Illustration by: Erica Mulvihill
A Note From Rachel on This Month’s Topic:
“Dissecting The Bunny, Caressing the Frog”
The topic this month is presumably abstract but not at all.
“Dissecting the bunny, caressing the frog.”
The sentence originated in my basement where I sit, writing new things daily.
I have nowhere to put these things I write, no one will ever read them but I can’t care. I really am the typically neurotic, shaking with objection and impulse, writer who needs to write. I write viscerally and without writing it, I’d probably explode or “accidentally” walk off a cliff. Is this self-indulgence? No. I’m not so experientially unique that other individuals won’t relate to my writing. But, in this city I feel an artist can only create within trend or from a proposed “call”, using guidelines, targeting a niche and therefore impulse or outpour-turned-art is judged as self-indulgence. I am frustrated, frankly, with how specific I’m meant to be. The current approach to theatre-making in this city is too controlled.
We must lose control. Truth comes from exploring the parts of us that we cannot predict. Fuck the audience member who asks me to indulge their needs specifically, is what I say, for it must be true that my self-indulgence will indulge others who are experiencing truths that match mine so: unless I am true, I will not meet my audience BUT if the audience asks for specifics, how can I be true. It’s a redundant battle.
We are not producing from impulse. We are only producing from logistic pragmatic.
Then, are these productions even artistic?
If the guts are removed and the hair is brushed evenly and the seats are worth money and the actors are too worried about result to be in the show?
We’ve escaped authenticity.
We focus too often on creating canonized pieces and we forget about the vehicle that art can be. If there are no guts on the table, how have we dissected anything at all? And if there are no frogs to be dissected, then wouldn’t it be true we are censoring the origins of our guts?
I don’t want to be bored. I want to be upset. But, lately I see nothing triggering. In fact, there’s too much stigma around the idea of being triggering. There’s stigma around all the things I love, all the reasons I write.
Is this a Toronto-based censorship? Or am I just judging the city out of my own fear of rejecting?
Does anyone agree? I’ll never know unless I ask.
Please friends, join me this month as we dissect the bunny and caress the frog.
If you should read something you’d like to respond to:
I call to you:
Send me your piece.
I will publish it on The Podium