2B —Thursday, February 15, 2018
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Queer art is thriving in the Ann Arbor community

Local 
activist 
Ariel 
Friedlander is ready to fuck 
shit up.
Of course, that’s not all she’s 
here for. But it summed up a 
lot from our interview this 
weekend.
“That’s what’s in the future. 
Having fun and fucking shit 
up,” Friedlander said. “I think 
that’s what we do best.”
The “we” to which she 
was 
referring 
is 
Radical 
Anticapitalist 
Deviants 
and 
Forum 
of 
United 
Nonconformists, 
a 
local 
collective dedicated to student 
activism and the creation of 
fun, safe and welcoming spaces 
for marginalized communities 
in Ann Arbor. Radfun was 
formed during the fall semester 
of last year with the goal of 
creating a space where students 
could come together and focus 
on things that they care about: 
one part social justice and one 
part having fun.
Friedlander herself is warm 
and approachable, manifesting 
in her mannerisms the same 
welcoming nature that she 
describes 
as 
characterizing 
Radfun. But, like Radfun, she’s 
also angry and passionate about 
defending what she cares about. 
She’s just making sure to direct 
that passion to the right places.
“When we create a safe space 
for queer and trans people 
of color, we’re also creating 
a radical space, because it’s 
so different from the social 
scene 
our 
campus 
offers,” 
Friedlander said. “We do like to 
use our parties and our social 
events as a way to create radical 
change.”
Radfun’s 
emphasis 
on 
radicalism 
and 
fun 
as 
“intertwined,” as Friedlander 
put it, brings up interesting 
questions 
about 
the 
intersection between these two 
things. For Friedlander and 
her fellow Radfun activists, 
this means seeking out ways 
to work toward social justice 
while making as much use of 
fun and creativity as possible 
in the process. In the past, 
Radfun has used both zines 
and 
fundraising 
parties 
as 
ways of working toward this 
goal. Their current and recent 
projects have also included 
working with the Stop Spencer 
Coalition and the Michigan 
Student Power Summit.
Zines 
in 
particular 
are 
among 
Radfun’s 
primary 
vehicles for creative political 
innovation. Commonly defined 

as 
self-published 
mini-
magazines (hence the name 
“zines”) with relatively small 
circulation, zines are popular 
in both artistic and social 
justice circles, and Radfun is no 
exception.
“I think art is so important 

to good activism, and I think 
it’s 
incredibly 
underused,” 
Friedlander said. “And Radfun 
is 
awesome 
because 
they 
see how art can play such an 
influential role in activism, 
reaching people on different 
levels that words just can’t. 
So creating these spaces and 
parties with music, or zines 
full of art and color, is really 
important and a way to reach 
people that is really useful and 
unique.”
Radfun is currently working 
on several zines, including 
one about queer safe spaces 
for people of color, and one 
visualizing what the University 
of Michigan might look like in 
a future in which everyone was 
truly welcome and included in 
the community.
“Art 
is 
always 
at 
the 
forefront 
of 
social 
justice 
issues,” Friedlander said. “Any 
social justice movement that’s 
successful has heavily relied 
on art … because we are often 
from a place of oppression and 
exclusion, and by using art, we 

can communicate those ideas. 
We can create that radical 
change that we couldn’t do any 
other way.”
She added that Radfun has 
been seeing a lot of art that 
“reflects the queer identity and 
queer experience.” President of 
Radfun Darian Razdar was also 
able to speak to the presence 
and significance of queer art in 
an email interview.
“Creativity and the arts have 
always been important for the 
queer community,” he wrote. 
“Through the arts we are able 
to make our voices heard, to 
affirm ourselves and folks like 
us. As queer people, we face an 
increasing amount of political, 
social, cultural and economic 
marginalization — so the arts 
both allows us to process 
the world in which we live 
and make a life for ourselves 
that feels more authentic and 
fulfilling than more capitalist 
styles of production.”
Radfun is doing a great deal 
of work on the University’s 
campus as far as combating 
injustice and advocating for 
queer people. However, beyond 
the campus itself, the larger 
queer community of Ann Arbor 
is 
also 
consistently 
active, 
particularly when it comes to 
the arts.
One long-established focal 
point for Ann Arbor’s queer 
community is Braun Court, 
a 
small, 
homey 
square 
of 
local businesses located in 
Kerrytown. 
The 
primary 
components of Braun Court 
are the Jim Toy Community 
Center, Trillium Real Estate, 
Aut Bar and Common Language 
Bookstore. The latter two are 
co-owned by married couple 
Martin Contreras and Keith 
Orr, who have been active 
players in the queer community 
of Ann Arbor for at least the last 
couple of decades.
From the outside, Common 
Language Bookstore is well-
lit and full of bright colors, an 
inviting sight nestled into the 
far-left corner of the snowy 
courtyard. As I walked up to it 
for the first time, a cheery ’60s 
pop song began emanating from 
the speakers of its next-door 
neighbor, Aut Bar, which felt 
like it added even more spirit 
and character to the previously 
silent street block.
You barely have to step inside 
to see that Common Language 
is any true bookstore lover’s 
dream. It’s cozy and vibrant, 
with walls and shelves spanned 
by a broad selection of both 
vintage and brand-new books 
— Nadine Hubbs’s “Rednecks, 
Queers, 
& 
Country 
Music” 

