NINE-STORY MOUNTAIN

“In the far west of Tibet, there is a mountain some call the CENTER OF THE WORLD… MOUNT KAILASH.”

The opening of Nine-Story Mountain, a documentary film directed by Augusta Thomson, reveals soaring blue skies and a wealth of white clouds and the Kora, the route pilgrims follow around Mount Kailash, a holy pilgrimage site. Originally from the Monadnock Region of New Hampshire, Thomson is a dynamic and engaged world citizen, now in her final year of studies in Archaeology and Anthropology at Oxford University. She has been involved in other documentary projects, including as Director Corporate Screenings and Outreach Coordinator for ongoing screenings of Girl Rising, a strong and stunning documentary about nine girls in developing countries, and how education has transformed their lives and their communities. The powerful message of Girl Rising has inspired a global movement for the right to education for girls around the world, just as the panoramic footage of Nine-Story Mountain will raise awareness about the cultural and environmental impact of pilgrimage practices in Tibet.

“Nine-Story Mountain charts the journey of three western researchers on a path of self-discovery, from Lhasa to Mount Kailash, Tibet… to understand the secrets of a mountain and landscape that have magnetized millions of people for centuries.”

Four young Tibetan Bon pilgrims come barreling down the incline. “So, so, so, so, so,” they sing as they run. When they are directly in front of me, they raise their hands. “Tashi delek,” they say. “Blessings and good luck.”

I am in western Tibet, on the path leading up to the highest point along the Mount Kailash pilgrimage route, or Kora, a significant site for many faiths—Buddhists, Hindus, Bonpo, and Jains. I carry my karma with me—a 40-pound backpack filled with assorted books, clothes, notebooks, snacks; a Canon d550; and a 35-pound tripod. With the aid of two expedition members, I am researching the material culture of pilgrimage—the offerings left by pilgrims along the sacred route and the rituals associated with them.

— from“The Purple Umbrella,” by Augusta Thomson, WellesleyMagazine, Summer 2013

“Not only does material culture have implications for spiritual devotion, but it also connects individuals and communities to the geographical landscape.”

Augusta, tell us about your background, your interest in Tibet, and how you came to filmmaking as a student of Anthropology and Archaeology?

People always ask me where my interest in Tibet came from. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. Tibetans would say it’s Karmic. I do have one memory of when I was around thirteen and a group of Tibetan monks came to visit my middle school. They chanted for about an hour during an all-school assembly with these deep and haunted voices; during and afterwards I was completely transfixed.

Later, I did some research. And the more I learned about the Tibetan diaspora the more I felt compelled by Tibetan culture. I was intrigued by Buddhist philosophy, and especially, the concept of compassion. There was something so graceful about the way that Tibetans handled the Cultural Revolution and corresponding religious persecution. I thought then and still feel that grace like that is a valuable teaching tool.

Later, when I was studying at Wellesley College I remember watching my peers respond to academics and adopt career paths, and being struck by the realization that so many people seemed to be “running before they could walk.” They were filtering into finance jobs and career paths they hadn’t chosen intentionally, with self-awareness. It made me want to do something to help—to fill that gap. I decided to leave Wellesley and apply to Oxford University to study Archaeology and Anthropology—to learn more about alternative perspectives on the world and especially the culture of the Indo-Tibetan region. In the interim before the start of my first year I spent six months working on a Tibetan text preservation project in Cazadero County, California. For six months I worked in a bookbindery set up by the Nyingma Lama, Tarthang Tulku. I spent much of that time dyeing the sides of sacred Tibetan texts a traditional red hue, and preparing them for shipment to Bodh Gaya, India. Tarthang Tulku set up Yeshe De, the Buddhist text preservation project after fleeing Tibet during the Cultural Revolution and subsequently recognizing the need for cultural preservation through literature. Over the course of that time I developed a deep reverence for Tibetan culture, and especially, for the significance of cultural preservation in the Indo-Tibetan region. Every year the Lama funds a world peace ceremony in Bodh Gaya, India, the Monlam Chenmo, when thousands of monks and nuns pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya to receive offerings of the sacred texts prepared by Yeshe De—texts they might otherwise never have access to. To be honest, working in the bookbindery was the first time I felt wholly connected to a humanitarian project—probably because I could really see where it was going and how it was benefiting people. That sense of connection to the deeper intention behind the project was really transformative.

