RADAR brings thoughtful programming focused on the Queer Literary Arts to your Campus! Read on & share widely…
Radar Productions is a San Francisco based non-profit focused on queer literary arts. Radar produces 25+ events each year, introducing our audiences to emerging queer artists for low or no cost. Radar prioritizes the experiences of writers and poets who are trans* and queer identified as well as those of people of color. Bring Radar to your campus to introduce students to the vitality of the queer literary scene in the Bay Area!
For questions and booking rates inquiries please email: firstname.lastname@example.org
Professionalizing the Arts
Radar realizes that many young artists face anxieties about professionalization: will I be able to find a job in the arts? how can I monetize my art? In this talk, Radar’s Executive Director and Managing Director team up to bring your students an hour-long presentation and Q&A focused on strategies for professionalizing. This presentation offers concrete tools we have used to develop Radar artists.
Radar Artist Talk
This hour-long talk will begin with a performance from one of Radar’s artists, followed by a facilitated conversation on process, method and politics with Radar’s Executive Director, Juliana Delgado Lopera.
WHO IS RADAR?
Founded in 2003 by writer Michelle Tea, RADAR Productions nurtures queer artists and audiences by organizing literary arts programs that authentically reflect Queer communities’ experiences. RADAR’s presenting, commissioning, touring and professional development programs give voice to innovative Queer writers and artists and explores the community-building role played by literature and the arts.
MEET RADAR’S NEW EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Juliana Delgado Lopera is an award-winning Colombian writer/educator/oral-historian based in San Francisco. The recipient of the 2014 Jackson Literary award, and a finalist of the Clark-Gross Novel award, she’s the author of ¡Cuéntamelo! an illustrated bilingual collection of oral histories by LGBT Latin@ immigrants awarded the Regen Ginaa Grant from Galería de la Raza and a 2014 National Queer Arts Festival Grant from the Queer Cultural Center. Her work has been published in Four Way Review, The Bold Italic, Weird Sister, Revista Canto, Transfer Magazine, Raspa Magazine, Black Girl Dangerous, and SF Weekly among others. She’s performed in countless events around the Bay Area including Action Fiction!, Red Light Lit, Beast Crawl, Lit Quake and lectured at Wayward Writers, SFSU, 826 Valencia.
For questions and booking rates inquiries please email: email@example.com
Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s poetry gives me the feels. I met this glasses-wearing goddess at a poetry reading at the ONE National Gay & Lesbian Archives at USC. She went like second among a group of contributors to NEPANTLA: A JOURNAL DEDICATED TO OUEER POETS OF COLOR. The evening’s emcee, Christopher Soto, wHispered to me (thru the internets) that Nepantla’s goal is to preserve diversity, and one güey Nepantla accomplishes this is by drawing a diversely sexy oddience. No exaggeration, the queerdos listening to verse and the queerdos reading verse at ONE another were all just really good-looking peeple. Not that that matters but it does.
Okay, so what grabbed me about Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s poetry? This. And I mean this with TOE-tull sincerity. Eye can be a lexical ( and Mexican) asshole. My word choices <insert a snobby synonym for drip> with elitism. Like I have been known to say the word pernicious before 8 a.m. My writing suffers from baroque assholishness. I think. Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, however, pulls from a grab bag of wordz I’ve watched teenagers text to one another over and over and over, alphabetic sentiments that ought to be printed on queer valentimes candy, and Joshua Jennifer Espinoza assembles her alphabits into poems that manage to push all the tender buttons the muses-Calliope, Eutwerp, Erato, and Polyhymnia-finger best. Fingers, fingers, fingers, butter butterfingers writing verse connected to heartstrings, and that’s not to say that Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s work goes overboard. With sentimentality. It flirts with doing that but then cuts back with a ferocity, a sharpness, a jab, a turn of phrase that moves us towards a whoa image or an encounter with Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s body (which is there and not there, much like the present). Dead, alive, and dead and covered in daisies that float against pale denim. Its as if we’re moving forward. All the time. We’re discovering the future together, and we choose to like it. Its Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s version of over the rainblow.
The cover of her book is blue.
Joshua Jennifer Espinoza is blue.
I bought Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s I’M ALIVE/IT HURTS/I LOVE IT and just looking at the cover makes my brain go to work placing her writing in conversation with the work of one of my favorite creative peeple, Sarah Faith Gottesdiener.
JOSHUA JENNIFER ESPINOZA: The moon is trans.
SARAH FAITH GOTTESDIENER: The <insert moon emoji> is Feminist Art.
JJE: She is waiting for you, pulling at you softly.
SFG: YOU ARE NOTHING WITHOUT FEMINIST ART.
JJE: she is not delicate and she is not weak
SFG: Witch! Witch! Is Witch?
JJE: She will outlive everything you know.
Where does dis poetry fit into the larger scheme of queer poetics and bee yond?