LAURA DZUBAY
Daily Arts Writer

“When we 

create a safe space 

for queer and 

trans people of 

color, we’re also 

creating a radical 

space, because 

it’s so different 

from the social 

scene our campus 

offers”

There was a moment years 
ago when I felt attacked, not 
intentionally, but in the way 
that an offhand comment by 
someone at the table next to you 
at a restaurant might strike you 
rather peculiarly, as if a nugget 
of truth you had neglected your 
whole life took the form of a small 
bug that creepily crawled inside 
your ear, planted itself there 
and birthed a number of smaller 

bugs that ravaged your thoughts. 
The attack came in the form of 
a truism, or as close to a truism 
that an opinion can get, uttered 
by a friend: That if I was such a 
passionate listener of music, I 
could surely name one song that 
made me emotional. The fact was, 
I couldn’t.
Sure, there were songs that 
made me feel lost in space, if only 
for a moment. George Gershwin’s 
“Rhapsody in Blue” and the 
sudden break that occurs midway 
through 
Vampire 
Weekend’s 
“Hannah Hunt” both came to 

mind immediately. But I would 
be lying if I were to declare that 
either song or really anything 
in my life I had heard up to that 
point, on a wintery Feb. mid-
afternoon in 2015, had struck me 
to my physiological core.
Troye Sivan’s “My My My!” 
might just be the first song to 
do that. It’s a bubbly pop song, 
constructed from the bare bones 
that have defined the genre: 
verse-chorus-verse-chorus-
bridge-chorus. Its three minutes 
and 25 seconds feel specifically 
engineered to be just short of 

satisfying, the only solution for 
which is to hit repeat. But more 
importantly, it’s a shameless 
anthem of queer love, one that 
works as an uplifting sequel to 
Sivan’s song “Heaven,” which 
appeared on his first album Blue 
Neighbourhood.
“Heaven” 
details 
Sivan’s 
journey 
coming 
out, 
his 
reckoning with his moderately 
religious upbringing — like me, 
he’s Jewish, but unlike me he 
attended an Orthodox school. 
Sivan noted in interviews around 
the time “Heaven” was released 
that the hardest person to come 
out to was himself. Before his 
coming out, Sivan sings, with 
mournful regret, “Trying to 
sedate, my mind in its cage / And 
numb what I see.”
The 
central 
concern 
in 
“Heaven” is spiritual, with Sivan 
reconciling his sexuality with 
its inherent connection to sin. 
Judaism, it seems to me, views sin 
as an act, not as a characteristic. 
One murders, for instance, but 
one is never a murderer. We’re 
all, in that way, redeemable. But 
sexuality is different because 
it’s a core part of us. It shapes 
our desires, our behaviors, our 
longings. It’s inseparable from 
who we are as people. It would 
feel 
rather 
disingenuous, 
or 
whatever the proper word for that 
is, to “atone” for my gayness and 
then, later the same day, partake 
once more in gay life.
That’s Sivan’s question: Can 
I get to heaven while being gay? 
In other words, am I abrogating 
this 
nebulous 
spiritual-cum-
religious-cum-familial obligation 
by liking men? Later, in the 
chorus, Sivan lets out a cry for 

help: “Without losing a piece of 
me / How do I get to heaven? / 
Without changing a part of me 
/ How do I get to heaven?” He 
ends his entreaty with some 
degree of resolution — “Maybe I 
don’t want heaven?” — but there’s 
more than a shred of doubt. After 
all, denying a core part of your 
identity feels rather cruel, but 
considering the alternative may 
be an eternity of damnation, well, 
something’s gotta give.
These doubts have also plagued 
my mind; I think I became more 
“religious” — or at least more 
conscious of my relationship to 
my religion — when I came out 
(again, to myself more than to 
other people). And the idea that I 
was giving into sinful temptation 
disturbed me. I didn’t have the 
throngs of screaming fans that 
comforted Sivan and told him 
he was loved, but I did have 
supportive parents and brothers 
and friends. And something tells 
me that Sivan wasn’t entirely 
comforted by that fandom, just 
as, despite displays of support, 
I still wrestled with that inner 
conversation, 
telling 
myself 
not that what I was doing was 
morally wrong in any way, but 
was disappointing to my family 
and faith, if anything by the text 
alone.
If “Heaven” asks a question, 
“My My My!” answers it. A 
passionate ode to, presumably, 
his boyfriend, the professional 
very good-looking person Jacob 
Bixenman, “My My My!” finds 
Sivan gloriously loving another 
man. The beauty, though, is that 
his act of pitching woo mirrors 
his transition from self-doubt to 
self-assurance. “Now, let’s stop 

