winter 2022
GUEST EDITED BY
AMY HULL
On history, identity and power
DRAGGED HOME
Dropping anchor in Newfoundland’s drag scene
ON INDIGENEITY Unboxing the term "Indigenous dance artist"
TO PROFIT OR NOT TO PROFIT?
Governance structures and their discontents
Display until April 6, 2022 / $11.95
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contents
Volume 25 Issue 1 winter 2022
15
18
DEPARTMENTS
CURRENTS
FEATURES
4
Masthead
W HAT’ S O N ?
H OMECOMING CH RONICL ES
6
Your Notes
10
18
7
Editor’s Letter
Regional Reporters 8
Arellano / Photo by Alex Uxquiano; Murphy / Photo by Quinton Cruikshanks; Cook-Thomas / Photo courtesy of Cook-Thomas
26
Event Previews
HISTO RICA L MOM E N TS
12
Recovering Stolen Dances
Until 1951, Indigenous dances were banned by law by kj dowdie P RO F IL E
15
Talking With Nature
Dragged Home
Dropping anchor in Newfoundland’s drag scene by josh murphy ROUNDTA BL E
26
On Indigeneity
Unboxing the term “Indigenous artist” with three generations by ange loft, byron chief-moon, rayn cook-thomas
Through movement, Aztec dancer Asalia Arellano was able to dig into her roots by robyn grant-moran
PH OTO ESSAY
B O DY
An excerpt from It’s About Time: Dancing Black in Canada 1900-1970 curated by seika boye
17
Dancing Spirit
Feeling good in the body and soul is the fullest expression of who we are by joyce fu
30 102 Years of Beautiful Resistance
POWER TA L K
38
To Profit or Not to Profit?
Potential problems with the non-profit structure, and other options for artists by amy hull
POSTSCRIPTS ON THE COVE R
Original illustration by Saelym Degrandpre (Taqqiq)
winter 2022
CH ECK IT OUT
46
LOV E L ETTERS
47
GUEST EDITED BY
AMY HULL
Artifex
A new repository for arts research provides the one-stop platform the sector’s been missing by anne dion
To Our Teachers
We asked you to write about your inspirational educators by eric wright, daphne simon, alana simon
On history, identity and power
DRAGGED HOME
Dropping anchor in Newfoundland’s drag scene
ON INDIGENEITY
POETRY
TO PROFIT OR NOT TO PROFIT?
50
Unboxing the term "Indigenous dance artist"
Governance structures and their discontents
movement is the medicine
by jasmin bollman
thedancecurrent.com
3
homecoming chronicles
Dragged Home Dropping anchor in Newfoundland’s drag scene
Murphy in Prince Edward Park, N.L. / Photo by Kassie Abbot Lukeman
by josh murphy
18
the dance current
WINTER 2022
Murphy in Les Productions Red Light's Leather and Lace at the Wiggle Room in Montreal / Photo by Patrick St-Amour
A
ug. 24, 2020. I’m posed behind a Plexiglas wall with a metal tips bucket out of my reach and my mask off to the side. I’m at Flash, a gay bar in Toronto, performing live for the first time during the pandemic and my last performance in the city for the foreseeable future. The music starts: Candyman by Christina Aguilera. I begin dancing, stripping and entertaining, and quite honestly, I’m off my game. A little shaky. It’s been five months since I last performed live. When I’m done, I yield the stage to my fellow performer, Toronto drag queen Tash Riot, and head upstairs to change. I put on a black leather jacket and thigh-high boots and return with a degree of “Screw it. What do I have to lose?” S&M by Rihanna kicks in. I start lip-synching during my burlesque number, somewhat of a taboo in certain burlesque circles, but it was the right choice for that performance. The rush of live performance sweeps me away. My tearaway pants accidentally find their way to the top of the Plexiglas wall, and I triumphantly tear them down on an appropriate musical beat. I’m back in the zone and feeling like myself. This is what I live for. I’m a burlesque performer first and foremost. Onstage, I go by Newfound Lad and I can often be found playing into nautical themes, riffing on stereotypes of my home province and wearing a pair of heels. I like to consider myself drag adjacent, meaning you can usually find me standing next to a drag performer. After I finished my BFA in dance from York University, burlesque became a part of my artistic practice when I joined Toronto’s Boylesque TO. Before burlesque, I had always thought I would be a drag queen but lacked the makeup skills and general interest to learn them. But then, joining burlesque as an assigned-male-at-birth entertainer, I quickly learned that makeup, costuming and all of the work that goes along with it were just as important in this art form. I was in too deep at this point, touring internationally with an acclaimed troupe. I had to learn some skills and professionalize my craft. With an interest in diversifying my skills and learning more about makeup, I started working closely with drag performers by entering the second Absolut Empire’s Ball, an inclusive team drag competition created by Scarlett BoBo, a finalist on the first season of Canada’s Drag Race. I joined a team of drag kings, gender performers and a burlesque performer (oh wait, that’s me). We made up Rebel Gen, rebelling against the norm, the mainstream, and we won the whole thing. Our victory was a major departure from the team of drag queens that won previously, as well as the drag queen-focused media and competitions like RuPaul’s Drag Race, which solely showcase drag queen talent. After this competition, I began gaining traction in spaces I hadn’t accessed as a burlesque performer before. I was now on the fringe of drag and eager to learn more. Then came March 2020 and COVID-19. One week after my August 2020 performance at Flash, I find myself home just outside of Corner Brook, N.L., on the first day of my twoweek quarantine that was required to travel into the Atlantic bubble.