Well, it tetrises into the schemas of internetty and texty poetry that hearken to the werk of twitter’s poet laureate, Patricia Lockwood. And then Joshua Jennifer’s Espinoza’s work also cuddles up to Tao Lin’s prose, which happens to be in luv with linguistic bunality. It forsakes the baroque by saying no thanks. It’s so fresh. Clean. Minty and crisp. If American Apparel was uncomfortable in her body AND wrote poetry, she would churn out a book and call it I’M ALIVE/IT HURTS/I LOVE IT.
QUESTIONS I ASKED JOSHUA JENNIFER ESPINOZA THROUGH THE OUIJA BOARD KNOWN AS THE INTERNET
RADAR: How did you come to get involved with Nepantla?
JOSHUA JENNIFER ESPINOZA: Christopher Soto sent me a Facebook message asking if I’d like to read my poetry for Nepantla and I was happy to say yes! We then ended up meeting and reading together in San Francisco and Oakland this past July while I was on the Trans Planet poetry tour (with Manuel Arturo Abreu, Jos Charles, Die Dragonetti, and Sarah June Woods). I really enjoyed the time I spent with Soto and was so excited to hear their work.
R: How do you feel about having your work classified as “trans?” Sometimes it bugs me to have my work labeled as “Hispanic” or “lesbian” or whatever because I feel reduced to that as a thing, like that is the principal part of my identity and therefore the principal part of my work.
JJE: It doesn’t bother me a whole lot. I mean, I’d love to be able to make great work and just be recognized for that, but my transness is inextricable from my work, from my life in general. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without being reminded that I’m trans. Of course, there is a difference between me experiencing my work as “trans” and others labeling it that way—unfortunately, I can’t control what others mean when they understand my work as “trans,” so I do often have the sense that I’m being reduced to a label. But, again, it’s not something I can escape and I’m not sure I’d want my work to be seen as “normal”, since that’s just code for “cis”. As long as this world wants people like me dead, my work will be trans.
R: My favorite poem of yours is THE MOON IS TRANS. Describe your relationship to the moon.
JJE: The moon is cool. There are these two giant spheres in the sky and you’re only allowed to look at one of them. That’s fucked up. I have lots of dreams about being on the moon. They used to scare me, but now I look forward to them. THE MOON IS TRANS is sort of about me having empathy for this object that people stare at and write about. I think she just wants everyone to recognize her beauty and power and leave her alone.
R: I really like how you dress. Everybody I was sitting with at the reading was stoked about your glasses and kept commenting on them when we went out for tacos afterwords. Also, I really do think poets have some of the best style. What influences your personal style? How does style matter to you?
JJE: That’s so kind, thank you! I missed out on being able to wear the stuff I wanted to for the first twenty-something years of my life, so style is definitely something I love experimenting with. My partner has been really helpful with giving advice about putting together outfits. I have extremely femme tendencies, and she can be a bit more androgynous in her style, so she helps balance me out. She’s kind of my style icon.
R: When do you remember poetry really digging its claws into you? Was there a particular writer, a particular work, or a particular performance that got you and gave you a profound aha about yourself as a poet?
JJE: Nothing makes sense in the whole world. Everything about life is confusing and frightening. I’ve found poetry to be slightly less confusing and frightening than most other things. I stopped reading poetry for a while but in the past few years I became excited about it again after being introduced to the work of Caribbean poets like Aimé Césaire and M. NourbeSe Philip. This summer I went on tour with several other trans poets whom I mentioned above and hearing them read every night made me feel extremely excited about poetry. I truly believe that poetry written by trans people, especially trans people of color, has the potential to fuck shit up in a good way.
R: As a writer, I really like knowing what other writers’ creative processes are like. Please share yours.
JJE: Sometimes I’ll say, “I’m going to write a poem,” and then I’ll sit on my couch and write a poem. More often than that I’ll be driving or at the grocery store or whatever and I’ll start writing in my head, or I’ll hear a line over and over and I’ll have to get it down before I forget it. In my phone I have hundreds of notes of lines, fragments, and poems I’ve thought of at some inconvenient moment. A recent poem I wrote came from literally one sentence I had saved in my phone for several months, and all it said was “I dreamt of horses eating cops.” Another time I was having a really bad panic attack while driving on the freeway and I started writing a poem in my head to counter it and, in order to avoid typing while driving, I used my phone to record myself reciting the poem aloud. I was crying and shit. It was quite an image. Those poems that come in moments like that best represent my “process,” I feel.
R: What role do you think politics play in poetry?
JJE: The same role they play everywhere. Every single injustice and oppression you can think of is replicated in poetry, in both the work itself and in the particular scenes the work emerges from and exists within. This is why things like the Trans Planet tour and Nepantla are so important. We can’t just pretend poetry is this neutral space where politics don’t matter. There are people in poetry scenes who wish everyone would be quiet and stop complaining. These people love the status quo because they directly benefit from it. The rest of us are tired and bored and angry.