I never actually thought that I would make it to Tibet, and later, when I had the opportunity to launch an anthropological research expedition to study Tibetan culture, I realized the blessing of that opportunity. Tibetans and other pilgrims from different faith groups used to spend their whole lives dreaming of the chance to visit Kailash. In the past, pilgrims would walk or prostrate over 1000 kilometers from Lhasa to the Ngari Prefecture of Tibet just to visit the mountain.

To think that we would have the chance to live that dream was deeply humbling. And before Lara, Don, and I even left I remember thinking that we had to turn that gift into something more—a blessing for others—with the simultaneous purpose of memorializing the stories and myths of a mountain that are at risk of becoming lost. This film is our attempt at painting a picture of a mountain that deserves to be protected and preserved, as a landscape of peace.

“Nine-Story Mountain memorializes the sacred myths and stories surrounding Mount Kailash— myths and stories in need of preservation.”

Nine-Story Mountain focuses on “pilgrimage practices across the Tibetan plateau,” specifically around Mount Kailash. What is it about pilgrimage that calls to you?

As an anthropologist and artist, the concept of pilgrimage has long fascinated me. I am intrigued by the individualistic and community-focused elements of pilgrimage journeys, which seem to meander easily between the personal and the communal. For some time now I have been drawn to the ways that pilgrims cement their ties to transitional pilgrimage landscapes—either through storytelling, the construction of small shrines and sculptures, and/or the collection of photographs and other sacred mementoes in the landscape. Taken one step further, the material culture of pilgrimage might be viewed as a sort of meta-language, left by pilgrims in a sacred landscape, to connect them to the landscape, to past legends and stories, and to other pilgrims.

After sifting through assorted literature on pilgrimage I knew that I had to travel to Tibet. In Tibet pilgrimage is almost universal. Pilgrimage routes circle sacred monasteries, shrines, and even towns. Larger pilgrimage circuits weave from sacred monasteries to sacred lakes, on circuits stretching thousands of kilometers. Pilgrimage in Tibet is undertaken as an exercise in purification; pilgrims walk to cleanse their defilements and karma. Offerings comprise an ingrained part of Tibetan pilgrimage culture, as do stories and myths.

“As one of the few landscapes… where people of different and historically oppositional religious and cultural traditions can peacefully coexist, the story of the pilgrimage community begs viewers to consider how the mountain’s culture of tolerance might be a useful tool for different conflict zones around the world.”

“As some of the few westerners to make it into Tibet… they travel alone through an empty landscape, a landscape witness to changes most people will never have the chance to see.”

What did you, along with your fellow Oxford University researchers, experience and learn on the expedition across Tibet?

Over the course of five weeks we learned a landscape unlike any other we had ever experienced. Our amazing guide and Tibetan crew introduced us to locals and took us to locations off the beaten path to aid in our research. When we were on Kailash, our guide and translator, helped to facilitate the interview process, such that we captured never-before-seen footage and anecdotes of Tibetan Buddhist pilgrims, Tibetan Bon practitioners, Hindu pilgrims, Western pilgrims, Chinese pilgrims, Tibetan teahouse owners, Tibetan guesthouse owners, Tibetan nomads, Tibetan monks and caretakers, and Tibetan mantra carvers. I spent most of the research period learning Tibet through a lens, and I will never forget how the colors of what we saw and experienced gave life to our film and story.

Nine-Story Mountain is our tribute to the landscape and culture, not only of Tibet, but of a sacred mountain on the Tibetan Plateau, with the incredible ability to transcend territorial ties. Mount Kailash is one the few places in the world, claimed by oppositional religious faiths, where pilgrims of different ages, genders, and cultural backgrounds walk together in peace. It is one of the few transitional landscapes in the world, shared by people of different ages, genders, cultural, and faith backgrounds, where the culture is unequivocally one of tolerance and acceptance. Throughout the research project I kept looking for a hole in the fabric and culture of Kailash; I kept searching for the one broken strand. In the end, I found that the only broken strand was my resistance to believe.

“The Tibetan woman holds a bright purple umbrella.”

At Drolma La Pass, “the most sacred point along the Kora,” which “represents the point of rebirth,” you came across the woman with “the purple umbrella,” as mentioned in your essay in the Summer 2013 issue of Wellesley Magazine. Would you describe this encounter?

I made my way up the incline toward Drolma La for the second time. The last time I’d climbed up to the pass, on our first Kora, the wind bit my face and the path was blanketed with snow. This time the rocks were clear, the sky cornflower blue. Behind me, a young Tibetan woman with a baby strapped to her back held a bright purple umbrella.

