s the purpose of decentre — supporting artists as they dig into their personal creative muck.

A friend watched my story and slid into my DMs. They agreed with what I was saying but felt the argument was incomplete. They explained that as the vulnerable person unloads in a conversation, it’s healthy for them to be aware that the person they’re speaking with may be unable to grasp the intricacies of what they’re saying. Maybe they’re on the autism spectrum, or ill equipped to handle emotional baggage.

I told my friend I completely agreed and appreciated the input. But honestly I felt deflated. They were offering me valuable insight, and all I could see was a huge “BUT” wedged between the conflict and what I thought to be a profound solution (*hair toss*).

I’m a big Brené Brown fan, and after looking back at her research I think I’ve recognized what was going on. Brown is an expert on shame and vulnerability: her work uncovers how we can delve deeper into tough emotions and live more courageous and authentic lives. I tend to point to her popular TED talk as an introduction to her body of work, though you may also wish to watch her recent Netflix special.

Reading Dare to Lead I found this quote:

vulnerability is not a sympathy-seeking tool … Sharing just to share without understanding your role, recognizing your professional boundaries, and getting clear on your intentions and expectations (especially those flying under the radar) is just purging or venting or gossip or a million other things that are often propelled by hidden needs. (Brené Brown, Dare to Lead)

My video confession may have been insightful, but there was also a hidden need of simply feeling heard and not expecting feedback. I think many of us have created a piece of art that simply existed as a way for us to vent. Instead, creations should spark conversations. That’s what leads to change.

I realized that though I was being honest I wasn’t fully leaning into vulnerability. Part of being vulnerable as a person and as an artist is staying curious no matter what. My friend was happy about my comments on empathy and listening, but wanted to grow my initial thoughts in an even more fruitful direction: “Yes, we need to try to be more aware of our privilege in conversation, and we can acknowledge each other’s boundaries and limitations at the same time.” Great input, but I felt thrown off.

My friend said “and”. My fear heard “but”.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, as artists, we dismantled our fears and remained open to others’ experiences? Others’ unique perspectives that can make our own work even more beautiful?

When I felt discouraged, lost, and lonely, I turned to Instagram. The conversation with my friend was hard for me to handle. My armour was up and I wasn’t ready to engage with the muck. But when I did, the reward was great. My friend was speaking from a place with which I was also familiar. Brené Brown calls this the arena: we can afford to be vulnerable and listen to others, but only those who are in the arena with us, fighting a similar battle.

I think it’s safe to say that we’ve all been in environments where we’ve felt shame in pursuing our creative impulses. As someone who grew up in rural New Brunswick, my experience of the East Coast is that it’s filled with a lot of cute butts and not-so-cute “buts”: “I would love to do this, but there are no opportunities here”; “I love theatre but it’s not a practical career choice”. I viewed my friend’s comment as a “but” when it was really an “and”. They were cultivating the conversation and encouraging it to grow.

decentre is a place to move beyond your personal “but” and, like I discussed in the last two posts, explore the many potentials of the “and”. Doing so requires courage. It means leaning into vulnerability, embracing risk, and asking the hard questions. It also means creating what Brown and her team call a “safe container”: asking each other what we need to feel supported and safe in creative conversations.

decentre is a platform to discuss and embrace challenge. East Coast artists are doing wonderful things. If we can hone that and keep questioning ourselves, we can achieve even more than we set out to. We can reposition Atlantic Canadian culture as one that is always pushing boundaries in productive ways.

decentre offers opportunities to gain new insight. My experience as a director, actor, teacher, and administrator may help any theatre artist wanting to move beyond their personal “but”. Because of the large distances between communities, and a lack of city centres, East Coast artists may not have access to the creative support they’re looking for. You may wish to create in a field with which you’re unfamiliar, or do something that’s different and unexpected. You’re welcome to collaborate with us, artists who know the East Coast and have successfully created outside of the box. You can engage with us through a mentorship program (stay tuned for the next blog post), which may help you hit the ground running with your brilliant, provocative ideas.

If you’re marginalized, you face more obstacles in getting your work seen. And I know many of these obstacles aren’t physical. Shame and discouragement stop you from showing your true potential. By offering sustained creative support, decentre lends a listening ear and a helping hand. The online content is an invitation to join the conversation. The mentorship is collaborative and flexible, and provides reliable encouragement throughout your creative process.