R: How frequently do you text? Are you into texting? If you could text with any writer, dead or alive, who would it be and what would your introductory text look like?
JJE: I hate texting. I am the most awkward texter in the world. I never know what to say and every time a conversation starts I’m counting down the seconds until it’s over. My dream introductory text to everyone would be: “i apologize in advance for who i am as a person”.
order I’M ALIVE/IT HURTS/I LOVE IT from boost house right now
We are not only being told a tale we are going back in time. Myriam Gurba, author of Dahlia Season and Wish You Were Me, straps us in much like the Disneyland, Haunted House, Doom-buggies of her youth and sends us on our way. From the get go we are ushered into the early 1980’s, small Mexican village of a ghost-telling abuelita who paints portraits of the narrator and her sister, during the few weeks away from school spent visiting. The girl’s homework approved by some LAUSD elementary, deemed fit to continue the semester un-interrupted upon return, is pushed aside for daily outings with Abuelita. Told in the narrative fairytale style of what can be described as ‘old country’ Abuelita links the reader to a colonial European sensibility that at the time still clung to older parts of the country. The baby fuzz of a twentieth century pinking new industrial revolutions and globalizations lurking and waiting behind unseen corners.
In this way the book is reminiscent of Federico Fellini’s great and final Masterpiece, Amarcord. The coming of age tale which loosely translates to ‘I remember’ in Italian follows the life of young Titta, his family and the characters of a small coastal village in 1930’s Italy. Unfolding in a series of vignettes Fellinini never gives us Mussolini in great sweeping gestures, instead we are told details of a life lived in the land of Mussolini, the beforehand knowledge that things will and will not turn out all right, lending itself to a greater sense of melancholy. Gurba, like Fellini gives us life in the every day and shines a mirror across it’s multi faceted surface, letting each shine in small slices. Life lived in ‘simpler’ more imaginative times, a time that in actuality, exists only in the minds of children. Throughout the book Gurba revisits this metaphor of child like reduction and innocence, wonder and blunt honesty. Weaving myth against a backdrop of contemporary ills, to show in some way how our collective child like refusal to take on issues such as racism and misogyny still haunt our contemporary lives, tangled and misinterpreted by our children and finally held back up in that multi fractured mirror. What Gurba gives us is a world on the cusp of change, for the narrator, and the century. Indeed these are ghost stories.
When Mom was the age I was that winter, ten, Mexican death was prettier, slower, and more public. Mom would laze in front of the house, in a strip I guess you could call a front yard, in front of her mom and dad’s bedroom window dangling her chicken legs off the stone bench, a spectator. A breeze might shiver the vines wriggling around the window and bring the smell of cemetery flowers. Mom would hear a signal, horseshoes clacking. She’d look right and see a gelding chosen to do his job because of his color, black, clopping up the avenue, chugging towards her block. The horse would near houses that were twins of the kind Mom lived in, two-story rectangles shaded with mold, loquat trees by the driveways, vines climbing wherever they chose. The animal would be yoked to an old fashioned funeral carriage that truly honored death, its lace gilded windows giving Mom a chance to appraise the size of the coffin – baby, child, or full – and then, once the carriage was past, Mom could observe the ribbon, or ribbons, of mourners in black outfits, weeping, yawning, scratching their necks, wringing one or both fists, adjusting their balls, breastfeeding, moving their feet and taking care of their living bodies’ needs on their way to bury someone.
When we emerge into the second story we have been fully dropped into the recent past, 90’s Los Angeles, and Gurba hits us with the present in the only way to reap the full impact of leaving Abuelita and that child’s imagination. Gangs, music videos, AIDS. Abuelita, Mom and Dad remain, but the world has transformed and Gurba once again thrusts us in. Each short story weaves in the fable of death, sometimes subtlety other times overt, in the case of killing animals on the road in favor of swerving and risking your own life. Ever present is the idea that life is ephemeral and that story telling in the most basic way possible, makes it last a little longer and in the process helps us make sense of it. The universal, existential por que?
Perhaps the most chilling and beautiful story in the book, Chaperones offers us Gurba at her irreverent and spectacular best. She takes on the legend of La Llorona, the Mexican mother who drowned her children in a river, committed suicide and now spends her remaining nights in purgatory looking for them, and perhaps you, too, so she can drown you in her sorrow. Again, linking us to a passage of time that moves like smog through our lives but never turns new leaves. What sticks in our throat is the way Gurba loosens the moral outrage around these narratives, Susan Smith, et cetera, but smacks us with our own hypocrisy. Women’s bodies are always in a state of mourning, wringing out our expectations socially and historically while trying to reconcile them with emerging identities wrung like rags into the bodies of water we drown our babies in. Metaphor for Gurba is a vacuum that sucks the river bed dry until we are left with only a mountain of bones and questions. Not all of them likely offering the answers we want to hear. Each however, rattling howls of dusty streets, the kind Gurba pushes us to walk down, pick up your candle, pull up your night gown and never mind the shadows, they only flicker as we pass, and look, they are just a product of the light.
