PART 1
Reckoning with history
Rachael Young
Dickie Beau
Breach Theatre
Tania El Khoury
Uninvited Guests
Rachael Young
moving black / feeling black
Itās a dangerous thing, the white gaze. It judges, reduces, demands, suffocates. It is the gaze that classified and colonized and is yet to account for its claims to this power. Oh no, you might frown, as a person of pale or olive skin, not me, not my gaze. Leaning into this or that otherness, this or that sympathy or understanding. But as academic Barbara Applebaum argues in her book Being White, Being Good, a study of white complicity and moral responsibility, this ānot meā of the self-defined āgood whiteā is typical of the ādistancing strategiesā used by white people when they donāt want to āconsider the subtle ways (subtle for white people) they are perpetuating a racist system and shielding the system from challengeā. Whiteness, says Applebaum (quoting an essay by Sara Ahmed), is āsticky; [race] sticks to us, or we become āusā as an effect of how it sticksā. As long as youāre a white-figured person sitting in a room of white-figured people looking at a black performerĀ ā a black female performerĀ ā your gaze is subsumed in the enduring violence of the white gaze.
Rachael Young presents herself to that gaze with an arched eyebrow and dismissive flick of the wrist.
In Out she performs half-naked: big black pants that stretch from waist to upper thigh; nipple patches; black spike heels. In Nightclubbing her legs are bare and her torso sparkles silver like the Milky Way. Her skin is luminous, not as some external quality but with the radiance of self-belief that defies everything in the world, structural and social, that would diminish her.
This is the luminosity that the white gaze has sought (still seeks) to extinguish.
Iām sorry, says Rachael, standing in heavy platform shoes that tether her feet to the floor, waist looped by a hula-hoop. Iām sorry for being too outspoken / laughing too loudly / for looking good in neon pink. Iām sorry for taking myself too seriously / having a chip on my shoulder / for questioning your authority. Iām sorry you feel uncomfortable, sorry for my vulnerability / for your fragility. Iām sorry for taking up space. Sorry for breathing. Light bounces from her body as though itās a mirror.
seeing black / speaking black / seeing through black eyes
I took a friendĀ ā white, cis male, queer in the pre-twentieth-century sense of peculiar or eccentricĀ ā to see Nightclubbing and it perplexed him. I recognized that feeling, felt a sliver of it watching Out. Rachael created Out with dancer Dwayne Antony; dressed identically, moving with synchronicity, their bodies consistently resist gender definitions and with that the very concept of classification. They have skin, muscle, blood; they tremble, pulse, writhe. Out speaks to misogyny, homophobia and transphobia in Caribbean communities, and does so with a culturally specific soundtrack and movement language I couldnāt always translate but felt drawn to, interest in. Careful in its choice of dancehall tracks to strut against and vogue moves to emulate, it speaks with precision and acuity of queer radicalism, pride in identity, sexuality and ancestry, camaraderie and strength in chosen community.
In Nightclubbing Rachael performs with two musicians (Leisha Thomas and Mwen) who make the air around her crackle and hum as she slips between multiple storylines: a brief but scintillating history of iconic singer Grace Jones; a moment in 2015 when three black women were refused entry to a nightclub for being too dark; an unattributed biography that might be Rachaelās own; and a sci-fi fantasia of resurgent black power, harnessing the gravitational influence of black holes as a power capable of transforming the universe, or at least its social order.
āMy face was just not understood,ā Grace Jones says of her younger self, recalling encounters with the white gaze of late-1960s New York. Rachael risks not being understood but within the frame of an assertive ask: that her audience follow close, be attentive, take up the threads of story she offers, hold tight to them, not so much with the intellect perhaps as the heart.
reclaiming black / claiming space black
In Nightclubbing, Rachael describes melanin as a ācomplex polymerā whose effect on the skin makes a person āsuper invisible or hyper visibleāĀ ā the wrong kind of magic, both at once.
āThere are certain structures in place within society which means that some people are simply not visible,ā she elaborated in an interview with online magazine Cuntemporary. āMy work has a focus on making the space for those voices to be heard.ā The movement here from visibility to audibility is crucial: itās not enough simply to see black performers in stories made and framed by white people. Rather: āit is important that marginalized people are given the opportunity to tell their own stories. Sometimes the things that we have to say are uncomfortable for both the person telling the story and the audience that may come to see the work, but despite the discomfort, representation mattersĀ ā¦ it is a reminder that you, and people like you, matter.ā
There is a sequence in Nightclubbing when Rachael pulls on a series of thin black rubber tubes, first of all to rest around her neck like a choker that spills over her shoulders and down to her waist, tied in place with a long snaking thread, and then more over her hair to form a regal headdress. She looks weighed down but imperious, equal parts Grace Jones and African queen, and the more I try to hunt down images online to explain what I mean, the more I realize these are generic comparisons (that white gaze strikes again). The music rises up behind her and she begins to move her head so that the tubing begins to sway, to soar, as though animate, imbued with life, with the energy and power of a horse rearing on its hind legs before bolting its way to freedom. The weight of the loops slips from her shoulders, motion makes them straighten like braids, like locs, flashing in the stage lights like bolts of lightning. I canāt tell you what the sequence means, but I can tell you how it felt: a surge of electricity through my veins, blood rising to meet the fury of her movements.