Almost at the top of the pass, the sun hit my back, and I found myself gasping for air. Around me Buddhist pilgrims blessed the sky with lungtas—five-inch paper images of the Tibetan “windhorse,” thrown into the air like confetti. Bonpo pilgrims sang mantras and shook strands of prayer flags to honor the sacred mountain. A small urn smoked; the smell of juniper mingled with the clear smell of Kailash. In Tibet, juniper is believed to possess healing and restorative properties.

As I passed another rock littered with prayer flags and other pilgrims’ mementoes, I saw the woman with the purple umbrella. She sat, picking tufts of juniper, her baby sheltered under the purple arc, then stood, approached me, and gestured at me to watch. She took the juniper, rubbed it between her fingers, and threw it into the air. “Ah,” she said. “Ah.” Then she gathered a bundle of the savory green shoots and placed them in my palm. She carefully closed my hand with her hand, looked right though me, and nodded. When her baby began to wail, she turned away, my gesture of thanks unnoticed. Drolma La Pass, in the mid-morning, was full of pilgrims. Together we sat—to share snacks, to smile when communication faltered, and to watch others learn the landscape—rebirth everywhere.

“In Tibet, pilgrimage sites are everywhere. They dot the landscape: lakes and rivers, monasteries and shrines.”

To have assembled the research team and funding for the expedition, traveled to Tibet and trekked the Kora, interviewed Tibetans and others about the pilgrimage to Mount Kailash and captured these moments and the landscape on film—really, this is beyond accomplishment. You must feel astonishment and an incredible kind of pride. And in exactly one month—on March 8, 2014, International Women’s Day—Nine-Story Mountain will premiere at the inaugural Women’s International Film Festival at Oxford University.

What are your thoughts at this point, about the film, in terms of the audience, and in wider scope, in terms of the world? And in close-up, what does this mean to you personally?

This film is about the power of community. It is a testament to the strength of stories to connect people of different cultures and backgrounds. It is a testament to the power of hope and perseverance, to the beauty that exists, always, at the foundation. Even as the landscape changes and evolves to welcome tour operating companies and hordes of pilgrims, I have faith that the beauty of Kailash will inspire a renewal.

I never thought that I would be the one to film Kailash, to capture its transcendence with a tiny HD camera. In the end, Kailash captured me.

Hearthside, mountainside, or deep within an archive of sacred Tibetan texts?  

I love this question. But, I would have to say, “none of the above.” I’d like to hope that the most comfortable place I find myself is always the place I am most needed. That could be any or all of the above. It could be anywhere. A little like a snail—I carry my home on my back.

What is your idea of absolute happiness?

For me, happiness is the feeling of running through a summer thunderstorm, of the wind on my face cutting through the waves of a wide ocean, of being totally and completely free. Absolute happiness is the experience of passing that on to someone else—bringing others into the immediacy of that joy. It’s something that drives my work; I truly believe that if everyone could feel that “splash-in-a-puddle, tennis-in-the-rain” type of freedom the world would be made better. So much of joy is tied to space—to the sense of expansiveness that comes with opening one’s heart. In my opinion, joy channeled into positive action, inventiveness, and productivity will change the world. That would make my absolute happiness ABSOLUTE.

Augusta Thomson

Augusta Thomson is currently a student at Oxford University, where she is studying for a B.A. in Archaeology and Anthropology. She spent the last year living and working in New York City, as Director of Corporate Outreach and Distribution at 10×10/Girl Rising, and simultaneously interning with the filmmakers, Sarah Teale and Lisa Jackson. During that time she wrote pieces on the Girl Rising movement and spoke at schools and venues throughout New England. She is the Director of Nine-Story Mountain, a documentary film about an Oxford University and Royal Geographical Society-sponsored research expedition, which took place in July 2012, to study pilgrimage practices across the Tibetan Plateau and around Mount Kailash, a sacred mountain in the far western Ngari Prefecture of Tibet. The film will premiere in March 2014. At present, she is working as Regional Ambassador for Girl Rising, to help launch the movement in the UK, and is coordinating the first Women’s International Film Festival at Oxford University— to celebrate International Women’s Day, on March 8, 2014.

Photo credits: Don Nelson

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The Poppy: An Interview Series

Four to six questions begin as pods, then burst open with answers, bright lapis, 

black-stamened, conspicuous—ornament, remembrance, opiate.

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First posted at Hothouse Magazine.