Creators can’t go it completely alone 100% of the time. We get lonely. If you are creating from a place of vulnerability, it is important to have a mentor or advisor with whom you can be honest. This is also true if you are leading others: often our professional boundaries are such that we require outside guidance. Having honest conversations about our practice can help us dig deeper into problems and shape long lasting solutions.

As Atlantic Canadians, we sometimes can’t see beyond the fog of the “but”: decentre gets its hands dirty with honest kindness, delves into difficult conversations, and ultimately points you to an “and”.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. What ideas do you have that are ridiculous but that also might just work? How do you find the courage to put them into action?

Email me at lukedanbrown@gmail.com to chat about what your creative project needs to move forward. I’m happy to suggest approaches and point you to the resources I have to share.

In my Instagram story, what I landed on at first wasn’t the final solution: it was the start of one that would grow into something better. Let’s let our armour down and embrace vulnerability. Let’s get into it and build more intricate solutions: ones that can guide us through the muck and allow marginalized Atlantic Canadian artists to reach their full potential.

In the last post, “Rising Tide of Change”, I suggested there’s a cultural shift happening in Atlantic Canada. Xavier Gould is a big part of that: they’re confronting the structures that inhibit Acadian and gender identity expression, and their creations actually enact a more inclusive reality. The unapologetic presentation of a more utopian world is a useful creative strategy. It gives those who live and work on the margins an opportunity to imagine something brighter. Through the eyes of Jass-Sainte, they have a better view of what their world can become. I argue that the stereotype of the East Coast as “boring” doesn’t hold water, because fun and interesting worlds are continually being created by artists like Gould.

“I find that when people most successfully create art that allows others to step out of their particular boxes, they create a comfortable environment in which we can all explore discomfort together.”

Across Atlantic Canada, performers and creators are changing the assumption that the region has nothing going on. The Accidental Mechanics Group, for example, constructs live solo performances that speak directly to the queer experience. Their piece Let’s Not Beat Each Other to Death is described as follows:

Inspired in part by the brutal killing of a Halifax queer activist and an attack against an outspoken gay musician, its scope expands outward and becomes a search for explanation, compassion and catharsis on a larger global scale.

The performance is more than a written script presented on stage. In true queer fashion, its creators embrace a variety of performance methods. As a “participatory event” it refuses to settle on one form of presentation. I imagine its structure facilitates a more introspective reading for its audiences. Rather than offering one static “product” for its audiences to consume, the piece involves them in an experience. The multiple approaches to telling the story allow for more angles of perception: folks who can’t fully connect with the more “traditional” format of a play may connect better through music or dance.

The website describes the experience as:

Always a work in progress … [it] includes local stories in each iteration. Every new place sees itself reflected in the show, and the show leaves changed by each place it’s been.

Not only does the show play with structure, but it adapts after coming into contact with those who attend and participate. It doesn’t assume it knows what’s best. I personally consider this process queer and I make it a focus for decentre. Queerness is about always questioning: never settling within others’ expectations, but playing both within and outside of expected norms. Queer work like Let’s Not Beat Each Other to Death proves that the cultural practice in Atlantic Canada is much more than a 55-year run of Anne of Green Gables – The Musical™, or a musical about Newfoundland that’s presented outside the region and costs an arm and a leg to see.

Personally, as a queer person, I always have to look beyond the restrictions that are meant to regulate my lived experience. I don’t fit in the boxes meant to contain “everyone”. I find that when people most successfully create art that allows others to step out of their particular boxes, they create a comfortable environment in which we can all explore discomfort together. Queer artists in Atlantic Canada, for example, are living and making work that is moving Atlantic Canadians beyond fixed stereotypes.

The question is “how?” How are artists making “queer” work that encourages more complex imaginings of our realities? What are the actual techniques involved? It’s obviously a complex process, but one could maybe talk about three general steps to take in the creation of a piece of queer work.

1. Question. Scrutinize the powers that are holding you back, whatever they may be (shame? Injustice?) Try to unpack and understand how the world around you ticks, and why you and others are left on the outskirts.

2. Collaborate. Bring other voices into the room/process. Similar voices, contradictory voices, quiet voices, loud voices. Everyone brings something of value. Listen to what others can offer.