May 21 is National GiveOUT Day, a day that mobilizes thousands of individual donors across the country during a 24-hour period to give in support of LGBT nonprofits. And we are here today to give you 5 reasons to give to Radar (you can find our page by clicking here & searching for “Radar Productions”) come Thursday!
1. We give you cookies
Where else can you hear 4 incredible artists followed by an intimate Q&A where your inquisitiveness is rewarded with a fresh home made cookie? Literally NOWHERE except our monthly Radar Reading Series at the San Francisco Public Library.
2. We talk about failure
Unlike most respectable literary non-profits, we are not afraid to broach complex and uncomfortable subjects.. like FAILURE. In fact, we have an entire festival dedicated to the topic called #QUEERFAIL, happening in San Francisco June 15-21 and featuring amazing artists and intellectuals like Jack Halberstam, Dynasty Handbag, Maggie Nelson and CA Conrad.
3. We offer an ungodly amount of free and super cheap programming
We get that you’re broke and that you were hit hardest by the global economic collapse. We’re here to help you save those precious dollars on the hoop earrings you need for self care with our 50+ events a year, most of which are free or under $20.
4. We love you
Yeah, it’s kinda early to commit to such a bold statement, but we’re ready to be co-dependent if you are.
5. We’re doing something really amazing in a city with a shrinking queer lit scene AND WE’RE COMMITTED TO STAYING
It’s increasingly difficult for artists and even art administrators to remain in San Francisco, but we love the Bay Area and we’re in it for the long haul. Help us keep this work local.
So, yeah, give us $10 or $100 on National GiveOUT Day and then tell us you did at the next free/cheap literary event you come to and we’ll smile at you and give you a cookie.
Michelle Tea will be leaving her post as Artistic Director of Radar Productions after 12 amazing/weird/amazing years. Radar welcomes a new Artistic Director, Juliana Delgado Lopera, as of July 1, 2015. Here’s some words from Michelle:
At the end of June I will be leaving my position at RADAR Productions. RADAR is probably the best thing I’ve ever made in my life, with the exception of my son, and he’s the main reason I’m leaving. How in the world did I think I would be able to have a baby and run a non-profit and be a writer and have a social life / spend time with my wife and not lose my mind? Running a non-profit is hard, even with the support of so many amazing organizations over the years. Realizing I cannot be present for my son and prioritize my writing and do a good job at RADAR, I am leaving the organization in the inspiring hands of Virgie Tovar, who will continue on as Managing Director, and Juliana Delgado Lopera, who will step into the Executive Director role come July 1st. If you know Juliana you know why I asked if she would take over RADAR, and if you don’t know her you’re psyched because you’re about to familiarize yourself with a fantastic writer and literary organizer. Juliana had been coming to RADAR to years, but I met her at a queer book club hosted by the writer Rhiannon Argo. Rhiannon hissed to me, You should put Juliana in RADAR, she’s really good. And I did, and she was! Really, really good! The more I learned about Juliana the more my respect and admiration grew (and continues to grow). She edited 14 Hills while getting her masters at State. Her oral history of queers who immigrated to San Francisco from Latin America in the 80s is amazing and crucial. Maybe you caught it on the cover of SF Weekly a few years ago or maybe you went to the sold-out party for the book, Cuantemelo! Juliana organized that event and it was one of the best and best attended of that year’s National Queer Arts Festival. She works at the GLBT Historical Society Museum in the Castro, and has experience doing grant and project management and community-based non-profits. And she’s queer! I could not be happier that RADAR is moving into her hands, and I’m excited to see what she does with it.
This is the second version of this letter; the first ran seven pages long because I went cuckoo trying to thank all the people who have made this organization happen over the past decade-plus. Guess what? It was boring and a little megalomaniacal. I hope I’ve expressed my gratitude through the years to everyone who has helped, volunteered, funded, supported, read with, came to, worked for, collaborated with, donated to RADAR. It is really astounding, the hundreds and hundreds of people who helped me do this thing!
Listen. Please continue to support RADAR. It is a triumph to be able to hand over a healthy, queer literary non-profit to the next generation. RADAR will continue existing programs such as The RADAR Reading Series and the Sister Spit tours, and it will surely introduce new programming as well. Please stick by its side, come to events, promote shows you think your people might want to know about, make a donation when the metaphorical hat is passed around. Even with the foundational support, running a non-profit will always be a labor of love, and all contributions really make a significant difference. And, if you’re a writer who has read at RADAR events (or would like to) please friend Juliana on Facebook (and like RADAR while you’re at it!) and reach out to her at firstname.lastname@example.org and introduce yourself.