No contact or sharing space with other humans and no hugs from my parents were allowed. I filled my quarantine playing hours of video games, filming myself doing TikTok dances in my mom’s backyard and watching the Canada’s Drag Race finale on Zoom with my friends. I had made the painstaking decision to move home to Newfoundland amidst the pandemic, fuelled by lack of employment and the cost of living in Toronto. During a phone call shortly before I made this choice, my mentor and friend Candice Pike told me, “It is OK to make a choice that makes you feel luxurious, that makes you feel safe, that makes you feel excited.” For the first time since I came to Toronto in 2013, it no longer made sense for me to be there. Nothing was changing any time soon, and I was in a place where I was able to let go of the city for that moment. The luxurious choice was to go home. I resolutely told myself I would spend the fall in and around Corner Brook and then be out of there. (Spoiler alert: I stayed for 11 months.) I truly never thought I’d live there again, but the comfort of home and a guaranteed job teaching at my old dance studio kept me there for longer than I expected. For some Newfoundland context, Corner Brook is a city of just under 20,000 people, and it’s a solid seven-hour drive to the nearest “big city,” St. John’s, and the nearest Queer space, Velvet Club & Lounge. Since moving, I wanted to pick up where I left off on the fringes of drag. I was hungry to see and know more. I knew there was a thriving drag community in St. John’s who I had yet to encounter and who aren’t being witnessed on a grander scale, a scale worthy of the quality of their work. On the national stage, we have one of the new franchises of RuPaul’s Drag Race, the previously mentioned Canada’s Drag Race. At the time of this writing, the cast of Season 2 has been revealed and we’re days away from the premiere. This season represents drag from British Columbia to as far east as Quebec, a slight improvement from Season 1 but still disappointing for East Coast drag fans. Touring across this country has taught me that drag, burlesque and Queer art can happen anywhere. So I took it upon myself to witness the work happening here and see what isn’t being showcased as “the best of drag” from coast to coast. I want to know about the drag these artists practise, what it’s like to perform drag on The Rock and, hopefully, learn more about my own work along the way. thedancecurrent.com
19
roundtable
On Indigeneity Unboxing the term “Indigenous dance artist” with three generations
I’ve always felt like I didn’t quite fit into the box labelled “Indigenous
J’ai toujours senti que la case « artiste de danse autochtone » ne me
dance artist,” even if I put myself in there. I resist the label, but at
convenait pas tout à fait, même si je m’y positionne. Je résiste l’étiquette,
the same time, I feel a responsibility towards it. When applying for
et simultanément, elle m’inspire un sentiment de responsabilité. Quand
funding, “Indigenous” is a handy adjective to have in my tool box to
je soumets une demande de subvention, le qualificatif « autochtone »
describe myself. It also comes in handy with networking and helping
est utile pour me positionner. Il m’aide aussi pour le réseautage et pour
other “Indigenous dance artists” to prioritize their peers. When working
soutenir l’entraide entre les autres « artistes de danse autochtones ».
outside of Canada, however, “Indigenous” is the only descriptor I’ve been
Pourtant, lorsque je travaille à l’extérieur du Canada, « autochtone » est
allowed to use, with “dance artist” cut out entirely. In those cases, the
le seul adjectif qui m’est permis, et « artiste de danse » est entièrement
adjective was used to exoticize me and rug-sweep my education and
rayé. Dans ces cas-ci, la désignation sert à me rendre exotique, et à
accomplishments in favour of celebrating the people who “gave” me the
effacer ma scolarité et mes réalisations afin de célébrer les personnes qui
opportunity to work in Europe.