NONTRADITIONAL: The Landscape of Homecoming

INT. REGISTRAR’S OFFICE — DAY

Erika waits in an area in front of a service counter. A sign indicates that this is the Registrar’s Office. Smaller signs point the way toward ID CARDS, FINANCIAL AID, and ADMISSIONS. A placard on counter says FEES & DEPOSITS.

The ASSISTANT REGISTRAR, 40ish, stands behind the counter speaking to a student at the counter, but we can’t hear what they say.

The student picks up a heavy backpack and weaves his way around Erika.

ASSISTANT REGISTRAR: Can I help you?

Erika approaches the counter and lays the bill in front of her. The registrar takes the letter and scans it — she’s seen millions of these; her eyes know just where to look.

ERIKA: Yes, ma’am. I received this is the mail today, and I’ve been charged in error.

The registrar taps on her keyboard with lightning speed.

ASSISTANT REGISTRAR: Byrd. Erika M. Freshman. Out-of-state.

ERIKA: That’s the thing, ma’am. I’m not out-of-state.

ASSISTANT REGISTRAR: Did you live in New York the past 12 months?

ERIKA: No—

ASSISTANT REGISTRAR: Then you’re registered as an out-of-state student, and you have to pay out-of-state tuition.

ERIKA: No, I don’t.

The registrar has heard this line from entitled students before.

ASSISTANT REGISTRAR: Look, where did you live for the past year?

ERIKA: Baghdad.

- from the screenplay of Nontraditional, a film by Brian Hauser

In Nontraditional, a film by Brian Hauser, the landscape of war is approached in terms of homecoming, how soldiers — in particular, a twenty-six-year-old female combat veteran — fall back into civilian life, how communication and gender and powers of deduction crisscross. Erika Byrd, the protagonist of the film, embodies all of these issues. Her creators, filmmaker Brian Hauser, and his partner and producer, Christina Xydias, agreed to talk with me about the film’s conception and realization to its production and upcoming Veterans Day premiere.

In approaching Hauser and Xydias for this interview, I initially asked about their interest in filmmaking. Their candid, comprehensive responses are included here.

How did you became interested in film and this project in particular?

Hauser: I have been interested in film as a viewer more or less all my life, but I think I first became interested in making movies when I was in the Army in the mid-1990s. I was more interested in screenwriting at that time, but I had this sense that knowing how moving pictures actually got put together would be an enormous help in achieving a better understanding of writing scripts. I bought a cheap 8mm Samsung camcorder and noodled around with it to very little effect. When I got to graduate school several years later, I got a bit more serious about it. I purchased my second camera and set about making a few short films. This is also where I started reading the various filmmaking books on the market in a more systematic way. I was learning about all of this just as the World Wide Web was becoming robust enough to be useful. I found all sorts of like-minded people on the web, including a loose group of filmmakers dedicated to making film adaptations of the works of H.P. Lovecraft, as well as the production company that gave me my first writing job. I was also inspired by all of the talk of the digital revolution that was in the air in the late 1990s and early 2000s. I soaked up all the rhetoric about DIY and the democratization of filmmaking. As a result of all of this, I wrote and directed my first micro-budget DIY feature in 2002.

The project was one part ill-conceived and two parts overambitious, so there was never really much hope of finishing it, but the last nail was driven in when I was called to active duty two months later. I was away for twelve months, during which time I put the film and graduate school on hold. That was a signal moment for me. Until then, my adult life had been very intentional; this was the first time that I had ever honestly felt swept away by the course of events. Since then, much of my creative work has been an attempt to sort through that experience, and Nontraditional is certainly a part of that. While I was teaching at the Ohio State University as a grad student, I was fascinated by the way that I could pick out the male veterans in my classes without them telling me. At the same time, I was reading a number of news stories about women in combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I wondered how many female vets had been in my classes. I was sure that my curiosity about this had something to do with my own gender preconceptions, but I was also sure that female vets often did not display the same kind of non-verbal cues that males did: military-themed clothing, regulation haircuts, visible military tattoos, and all the other small details of military bearing. And as I thought more about it and tried to pay more attention to the issue in my classes, I came to the conclusion that female vets were far less likely than males to self-identify as veterans in all sorts of direct and indirect ways while in college. That interested me, so I started looking into it more here and there, seeking out more news articles. Eventually, Christina and I decided that we wanted to speak with female vets directly, so we arranged to interview eight female Ohio State students who were also veterans or in ROTC. Those interviews provided the background information that I molded into the screenplay for Nontraditional.