Okay that’s about it. I’m going to bed.
Sassafras Lowrey is the author of the new book Lost Boi (Arsenal Pulp Press), described as a “gorgeously subversive queer punk novel reimagines the classic Peter Pan story.” Sassafras will be reading at the Radar Reading Series on May 5 at the San Francisco Public Library (100 Larkin Street, Latino/Hispanic Rooms on the basement level of the library). This reading is FREE and begins at 6pm. We decided to chat with them about the book, the internet, and their dog Charlotte.
Radar: Why a retelling of the Peter Pan story?
SL: It’s hard to NOT fall in love with the idea of a boi who refuses to grow up, who lives in a world of his own imagining with a gang of lost bois who do what he says…. Or at least it is for me. Seriously though, JM Barrie’s Peter Pan was already so dark it just lent itself so naturally to the queer/punk/kinky retelling that I was dreaming of.
Radar: On an entirely unrelated note, is the internet ruining the world?
SL: I actually think the Internet is making the world a whole lot better! Sometimes I feel like I have the minority opinion, but I think all the benefits of online community far outweigh any negatives. I’m an introvert at heart and the Internet helps me to stay connected to people I care about without having to leave my house, it’s also how I’ve met and formed friendships with so many incredible queers from around the world. I love Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, fetlife – come be my friend!
Radar: Tell me about one person or experience that inspired you in the last 7 days.
SL: My dog Charlotte, last weekend when my partner and I took her out to the beach and she dug a giant deep hole that fit about half her body. There was no reason for digging the hole, other than it was fun and she did so with incredible enthusiasm. She’s a very special needs rescue, but one of the things about her that always inspires me is the way that she so completely and joyfully lives in every moment. It’s so easy to get hung up on worrying or being anxious about things, but I am inspired to take her lead and just play more!
Radar: Can you give one important piece of advice for artists/writer?
SL: The best piece of advice I can give to writers is to ignore your inner critic and always write the most dangerous stories you can imagine.
Come meet Sassafras on Tuesday, May 5 at the San Francisco Public Library and hear a reading from Lost Boi as well as readings by Rina Ayuyang, Maya Chinchilla and Sarah Fontaine. Radar holds a monthly reading series at the Library that features four of our favorite artists.
Have you ever lived as if everywhere was your bedroom? Nikki Darling seems to live that way.
She makes the stage her bedroom. She makes her bedroom the page. She recreates her bedroom everywhere and ecstatically let’s us chill in it with her. Shut the door. Pass the bong, homeslice. Homeskillet. Homefemme. Let the cat sit on your lap. She’s declawed. Not. It smells like a California girl in here and in here. Everything Darling does, which is art, is staged in the most unstaged way. That’s how bedrooms are. Bedrooms are theatres, coffins, dance parties, libraries, studios, and feminist art schools. Some bedrooms are feminist graduate schools.
PINK TRUMPET AND THE PURPLE PROSE, Darling’s chapbook and related tangible and virtual objet, which are put out by Raquel Gutierrez’s ECONO TEXTUAL OBJECTS, slide open the window to Darling’s bedroom. The specific parts- -a volume of prose and poems, a pull out manifesto titled CARL ANDRE ANA MENDIETA HUNTER AND MY TITS, a poster trilogy, and a private, online video she gave me the password to- – make funky sense as an intimate collection. A family of grrrls. The pieces work together the way personal ephemera lived together in the time before the internet, when you would take what meant something to you and stab it to your bedroom wall, lick it and stick it to your dresser mirror, shove it in a makeshift scrapbook or album you would never let your dad touch because this kind of shit is NFDs. Not fer dads. You would cling to this stuff because it pleased you, and it inspired you to sit in your room and make stuff and cry and maybe be a little bit mesmerized by your own period blood. Art with bedroom eyes. Art by and for the cotton panty matriarchy. Hanes her way. You know?
Darling’s work (work it girl, working girl) reminds us that the bedroom might possibly be, even more so than the bathroom, a girl’s/woman’s most creative space. There’s a reason womb sounds like a slippery variation of room. Let’s treat Darling’s collection like a bedwomb with comatose daises on the nightstand, underwears discarded face up, face down and face sideways on the floor, nail polish and acetone freckling the caca-colored carpet, and a twin bed fertile and ready with period leakage, sweat, tears, and cumaflouge. Okay, so we’re at Nikki’s, kneeling on the floor, and whom do we find here?
The bodies of Ana Mendieta and Nikki Darling!