3. Play. Don’t take yourself too seriously all the time. Find the fun in being politically engaged. Try things out and grow from what you learn. It’s important not to delve so far into the social anxiety you’re exploring that you can’t find a way out. Learn to see all that is laughable.

Then repeat. Like The Accidental Mechanics Group acknowledges, we can never settle on a finished product. We may never find the answer to life’s most difficult questions. But we can sure as heck try, learning from our fellow artists and audience members as we go. Once you think you have the answer, question yourself. Find more people who have thoughts to contribute and chat with them, engaging in playful exploration until you move to another, even more pressing question. Don’t be afraid to fail.

I’d love to hear how you create queer art yourself. It’s through ongoing discussion and the sharing of knowledge that we can make kick-ass work that speaks directly to the current human experience. It’s only through honest conversation that we can develop and adapt our own stories and continue telling them in captivating ways. decentre encourages an exploration of how we can better support each other. Let’s not discourage each other from speaking up: let’s delve into connection and collaboration, constantly asking the big questions.

BTW: The Accidental Mechanics Group is developing a new piece titled The Unfamiliar Everything. Follow them on Instagram @accidentalmechanicsgroup. Watch a clip of Let’s Not Beat Each Other to Death here.

Like any region, Atlantic Canada contains multitudes. Its cultural identities are complex and cannot be pinned to one definition. Each province has a unique history, as does each “Atlantic Canadian”. The embodied pluralities that make up its population stretch out and shake up any imagined structure that tries to enforce a particular “Atlantic Canadian” identity. The development of Canada as a nation depended on the shared belief that each region had something unique to offer. But the borders of these regions are arbitrary, as is an any generalized statement saying “This is what this region represents”. The colonial construct of regionalism that settlers (like me) have been framing as “truth” is just as unstable as our individual states of being, but the enforcement of these imagined realities has major repercussions.

Exploring the many contradictory elements of present Atlantic Canadian-ness opens doors to what the region can become and is becoming. Just as the individual must accept the many internal contradictions they experience and shape them into a messy sequence of life choices, so too can the region of Atlantic Canada accept its inherent complexity. Our complexities are beautiful. The mesh of lived experiences that make up the East Coast can and should be embraced. I for one am fascinated by methods of expression that accept the intricate web of our ever-conflicted desires. When we are made to look at the pluralities in our world, we can then explore our many potential futures. When an artist shows us the dissonances in our day to day lives, the beautiful and fascinating contradictions of our present realities, paying close attention can help us actively create a better future.

Xavier Gould explores how sexual and gender identities intersect with that which is traditionally “Acadian”. The world they create with Jass-Sainte is one where Acadian stereotypes are strong but also inverted. Xavier’s “Jass-Sainte” is a beard-donning diva who plays with gender and other power structures that enforce rigid identities. The borrowing and twisting of English that’s inherent to Chiac is exaggerated even further (“BOYCOTT L’ANGLAIS AU JEUX DE LA FRANCOPHONIE”). The stereotypes of particular cities or events are jostled and rejected, like Jass-Sainte claiming that “Saint Jean est actually un des villes le plus francophones in the world. Ils sont loyalistes, qui veut dire qu’ils sont loyal au chiac, ils sont loyal au français, ils sont loyal à tout ça” (“Jass Sainte à la camp”). Xavier is an artist to keep your eyes on. Because they’re beautiful, duh, but also because they’re infusing their queerness with their work in noteworthy ways and altering Acadian and Atlantic Canadian mentality with every new project.

If you think a life on the East Coast is boring, you need only look at the queer creations of Xavier Gould to be proven wrong. By creating within the discomfort and ambiguity of queerness, they allow for the voices of others to be heard. Instead of working within a structure of heteronormativity/gender binary that’s comfortable for some, they accept and embrace difference and present it as a regular part of our lives. Like CBC’s Schitt’s Creek, there’s no trans/homophobia in the world of Jass-Sainte. And, since the character interacts with recognized figures in Acadian/New Brunswick communities (the Lieutenant Governor General of New Brunswick, but more importantly Lisa LeBlanc—see “EJ JOIN UN BAND // vlog”) Xavier brings their almost utopian world closer to our own. Pay attention, because this technique actively shows us how to present art that affects change. Watching Jass-Sainte on YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, and on stage allows a more inclusive Acadian/Atlantic Canadian future to play out in our imaginations. And if we can imagine it and feel it then it can exist. There’s a tide of change rising in Atlantic Canadian culture: one that could potentially lift all boats to better heights. Xavier’s playing a major role in showing us that a better future can exist now if we act on it.