« m’offrent » l’occasion de travailler en Europe. Il y a à la fois un équilibre
The pros and cons of leaving that label in versus taking it out often
et une précarité entre les pour et les contre de m’afficher. Quand est-ce
end up balancing equally, but also precariously. When do I want my
que je veux que mon travail soit mis en relation avec cette communauté
work to reflect on the community crammed like sardines into this box?
multiple entassée dans cette case comme des sardines ? Quand est-ce
When do I want to climb out of the box and take a breath for the sake of
que je veux m’en défaire et prendre mon souffle pour moi, mes pairs et
myself, my peers or my work?
mon travail ? Je réfléchis au sens du mot « autochtone » dans le contexte
I’ve been pondering what “Indigenous” means in the context of
du terme « artiste de danse ». Peut-être ces définitions ne sont pas
“dance artist” and what “Indigenous dance artist” means in the context
statiques, mais glissent constamment selon les contextes spatiaux,
of, well, “dance artist.” Perhaps these definitions are not static but
temporels et culturels. Pour approfondir ma réflexion, j’ai demandé à
ever-changing in their spatial, temporal and cultural contexts. To gain
trois artistes de différentes générations d’écrire sur l’intersection de leurs
some understanding, I asked three artists from three generations of
identités, et comment cela informe, embelli ou complique leur relation à
dancemaking to write about how the intersections of their identities might
l’autochtonie, la danse et la désignation « artiste de danse autochtone ».
inform, beautify or complicate their relationships to Indigeneity, dance
Rayn Cook-Thomas, Ange Loft et Byron Chief-Moon ont collectivement
and the term “Indigenous dance artist.” Rayn Cook-Thomas, Ange Loft
commissarié un parcours centré sur la danse à travers le temps, l’espace
and Byron Chief-Moon have collectively curated a dance-focused journey
et les sous-cultures.
through time, space and sub/cultures. — Amy Hull, guest editor
26
the dance current
WINTER 2022
— Amy Hull, directrice de rédaction invitée
My dance practice is Indigenous, as am I, as are my people.
Photos courtesy of Cook-Thomas
Rayn Cook-Thomas My largest artistic influence is from my people, a coastal First Nation known as the Kwakwaka’wakw people in so-called British Columbia. What is paramount in the discussion of Indigenous dance, and sometimes misunderstood, is that my people were and are highly theatrical. When I step into our big houses, known as the gukwdzi, I can sense the rich history vibrating in the cedar walls; I am invigorated when the drummers call the drum to life; my attention is caught when the dancers sweep the floor with a sophisticated rhythm and spiritual demeanour; I am in the theatre when the dancers bring our world to life. The dance is not the art medium; the dancer is. A choreographer once said to me, “I don’t think the theatre could ever be a decolonial space.” Yet what’s most powerful is that my people’s dances, songs, performances, traditions and expressions were not made to be “art,” like that of western theatre. They were made to be life. When I take this practice of Indigenous theatre and storytelling into my dance, it becomes the exciting challenge of breathing life into the stories I’m telling and the ways I’m moving. This influences my daily practices, which are contemporary dance and choreography in the York University dance program. A prime example is through mask work. In the Kwakwaka’wakw ceremony, large cedar masks are carved and used to tell stories and bring our supernatural worlds and animal kingdoms to life. The subtleties in the performance qualities are potent; using intricate, jerking head tilts and movements, delicate and thoughtful facings in relation to the audience and simple choreography across the floor takes the
witnesses (audience) to a spiritual world only awoken in ceremony. The mask is treated as a living being, and in this sense, it comes with special protocols. To translate this work to a contemporary setting is daring but necessary. As I continue to incorporate Indigenous dance movement motifs into my contemporary choreography, it manifests in different ways: using a mask not as a prop but as an extension of the self and the body, which requires an acute attention to nuances and focus; acknowledging the audience as witnesses to the work, which asks for a respect for the story being told and how it will be received; using the dance space as a sacred space, which means that any entities, like masks, that the dancers work with are respected, upheld, brought to life in a good way and used with the required permissions needed from the community involved. My dance practice is Indigenous, as am I, and as are my people. Our ceremonies do not bring witnesses to the supernatural world, but rather they bring the supernatural to them through complex protocols, a deep respect and a profound honouring of our elders in past, present and future. In the same way, I do not attempt to bring the environments I create through choreography to the studio, but I ask those environments to come to the studio with us, and to do this, I must keep in touch with my community, my identity, the land and my vivid cultural way of living. Rayn Cook-Thomas is a contemporary dance artist based in Vancouver Island and currently training in Toronto. thedancecurrent.com
27
poetry
movement is the medicine by jasmin bollman
the body is the art form undulations help to clean it the body holds the pain shake it out to release it if the dance is important it’ll come to you if you seek it movement is the medicine but the secret is not to keep it pass along the freedom that comes when you reveal it
Jasmin Bollman specializes in telling stories through poetry. Her first poetry collection, Mid-Century Misfit, was published in 2020.