(this is one of those lil posters I was talking about. Note the Barbara Krugerish text. Krugerish text pops up everywhere these days. Walk around the hood in Long Beach and you’ll see hella teens wearing Marilyn Monroe t-shirts with Kruger-inspired text shielding her tatas. Ask a homey to tell you the feminist art history behind his outfit and he’ll answer, “Huh?” You may answer, “I thought so.” Its like female artists don’t exist. ITS LIKE THEY MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD. WHICH BRINGS US BACK TO MENDIETA’S CORPSE AND CARL ANDRE ANA MENDIETA HUNTER AND MY TITS: “It was all part of this larger project, this sort of body of work in which I was trying to channel artists like Hannah Wilke and Ana Mendieta. Because Mendieta had been killed by a man and it was so bogus. No one really talked about it as being super bogus unless the man who killed her, Carl Andre, her husband at the time who shoved out a 29th story window in a jealous rage, had the occasional retrospective…”)
Out The Window Into Your Love resurrects, reincarnates, and resuscitates Ana Mendieta. We travel out one window, from a world where Mendieta is an artist slaughtered by the push of patriarchy, pusher Carl Andre, and art pushes us onto Darling’s carpet, where Mendieta lives and performs through Darling’s body. By staging Mendieta’s death, Darling brings her to pseudolife and how religious and femininely satanic is that? Even the California soil Darling plays dead against has the look of bedroom carpeting. Darling is playing dead in her room. She is playing dead for a dude in order to escape that dude: “It was all for Hunter, the artist that didn’t love me but that I had developed an insanely slightly creepy irrational crush on in the way that I sometimes did…”
Out The Window Into Your Love exemplifies what Rebecca Solnit is talking about when she asserts, “There are so many forms of female nonexistence,” and also, “the woman who is represented is obscured, but the woman who represents is not.”
We dare not interrupt Darling and Mendieta’s death play so we look into the medicine cabinet of her mind: her bookshelf. (Remember, we’re hanging out in her bedroom while she plays dead.)
Genet and Sontag and Genet, Sontag and theory. Ann Carson and a DVD of a Streetcar Named Desire. Pictures of the Cindys, Sherman and Lauper, tacked to the walls. Lisa Simpson and Betty Page, too. Where is Lisa Simpson dressed as Betty Page? We trip on an empty Boones bottle. We are more careful not to trip on the half full cherry Slurpee so that Darling won’t bleed. The air is theory. Queer theory, feminist theory, weary theory, eerie theory:
“Math isn’t Science because structure isn’t real.”
Sentences like this give us permission to smoke in Darling’s bedroom.
We squat, slide a Marlboro from the box on the dusty windowsill, and put it to our mouths. Theory lights it:
“Time takes a cigarette and puts it in your mouth…I thought about…How I’d never felt at home in my body yet was still so aware of it’s power. Like someone had given me a chainsaw for Christmas and I was asked to carry it around in a lace bra, never sure exactly how to turn it on.”
Darling’s videoed performance piece is less Mendieta and less Wilke and more the bitches I hung out with in high school. After school, we’d shut ourselves in my bedroom and play music, mostly records we got from thrift shops, and dance ourselves into an occult frenzy. We could smell the fires from the great witch hunts, Joan of Arc’s body barbecuing as we sweated to the Bee Gees, my mom yelling in Spanish to quit acting crazy: it was time for dinner. Darling projects scenes from a Streetcar Named Desire on the wall behind her and does the same kind of dancing, bedroom dancing. She goes till she’s as sweaty as a barbecued witch, and she moves to shit that is powerful and dumb, shit like Mariah Carey. Post dance fever, she kneels and reads from her chapbook.
So now Darling is kneeling across from us, naked, a sweaty occultist, channeling Erato.
I experience poems ideaesthesiacally, and Darling’s embody sex in California. Dandelions. Cough syrup. Nopales. Toaster oven crumbs. Strawberry jam. Sunscreen. Blonde horses. Paper moons. Syrup for pancakes. Armpit sweat. Catnip. Coyote fur. Torn origami. Twitching angel fish. Black magic. Blood from nose. Blood from lip. Blood from the moon. Gloria Anzaldua’s skin. Sunflowers.
Darling points at her body and reads her piece Nikki Darling Is a Body: “…Nikki Darling as a body has had her most influential moments of clarity deep in the night when all words are thoughts except words of urgency and meaning.” Though Darling squats naked before us and labels herself a body, or perhaps uses the body as analogy, she does, after all, say, “as a body,” the words that ground her most as a body are these: “Okay, I’m pushing the Latina thing. But what’s wrong with that? Being half Chicana is fucking cool.”
Similar to Darling, I’m three quarters Chicana and I wonder if we added ourselves together how much Chicana we’d have on our hands. When you tell people you are part Chicana, people often questions the whyness, and moreover, the howness. They do this through your body. They interrogate your eye color, skin color, hair color, eye shape, lip size, booty. They require justification of your Chicanness through your body and through your name and naming and the body is Nikki Darling’s grand bedroom project.