running from love,” he croons. 
“Let’s stop running from us.” He’s 
taking a risk, as we all do when we 
fall in love. But he’s also turning 
his inner conflict from “Heaven” 
inside out. Once in denial of his 
sexuality, Sivan embraces it. And 
he’s roping others in with him.
It also helps that “My My My!” 
really bangs. Its glitch-infused 
chorus is so joyful, a mixture of 
hesitation and confidence that 
is inextricably linked to the gay 
community. It’s a community that 
has been ravaged by AIDS and 
is still held in contempt by large 
sections of America, let alone 
elsewhere in the world. Sivan’s 
vocals cut through, cheerfully 
crying, “I die every night with 
you.” Sivan has transcended 
and, perhaps, embraced this 
heaven/hell fear, describing and 
celebrating his personal petite 
mort without shame and with 
passion and verve.
When “Call Me By Your 
Name,” 
the 
other 
recent 
celebrated work of Jewish gay 
art, was released, there was some 
commentary that the film was 
a celebration of hedonism, and 
that Michael Stuhlbarg’s fatherly 
monologue towards the film’s 
conclusion was the coup de grâce 
in its celebration of uninhibited 
sexual behavior. But I don’t buy 
that. I don’t agree that someone, 
prone to intellectualizing their 
lives, finding themselves rapt by 
an unexplainable urge and an 
undeniable love is hedonistic. It’s 
liberating. It’s who he is. To deny 
our love is to deny our selves. I’m 
happy that Sivan has been able to 
do the same, and I’m glad I have 
his example to lead me through 
my own life.

Embracing queerness in
Troye Sivan’s ‘My My My!’

DANIEL HENSEL
Daily Arts Writer

CAPITOL RECORDS

was one of the first intriguing 
examples to catch my eye. A 
narrow staircase leads upstairs, 
which features a variety of 
sections 
such 
as 
mystery, 
performing arts, men’s erotica, 
health, self-help and ecology. 
Daylight streams in through 
bright, colorful curtains. For 
me, by far the most appealing 
discovery upstairs was Duke, 
a friendly dog curled up in an 
armchair.
Orr 
and 
Contreras 
have 
worked for many years to 
make Common Language a 
welcoming and useful space 
for queer people in Ann Arbor. 
Common 
Language 
was 
founded in 1991 as a space, 
alongside Aut Bar, for Ann 
Arbor’s LGBTQ+ community to 
come together and engage with 
literature.
“The primary mission of the 
bar is to provide a safe space 
for the LGBT community,” Orr 
said. “So with that in mind, 
we have always been on the 
forefront of any activism. We’ve 
sued the governor twice, won 
both times. We’ve certainly 
engaged in lots of fundraising 
activities. We’re often the focal 
point if there is any reason for 
gathering.”
As a bookstore, Common 
Language is naturally largely 
focused on literature as an art 
form. However, the store also 
features graphic and visual art 
and uses its Instagram account 
(@commonlanguage) to post 
and reblog queer art from a 
variety of sources.
“Art is a different type of 
language,” Orr said. “It’s also 
like spoken language — it’s 
going to be very different from 
one culture to another, and 

within a culture … At its heart, 
I think every piece of art is 
a piece of activism. Because 
it says something, and it says 
something in a way that’s 
different than our everyday 
experience, and therefore is 
already a radical notion. I think 
it’s one of the reasons why great 
art tends to have proponents 
who are part of a radical 
movement.”
According to Orr, the most 
prevalent 
environment 
for 

local queer art currently is 
in the realm of spoken word 
and performance art. This 
can be seen in shows such as 
“HERsay,” a performance art 
show organized by singer-
songwriter 
Patti 
Smith, 
as 
well as demonstrations such 
as performance artist Holly 
Hughes’s imaginative protest 
of Donald Trump’s presidency 

through the organization of 
performance events.
In the past, the businesses 
of Braun Court have also 
participated in stands of their 
own. One memorable incident 
occurred 
when 
notoriously 
anti-gay activist Fred Phelps 
came to picket Aut Bar in 
2001, and Orr and Contreras 
decided to respond by donating 
one dollar to the Jim Toy 
Community Center for every 
minute he stayed. They reached 
out to the community via email 
to ask for additional pledges 
and ended up raising $7,500 in 
about an hour. As such, for Orr, 
running queer businesses and 
participating in activism have 
often gone hand in hand.
“Ultimately, books are part 
of the artistic culture, and as 
such, the radical element is 
there as well,” Orr said.
And hopefully the radical 
element will be there for years 
to come. Common Language 
might be small, but it is a time-
tested and starring example of 
the type of community many 
young, queer people in Ann 
Arbor are currently envisioning 
and seeking. That is to say, a 
space that is radical while also 
being welcoming, artistic and 
relentlessly creative.
“Art’s 
what 
changes 
the 
world,” Orr said. “And such 
has it always been. Every time 
there’s a repressive regime, 
the 
underground 
movement 
is largely being fueled by, or 
working in parallel with, an 
artistic movement of some sort. 
In fact, oftentimes the artistic 
movement is well ahead of the 
political one, and the rest of the 
world is catching up. So I guess 
it’s just look, listen and learn.”

Emma Richter / DAILY

The most 

prevalent 

environment 

for local queer 

art currently is 

in the realm of 

spoken word and 

performance art