Photo by Louis-Philippe Chiasson

Like any region, Atlantic Canada contains multitudes. Its cultural identities are complex and cannot be pinned to one definition. Each province has a unique history, as does each “Atlantic Canadian”. The embodied pluralities that make up its population stretch out and shake up any imagined structure that tries to enforce a particular “Atlantic Canadian” identity. The development of Canada as a nation depended on the shared belief that each region had something unique to offer. But the borders of these regions are arbitrary, as is an any generalized statement saying “This is what this region represents”. The colonial construct of regionalism that settlers (like me) have framed as “truth” is just as unstable as our individual states of being, but the enforcement of these imagined realities has major repercussions.

Exploring the many contradictory elements of present Atlantic Canadian-ness opens doors to what the region can become and is becoming. Just as the individual must accept the many internal contradictions they experience and shape them into a messy sequence of life choices, so too can the region of Atlantic Canada accept its inherent complexity. Our complexities are beautiful. The mesh of lived experiences that make up the East Coast can and should be embraced. I for one am fascinated by methods of expression that accept the intricate web of our ever-conflicted desires. When we are made to look at the pluralities in our world, we can then explore our many potential futures. When an artist shows us the dissonances in our day to day lives, the beautiful and fascinating contradictions of our present realities, paying close attention can help us actively create a better future.

Xavier Gould explores how sexual and gender identities intersect with that which is traditionally “Acadian”. The world they create with Jass-Sainte is one where Acadian stereotypes are strong but also inverted. Xavier’s “Jass-Sainte” is a beard-donning diva who plays with gender and other power structures that enforce rigid identities. The borrowing and twisting of English that’s inherent to Chiac is exaggerated even further (“BOYCOTT L’ANGLAIS AU JEUX DE LA FRANCOPHONIE”). The stereotypes of particular cities or events are jostled and rejected, like Jass-Sainte claiming that “Saint Jean est actually un des villes le plus francophones in the world. Ils sont loyalistes, qui veut dire qu’ils sont loyal au chiac, ils sont loyal au français, ils sont loyal à tout ça” (“Jass Sainte à la camp”). Xavier is an artist to keep your eyes on. Because they’re beautiful, duh, but also because they’re infusing their queerness with their work in noteworthy ways and altering Acadian and Atlantic Canadian mentality with every new project.

If you think a life on the East Coast is boring, you need only look at the queer creations of Xavier Gould to be proven wrong. By creating within the discomfort and ambiguity of queerness, they allow for the voices of others to be heard. Instead of working within a structure of heteronormativity/gender binary that’s comfortable for some, they accept and embrace difference and present it as a regular part of our lives. Like CBC’s Schitt’s Creek, there’s no trans/homophobia in the world of Jass-Sainte. And, since the character interacts with recognized figures in Acadian/New Brunswick communities (the Lieutenant Governor General of New Brunswick, but more importantly Lisa LeBlanc—see “EJ JOIN UN BAND // vlog”) Xavier brings their almost utopian world closer to our own. Pay attention, because this technique actively shows us how to present art that affects change. Watching Jass-Sainte on YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, and on stage allows a more inclusive Acadian/Atlantic Canadian future to play out in our imaginations. And if we can imagine it and feel it, then it can exist. There’s a tide of change rising in Atlantic Canadian culture: one that could potentially lift all boats to better heights. Xavier’s playing a major role in showing us that a better future can exist now if we act on it. Pay attention and get excited.

“You are the part of me I wish we were entirely. How could you not be happy?”

“We are all we have ever needed to be. Why aren’t you?”

The writing is beautiful and challenging: beautiful because it is challenging. The script’s first draft was imperfect, therefore engaging and full of life. As it progressed, and took shape under the pressure of questioning and conversation, the innate sincerity of the story shone through even brighter. Reflecting on this growth, it strikes me that the formation of the production ran parallel with the rise and fall of the narrative arc and the directorial decisions I made. I’m fascinated by this comparison and I want to tell you about it.