If you haven’t heard that Nia King edited a book called Queer & Trans Artists of Color: Stories of Some of Our Lives, well, then you’ve been failing at life. From the book’s description:
Mixed-race queer art activist Nia King left a full-time job in an effort to center her life around making art. Grappling with questions of purpose, survival, and compromise, she started a podcast called We Want the Airwaves in order to pick the brains of fellow queer and trans artists of color about their work, their lives, and “making it” – both in terms of success and in terms of survival. In this collection of interviews, Nia discusses fat burlesque with Magnoliah Black, queer fashion with Kiam Marcelo Junio, interning at Playboy with Janet Mock, dating gay Latino Republicans with Julio Salgado, intellectual hazing with Kortney Ryan Ziegler, gay gentrification with Van Binfa, getting a book deal with Virgie Tovar, the politics of black drag with Micia Mosely, evading deportation with Yosimar Reyes, weird science with Ryka Aoki, gay public sex in Africa with Nick Mwaluko, thin privilege with Fabian Romero, the tyranny of “self-care” with Lovemme Corazón, “selling out” with Miss Persia and Daddie$ Pla$tik, the self-employed art activist hustle with Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarsinha, and much, much more.
Nia is revolutionizing the archive, y’all! Below is an excerpt from the book, featuring the interview Nia did with novelist, Ryka Aoki. See them both on February 12 at the Radar Reading Series -San Francisco Public Library – Main Branch – 100 Larkin Street in San Francisco – Latino/Hispanic Rooms A&B (basement level) – 6pm – FREE – Hosted by Virgie Tovar – Artist Q&A featuring REAL LIVE COOKIES to follow reading. Click here to view the Facebook invite.
Here’s the excerpt:
Ryka: I don’t see myself as a warrior. I see myself as a teacher. When there’s somebody who’s my adversary, I don’t think of that person as an obstacle. I think of that person as a learning experience. I’m going to sometimes be the student; I’m going to sometimes be the teacher. But we’re going to get through this, and we’re each going to become wiser for the encounter. I’m not a fighter. I love learning, I love teaching. Why can’t we use that, and have social justice in a way where there doesn’t have to be a winner or loser, where we all become more aware?
Nia: Yeah. I feel like you’re describing utopia.
Ryka: Yeah, but the person who says, “We’re going to kill all our enemies so we’re going to be the only ones who are strong and we’re going to take justice back”—really, is that any more realistic?
Nia: I mean, I don’t know if that’s justice—
Ryka: That’s not justice. When you hear people going, “We’ve got to struggle against the man,” to me, that’s purgatory. You’re going to spend the rest of your life struggling against the man. You dream of purgatory, I’ll dream of utopia, and together we’re still going to work with each other. I’m not going to invalidate you; it’s just that I can’t see where you’re coming from and you can’t see where I’m coming from, but you know what? The heart can’t see the brain, but they work together.
Nia: Yeah, I really admire and kind of envy your wisdom and how… at peace with all of this you seem.
Ryka: I love what I do! I love to write! I love my teaching! You know, I teach on my birthday sometimes, and I tell my students, “My birthday wish for all of you is to have a job that you love enough that you want to come on your birthday and go do it!”
Nia: I’m getting emotional!
Nia: No, that’s really sweet! You just have this amazing spirit of kindness and generosity. I think it’s hard to maintain that. Often being in social justice makes people jaded and bitter, and you just don’t seem to have any of that at all!
Ryka: No. It’s like, every day that I can look out and see that tree and see how beautiful the light is off of it, I win.
Nia: Yeah. I feel like I look out that window and see the American flag and think about war and nationalism and—
Ryka: Sometimes it’s good to see the symbols. Sometimes it’s good to see the colors. The funny thing about being jaded is that people think that’s the end state; you start from innocent, and you become jaded. It’s like being a butterfly. You look at the monarch butterfly, and it looks like it’s jaded, but actually what’s going on there under the hard shell is a transformation. I think that if you just stay with the process, eventually you realize this sort of “jaded” covering is simply holding your wings back. Break through it, and you’ll be fine.
This Friday Radar will be at the Center for Sex & Culture in San Francisco (1349 Mission Street, between 9th and 10th) at 8pm for the Banned Book Book Club! We’re featuring an all-star perv lineup that will heat your cold little Grinch heart right up. $10 admission! Click here for the Facebook event details.
Carol Queen will be breathing new and sexy life into Judy Blume’s work! She’ll be joined by La Chica Boom/Xandra Ibarra, Jiz Lee, Lil Miss Hot Mess, Dodie Belamie, and Aya de Leon. We asked Carol a bunch of questions and wanted to share her infinite wisdoms with you:
Beside perhaps “artist” or “writer,” talk about another identity that matters to you.
