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