Within queer club culture, Rachael tells us, Grace Jones found āwhole new ways of being in the world and in her skinā. And the question burning beneath the surface of Nightclubbing is: what does it mean when black women are locked out of spaces in which they might redefine themselvesĀ ā and indeed that they might redefine? Spaces such as nightclubs. But also such as theatres.
Racism, writes Reni Eddo-Lodge in Why Iām No Longer Talking to White People About Race, āisnāt about good and bad peopleā. Itās about systems and structures that have āthe power to drastically impact peopleās life chancesā. That includes their chance to work in theatre, an institution I started describing as structurally racist the same year I saw Nightclubbing. āThe covert nature of structural racism is difficult to hold to account,ā adds Eddo-Lodge. āStructural racism is dozens, or hundreds, or thousands of people with the same biases joining together to make up one organization, and acting accordingly. Structural racism is an impenetrably white workplace culture set up by those people, where anyone who falls outside of the culture must conform or face failure.ā Those people will balk at the suggestion that they are racist, and yet will not see the problem in saying things like:
āWe donāt have a black audience and would struggle to sell this.ā
āWe already have a black artist in our programme this season.ā
āCould we programme you in Black History Month?ā
All sentences that function as no-entry signs.
moving through space and time black
In the silences of Out and Nightclubbing, a knowledge. A knowledge arising from shared experience, arising from a look, a gesture of understanding. Or what Rachael says: āHow a nod could give the unseen a moment of visibility.ā
When the music and the catwalk vogue strut stop, Out shifts register: Rachael and her co-performer take off their heels and sit down together, either side of a vat of oranges. They begin to peel, and from that silent activityĀ ā perplexing at firstĀ ā my memory summons a series of images. Of walking past cafes with my family in Cyprus, seeing men seated outside, hugging the shade, slapping down backgammon counters as vigorously as Rachael slaps orange pieces to her mouth. Of travelling on my own for the first time, to Manhattan, and seeing men in the knot of streets where Houston meets Sixth Avenue, seated at scrap-rough tables, also playing backgammon or hammering down domino tiles. Of my grandfather at his kitchen table, flicking worry beads, click click. Sitting silently with both my grandparents, cracking almonds together, fresh almonds, feeling their love for me in the unaccustomed softness that emerged from hard shell.
This is what performance can do: build relationships between unconnected people, events, memories. Reveal the self in unexpected places. I rarely encounter the stories of Cypriot people, the reasons Cypriots had to emigrate, their struggles to assimilate in a racist country. I rely on the stories of other diasporas for these unseens to become, for a moment, visible.
black that stops the clocks and leaves time suspended
So slow, this peeling of the oranges. These movements of wrists, thighs, calves, shoulder blades in Nightclubbing. Deliberate, precise, taking time, slowing time. Making space, new space, to consider, to rethink.
I think of my grandparents with love and resignation: their values are not my values. The same feeling, molten, at the core of Out. When I saw Out, I had recently interviewed a Lebanese singer, Hamed Sinno, from the band MashrouāLeila, about speaking out as a queer man in the Middle East, the death of his father, and our shared feeling that there is a whole generation of grandparents who have taught fathers and mothers, who have taught sons and daughters, to fear difference, whose values will be slow, so painfully slow, to die out.
That change comes not with violence but with the building of new connections. Rachael and Dwayne, handing out pieces of orange to their audience. The room becoming fragrant with the juice of them. It isnāt a solution. But itās a start.
dreaming black
All these phrasesĀ ā moving black, feeling black, seeing black, speaking black, seeing through black eyes, reclaiming black, claiming space black, black that stops the clocks and leaves time suspendedĀ ā are spoken over a shimmering nightclubbing soundtrack that gains pace and breath with boldness. The final words before Rachael strides offstage, leaving the musicians to extend the shimmer, are dreaming black.
Unspoken: dream of a world in which it isnāt anyoneās business what anyone else chooses to do with their body: who they choose to fuck, who they choose to be.
Implied: dream of a world in which hierarchies based on the colour of peopleās skin no longer exist.
Unvoiced and yet heard: dream of a world in which normal is understood to be plural and otherness cherished as strength.
āAfter a lifetime embodying difference,ā writes Eddo-Lodge, āI have no desire to be equal. I want to deconstruct the structural power of a system that marked me out as different.ā Her aim is not assimilation but liberation, āfrom all negative assumptions that my characteristics bring. The onus is not on me to change. Instead, itās the world around me.ā
The black hole on the stage from which Rachael emerges at the start of Nightclubbing is turned inside out, transformed into a glittering gold-foil sun. āNo, I have the last word,ā says Grace Jones majestically. (Is it actually Grace Jones? Does it matter?) āAnd you donāt get in unless you go through me.ā
Dream of power redistributed. Eventually, better still, power dismantled. Challenging the white gaze as good a starting place as any.
(MC)
Further reading
āIt is from failure that we learn to be truly amazing, instinctual artistsā: interview with Rachael Young by Sarah Gorman, on readingasawoman.wordpress.com
Dickie Beau
1
The performance is eleven minutes long and it begins with a spotlight. Into the spotlight walks Dickie Beau in an immaculate white sailorās uniform, cheeks rouged, hair slicked back, resembling more than anything a porcelain figurine, the kind you might find in the window of a high street jewellers.
Someone begins speaking. It is the actor Kenneth Williams, waiting briefly for a pause in the audienceās ovation to launch into another long anecdote. I can tell it is an old recording by the grain of the ...