I’m choosing “sexologist” as my alt ID; I’m doing so because so many people are studying sexology and trying to make lives as sex educators today, unimaginably many more than when I was a pup, and the culture has not kept up and made work for all of us. Sexology is still sort of a bastard child, professionally and academically, but the fact is, it is one of the most interdisciplinary fields anyone could ever tackle: everything from medicine to law to sociology to arts and literature live within its purview, because what isn’t relevant to sex?
Is the internet ruining the world? Why or why not.
Yes! Sorta. Here’s why I say this: When I turn to the Internet to research something, anything, I very often find that ‘Net-available information dries up by about the year 1998. I want to check something that happened earlier in my life, or get the kind of historical perspective I used to go to the library for, and I very often come up short. The Internet is information overload, of course. But it is vastly wide but not deep. Of course I could still go to the library, but not everything makes it into a book or journal; the Web promises us all knowledge, in a way, but a lot of the time it delivers us blogs and lists. Oh, and cats! And porn. Which people today apparently often mistake for sex education. (Oh, plus? Apparently libraries are getting rid of lots of books and teaching librarians to search the Internet. Sigh.)
Give us one piece of advice you want to share with artists – about life, bills, process, editing, brainstorming, anything.
I’m going to give advice I wish someone had given me. Back before I was ever published, I journaled––I journaled all the time, for many years every single day. Since I’ve been writing for publication, I abandoned that practice––when I thought about it at all, I’d say I stopped because I was pouring whatever I wanted to process and address into my fiction or essays. Maybe, but I really regret now not continuing that part of my writing practice. It gave me something in the way of introspective and processual opportunity that no other kind of writing does; also, it allowed me to document things that now I wish I’d documented throughout the ensuing 25 years. Keep up your journal, and don’t do it as a blog that everyone else can read––unless you will truly disclose everything in that format. In my experience, most people don’t, and that means a big segment of our generational truth is left on the cutting-room floor. We need that history.
Dr. Carol Queen [www.carolqueen.com] is a writer and cultural sexologist and is the co-founder of the Center for Sex & Culture [www.sexandculture.org] in San Francisco. She is a noted erotic writer and essayist whose work has appeared in dozens of anthologies. She’s written three books: the essay collection Real Live Nude Girl: Chronicles of Sex-Positive Culture; erotic novel The Leather Daddy and the Femme; and Exhibitionism for the Shy, which explores issues of erotic self-esteem and enhancement. She’s also edited several volumes of erotica and essays. Queen works as staff sexologist and Company Historian at Good Vibrations, the women-founded sex shop, where she has worked since 1990. She has been speaking publicly about sexuality for over 30 years. Her perspective in addressing sexual diversity incorporates personal experience, accurate sex information, and informed cultural commentary. She has addressed many conferences, including the International Condom Conference, the International Conference on Prostitution, and the International Conference on Pornography; she frequently addresses college as well as general and specialized audiences. Five years ago she debated the question of promiscuity (“Virtue or vice?”) for the Oxford Union at Oxford University, England.
When you watch Xandra Ibarra/La Chica Boom perform you know that you are witnessing a spectacle (or as she would call it, a “spictacle”) unprecedented in terms of its grandiosity, brilliance, and perversity. Chica Boom will be reading at the Banned Book Book Club: Sex Edition at the Center for Sex & Culture on December 12 at 8pm. We asked Chica Boom some questions about her influences, fantasy date and advice for artists. Here’s what she said:
Who influences your work?
I am influenced by everything. Maybe I am gullible; maybe I let in too much. Don’t care. I am influenced by my mom’s humor, the mushroom jazz in my panties, the interactions between animals, ‘Nordic track’ behavior, the catholic doctrine of transubstantiation and the rigor of cockroaches. Ugly things, color, sound, movement and lots and lots of feelings influence me. My zodiac sign is cancer; yup I feel, I feel you, but mostly I feel me. I am also influenced by my own obsessions whether they make sense or not. I perform them, photograph them, act them out or seek to experience them in some way or another. Fortunately or unfortunately my obsessions are always about sex and race and the multitude of ways that these two things work. I imagine the ways they work together in an alternate universe. I make boob juice or agua calientes, have you heard?
You get to have an epic dream date with anyone dead or alive: who are they and where do you go on your date?
I would meet a 35-year-old Lacan in Mexico City at a dirty strip club called “Wawis” in the 1920s in the early afternoon. We would tip the dancers too much and get drunk. Then we would go drunk shopping for plants and street food to put in our new apartment. You see, he would become a lesbionic man and want to u-haul into my life. I would like it. He would love it.
One piece of advice you want to share with artists – about life, bills, process, editing, brainstorming, anything.
Being broke sucks. Learn to do lots of things porque nunca sabes cuando lo vas a necesitar.
Xandra Ibarra/La Chica Boom is an Oakland-based performance and video artist from the El Paso/Juarez border who performs and works under the alias of La Chica Boom. La Chica Boom is a performance art project that uses hyper-raciality/sexuality/