Often when I take on a new project I am struck by the thematic similarities between process and dramatic content. In Re:Construct, Even created a “beautiful broken thing” that, much like the character he plays, had to become comfortable with its own unique self before presenting an approachable “meaning” for those on the outside of the experience. The text became more defined in order to “shine through the cracks” and be understood by an audience who may or may not be familiar with queer stories. The character (whom we called “the artist” in rehearsals) similarly allows bits of his identity to be revealed gradually. The cake functions as a device symbolic of said identity and what the artist wants people to see.

I think in order to fully unpack just how fascinating these parallels became, it’s important to note the directorial intentions of the production.

It’s cake. Everyone loves it. That’s basically the message.

The artist is crafting his identity, which is physically manifested in the form of a sculpture or visual art installation. The piece is shaped like a cake: a symbol associated with “gender reveal parties” (vomit), birthdays, and other celebrations of new beginnings. The basic structure of the cake is made of plastic totes, and is covered (and uncovered) using shaving cream-as-icing, rendering more opaque what the artist considers a “transparent past”. What became important to convey in the production was the theme of covering up aspects of ourselves that inevitably seep through.

We should learn to embrace those parts of ourselves which may break us but also make us beautiful. The story is not saying that trans* people can never present as their true selves. Rather, it highlights some possible difficulties in the journey of transitioning while also pointing to how those challenges are important.

The transition to how we got here in the hardest, ugliest, best part of it all.

“She”, the biologically female body in which the artist was born and lived a small part of his life, shines through from the inside of the installation. The memories that surround the artist, hung like clothes on racks in his psyche-cum-studio are discussed then etched onto the cake, revealing “her” presence. In other words, no matter how much he decides to cover them up, some aspects of her are still present when reliving his past. This makes it difficult for him to construct his idealized self. As is the case with many of us, he often has to incorporate that which he would rather not confront.

Of course, it makes sense that a play dependent on the metaphor of identity-as-art would cause interesting parallels within the creation of the production itself. But none of the four of us could have predicted just how powerfully the comparison would play out. Even created a play, while the character within the play is creating a visual art piece, both representative of a trans experience. The two trans stories (Even’s real story and the character’s fictional story) are slightly different, yet the central metaphor of an artist crafting his identity stitches together the dramatic content to the real world experience. If we compare the cake to not only identity formation but also the making of theatre, we can then consider the artifice of both theatre and identity, and how their necessary falsity has real, visceral affect.

And I’m just there. Licking my fingertips for every last inch of flavour. Needing more…

The script itself doesn’t have dramatic tension. Its style is spoken word poetry, with wonderful imagery and rhythm, but no conflict or juicy plot line. As with any piece of theatre, we needed to discover what David Ball calls forwards: those moments that make the audience want more, sitting on the edge of their seats, needing to know what happens next. A lot of the discussions between Even and myself were about the line of toppled dominoes: “So this thing happens. What caused that? What happened as a result of that thing happening?” These dramaturgical conversations led to my ideas of an artist studio, with the artist working on his magnum opus: his sense of self. It became clear, when working on the dramaturgy, that Even wanted this to be a cathartic experience. I wanted this to be something he could feel comfortable with while delving into some really raw emotions.

The parallels became apparent only through diligent work in rehearsals (ie Katie’s wonderful technical planning and Cullen’s insightful decisions for the other side of the artist’s brain [“B”]). Even created something that brings the audience into his mind, allowing us to see him in a much more raw state than how he is seen in his daily life. The mise en scene has quite a bit of complexity right from the beginning, but, much like a good Seinfeld episode, is laced with elements of foreshadowing. Even’s character (“A”) randomly injects the word “breeze” into his opening lines: a hint at a speech that occurs near the end. The lighting also shifts in that second, mimicking the final moments when the character moves toward a more positive self-acceptance. In other words, the directorial decisions also play into the metaphor of “seeping through”, so important to Even’s lovely words.

These parallels are what made Re:Construct such a difficult and satisfying piece to work on. As Even accepted his award of excellence for Emerging Artist, receiving a standing-O (because of course everyone can tell just how kind and genuine a human he is), it reminded me of that lighting cue, with the stage momentarily washed in warm light before returning to cool blues.

That’s the thing: even though we’ve had this beautiful experience that was Fringe, Even still has some shit to deal with. Even after making a breakthrough, “the artist” had to return to perfecting the cake.

