All in Guest Writer series
Art is my medicine. More accurately, it is our medicine. Because we are inseparable.
Art has always been medicine for human beings. Cultures across the world acknowledge medicines, powers, and gifts within various images and art forms.
It has been this way for my ancestors and it is this way for me.
I am not a trained artist.
Art is my teacher.
“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet.” Juliet says, in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. And sure, the rose would still smell lovely, but in a world of busyness, big ideas, constant streams and broadcasts, flashing lights, loneliness, doubt and ambitions… isn’t it lovely, helpful, and comforting to know that a rose is indeed a rose, and that a rose can be specifically sought-out then appreciated by calling it what it is?
It's 2023 and I'm still masking. In fact most of us in the disabled community are. Why? Because we're still dying, but the general public seems to have forgotten that a severe respiratory virus is still around and mutating into more contagious and still deadly variants.
I’ve been thinking a lot about location this year, and more specifically, what makes a city work for me.
While folks observe Black History Month this time of year, at Afros In Tha City, we observe Black Futures Month. So while location has been on my mind year round, this month in particular feels like an excellent time to ponder place — asking questions like ‘do I have a future in this city?’
Dancing time and using time as a dance is the art of a Tap Dancer. We dare to be heard, and dedicate our time to the practice of listening. A refinement of the self and an oracle at best. When facing it all, it can feel like leaning in on a promise and hoping it works out like a Tap Dancer holding down time to bring in the band, “a one, a two, and a 1-2-3-4”. Where the melody goes from there is what it’s all about.
After seven years working at Arts Commons (almost to the day as I write this), and in the arts sector in general, I have become accustomed to the fall being the start of our new year, something that was not really part of my life before moving here. Where I grew up, the school year went from January to October, and I only went to university in Canada for a few years before completing my degree. I like to think of August 31st as the stand-in for a New Year's Eve in the arts; I have always thought there is something magical about that unassuming day when we close our season, (and our financial books) and we get ready to start it all again.
I asked my Instagram community of friends and acquaintances if they’ve been feeling progressively apathetic about life since the pandemic began, of those who responded most answered yes. I turned 27 a few weeks ago, and it dawned on me that I was now living in the youth that had been the container for my dreams. At some point during the pandemic, I had realized there was nowhere to place all my hopes of the future, all the hopes of who I could be as an adult, I have arrived. My older-self held all the hopes and dreams of my younger self.
Theatre runs in my blood. For over the past decade, I’ve written about theatre, I’ve interviewed artists, I’ve engaged in the conversation about this medium of storytelling. I hosted the Calgary Theatre Critics’ Awards for 3 years and in the 4 years that I was a member of the panel, I saw approximately 80 productions of theatre and dance in a year.