I am currently sitting on my balcony with the creator of the play. The moon sits above him, eerily similar to the street lamps below. He’s just told me that he has to sort out an issue with his student loan applications: they can’t officially document him as male, because his social insurance number is still linked to who he once was. While he tries to articulate this frustration over something I can never fully understand myself, one line from the text echoes in and around and around my cochlea:

You are dandelion seeds. You are sent-off wishes. You are only as good as the breeze that carries your fears away…

Breeze.

The following is a conversation between [de]centre creative director Luke Brown and theatre artist/advisory board member Thalia Gonzalez Kane. Thalia discusses her new play The ’94 Club and its upcoming premiere at Tarragon Theatre in Toronto. The entire interview will be included in our magazine, coming at you at the end of 2018.

Illustrations by Louis Sobol. Interview edited for clarity. Click the link for more info on the play, opening May 1:

http://www.tarragontheatre.com/show/the94club/

Luke It’s been like, seven years since we’ve talked. Isn’t that wild?

Thalia Yeah! I mean, I remember you called me when you were applying to Bishop’s, actually.

L Oh is that when it was?

T Yeah, that would’ve been the last time I think we probably spoke directly.

L Wow! So you’re having a great time, I’m assuming, in Toronto?

T Yeah!

L That’s so good.

T Yeah –

[hangs up]

[phone rings]

L Oh hello again

T That was my fault, I need to stop touching my phone with my face.

L [laughs] So this is going to be very casual, as you can probably tell. I have a couple things I’d like to ask you but really I just want to hear about your play, how it’s going, and your intentions behind it. And also just your general experience as a New Brunswicker in Toronto and how you feel about that.

Let’s start with the process behind writing The ‘94 Club.

T So basically the show actually came up while speaking to Phil Riccio, who’s the Artistic Director of The Company Theatre. We were just having a chat one day… I think we were extremely bored or something, and he asked me to tell him a story about New Brunswick and growing up there. And I asked him “Oh, have I ever told you about the ‘94 Whores?” And he was like “No, um, what?” I told him sort of the basic outline of the story of that and he thought it was absurd. And I said “Yeah, it’s pretty crazy.” It’s sort of a funny thing to look back on, but when I was a bit older and I told him that story, I realized how serious those implications are and how, pardon my French but how fucked up it all was, and how lightly it was all taken.

I always liked writing, but I never thought playwriting is something that I would do. That night I went home and I wrote a monologue as if I was one of the girls, sort of discussing what it was to figure out your sexuality and what it was to not understand your sexuality at that age. But the thing is you do, because we all sort of have that feeling when you’re a teenager that you know more than you actually know. After I wrote that monologue I sent him a message because we joked about it being a great premise for a play. I said “I wrote a monologue, I think I might write a play!” And then two weeks later I wrote the first draft of the script.

It was a very short script, ended quite terribly, with someone saying “Fuck”, and I thought “Oh it’s open to interpretation, it’s interesting!” until a couple friends of mine said “Well, you know, it needs an ending, Thalia… Um, it’s great where it is right now, but you should add an ending to it.”

I guess I wrote it initially without the intention of ever really doing it necessarily, it was just sort of the idea of “Why don’t you try doing something?” because I didn’t have any work at the time I think. And then as the writing came I started realizing this is something I really enjoy. I started realizing the importance as well of, you know, the ownership of my roots. So I mean the fact that I am a Maritimer is something I’ve always had a lot of pride in, but, and I’m sure you’ve had this experience as well, when you move to Ontario, and other parts of Canada, there is a bit of shame I’ve found attached to it. And then I decided to say “Fuck it” because it felt important to tell those stories. Oftentimes the Canadian stories that are coming out quite honestly are from Ontarian towns.

L Yep.

T And like, I mean yes, there are some from Quebec, but there aren’t actually many stories from the Maritimes, and there especially aren’t queer stories. So because the story happened and is quite honestly forgotten by everyone, it felt important to explore that: to explore young female women and their experiences, especially with the idea of queerness, self-discovery, and the harsh realities that come from growing up in a small town.

I think we kind of assume in our present climate that we’re all so over the idea of having to come out – because I mean we have so many other things now to discuss – but it does mean such a big thing in a lot of ways.

I remember it was after our very first play reading, and one of the actors and I met up and had a coffee. She was asking “I just want to know, why is it so hard for her to come out?” – speaking about one of the characters. She said “I don’t understand why she’s denying it to herself. This happened in 2010, why was it so hard for her to come out?” It is based on some true events but it’s not, by any means, a character study on anyone. And the actor I met with grew up in Ontario, and having that discussion with her was really interesting. ‘Cause I said, “Well it’s not, it is still hard to come out. It’s the judgement thing – I mean I didn’t come out when I was in high school by any means.” My girlfriend just came out not too long ago. I think we kind of assume in our present climate that we’re all so over the idea of having to come out – because I mean we have so many other things now to discuss – but it does mean such a big thing in a lot of ways.

Something else that I found really important was exploring young female queers. Actually there are barely, I think only a couple that I’ve been able to find, plays in the world that are about young female queers, that are not about experimenting and joking but actually exploring these realities of someone who is bisexual or gay or queer coming out as a woman.

L And not somebody who is a secondary character who is probably going to be the butt of the jokes – someone who actually takes centre stage as the protagonist, and it’s about their queer experience.

T Yeah, exactly. And about the focus of actually coming out, as opposed to “Well they’ve already come out” and we don’t hear their story. Especially when you’re in a small town and figuring out a sex life. I’ll give you more of a breakdown of what happens in the show.

These girls start a sex club. The reason the queerness came up and was so vital in this was because they have to talk about “What if we do stuff with girls”?

They perform sexual acts for guys, and two of the girls are best friends, and one of them is very obviously in love with the other one, and the other you can kind of tell is also but she doesn’t understand queerness. I mean a lot of that comes from my own experience: from the fact that I didn’t know what gay was. I didn’t know bisexuality was a thing because I’d never been exposed to it. And I had feelings but I didn’t have a name for them. I was intimidated by the idea because you know, my interpretation of someone who’s gay was like the absolute worst stereotype. The worst. I was like “Well I’m not that! I have long curly hair. I like wearing lipstick.” There was a real lack of education personally so I think it’s important to acknowledge growing up with these sort of limited views. Maybe if you haven’t been exposed you can’t know what it is.

One of the things that comes up is the girls start having sex with each other because it “doesn’t count” if it’s with a girl. It’s “just practice”. You can count yourself as more daring, to get bonus points, but it doesn’t actually count. So that’s how one of the girls of the two best friends convinces her partner to start making out with her and doing different things. The reality is the girl wants it, but it’s masked with this veil of “this doesn’t actually count, it’s okay, so you’re not risking anything”. And then eventually one of them comes out and then they have the discussion of “what is our sexuality?” Why is it that young women going around and having sex with whoever they want, giving blowjobs in locker rooms, is completely fine, yet there’s a whole double standard of what’s okay, what counts, and what doesn’t count? It’s about the idea of sexuality and sex versus intimacy.

L That’s really interesting.

T Yeah, and I mean, there are no males in this show, but they talk a lot about the sex that happens and all of that is very much “This is sex, this is a blowjob, this is a handjob, blah blah blah.” Whereas the relationship between the two women that forms is a really beautiful, intimate portrayal of love.

It actually portrays what it means to be with each other for the first time, as opposed to the idea of “Oh look, there are two girls making out on stage”

One of the pieces of feedback I’ve received from people who have seen the show is that they really are interested in and appreciate the beautiful love story between two women, which does not feel sexualized at all and it doesn’t feel like a gimmicky “It’s two girls kissing on stage”. And, you know, obviously the show is about sex and love, so there is sex present, but the way we’re doing it is through theatrical physicality… the actual moment, the first time the two girls have sex, is with music. They actually don’t touch each other, they play each others’ instruments. One of them plays the cello, the other plays the violin, each of them have a bow, then they reach over and play each others’ and look at each other the entire time. And instead of touching each other physically they’re touching the others’ instruments. So it actually portrays what it means to be with each other for the first time, as opposed to the idea of “Oh look, there are two girls making out on stage”.

We need to stop oversexualizing teenagers and actually portray real teenage feelings.

Thalia Kane in front of a New Brunswick flag. Illustration by Louis Sobol.

The following is a conversation between [de]centre creative director Luke Brown and theatre artist/advisory board member Thalia Gonzalez Kane. Thalia discusses her new play The ’94 Club and its upcoming premiere at Tarragon Theatre in Toronto. The entire interview will be included in our magazine, coming at you at the end of 2018.

Illustrations by Louis Sobol. Interview edited for clarity. Click the link for more info on the play, opening May 1:

http://www.tarragontheatre.com/show/the94club/