Xydias: My interest in filmmaking, specifically, as a means of expression is entirely through Brian’s interest. I have other voices: I used to produce enormous quantities of fiction—mimicking whatever I was reading at the time (Jane Austen, Tom Clancy, anyone). I’m an amateur musician with a lot of experience in performance, and over the last ten years I’ve worked to cultivate my skills in public speaking. Filmmaking is very new to me, and I don’t actually view myself as a creative participant in Nontraditional so much as … managerial. This isn’t to say that management isn’t creative, because I think it really is. I came to this project with an overarching interest in making the film happen, financially and logistically and creatively, not with very precise technical skills in camera work, say, or acting.

My interest in the content of the project Nontraditional in particular comes from three directions: first, my own feminism; second, my work as an academic studying and writing about women and politics; and third, my understanding of Brian’s experiences in the military.

I have long viewed women’s exclusion from registering with the U.S. selective service as promoting differential citizenship, so I was interested in exploring the dynamics of gender and power within the military. I’m also really curious about the extent to which these dynamics reflect how American politics works more generally. A lot of political discourse emphasizes protecting women when it really means protecting masculinity. It sounds silly to need to say it aloud, but gender and sexuality are really complex. I was intrigued by the idea of having a protagonist who challenged simplifying assumptions about both combat veterans and college students. I was even more intrigued by the challenge of developing this protagonist without portraying her as a victim, either of sexual assault (which is often the focus of portrayals of female soldiers) or of other people’s misunderstandings. Even when Erika Byrd is struggling in college, she is not a victim.

And, of course, by the time Brian and I undertook interviews with female vets at OSU, which was more than six years ago, I was very familiar with his own story and his experiences in the military. Projects generally have their own timeline.

Tell us more about both your views on the politics and dynamics of gender and power in the military. How did you get this across in Nontraditional?

Xydias: The central co-concerns of any military are morale and combat readiness. Even when we observe that some female soldiers are sufficiently competent to serve in combat roles (and even when we observe that some male soldiers are not) – which might otherwise suggest that gender is not relevant to military concerns – service members’ attitudes towards one another and their conceptions of gender matter. Soldiers opposed to women’s formal inclusion in combat roles might experience lower morale, for example, with female unit members. However, there is a point at which it is not the state’s obligation to accommodate outdated conceptions of gender. At a certain point, people opposed to women in combat roles purely on gendered grounds need to remember that they are professionals and do their jobs. (By analogy, we would not argue that someone else’s aversion to women wearing pants should result in a pants exclusion rule. That person would just have to keep this aversion to himself.)

I also would like to clarify here that this emphasis on citizenship and democracy as they relate to women in combat is not because Brian or I happen to be particularly pro-war, or that I cannot imagine an alternative version of the world in which combat exclusion has nothing to do with mutual respect and self-determination. In the world that we live in right now, though, states have borders, and militaries protect them. The exclusion of anyone from a combat unit for reasons unrelated to their competence is a form of discrimination regarding who gets to contribute to this core state activity.

Hauser: I have always approached the question of gender in the military from a competence-based standpoint. Service members should be evaluated based on their willingness and ability to perform the required tasks to standard. Sex and/or gender should have nothing to do with it. I knew men and women who could do the job, and I knew men and women whose abilities I doubted. The tricky part about the question, I think, has always been not the fact of sex integration but what people think about it, what it means to them. In Nontraditional, Erika is simply a combat veteran. She has a Bronze Star for valor and a Purple Heart. This is the part I feel she does not have to explain or justify. She did it; she was recognized for it. The question is not whether or not she can do it, as it is in films like G.I. Jane. The question here is, now what? Erika is a warrior, and a scarred one, but her identity as a woman blinds others to those important parts of who she is. There are thousands of women like Erika, and there will be thousands more soon.

In Nontraditional’s opening scene, Erika Byrd is seen in combat gear, crossing from forest to field where she is greeted by a crowd, each embracing her and taking her weaponry, then her uniform from helmet down to boots, exchanging them for civilian clothing and then accompanying her back into “the World.” This is, of course, a dream sequence, but, to me, this seems an incredibly profound and important kind of recognition for those who have been in service to our country, and I wonder why we don’t do this for our own returning soldiers. Would you speak about the decision to begin the film with this scene?

Hauser: To me, this is the crucial set up for the story. It is, I think, the broader context of all stories about soldiers coming home, not just women and not just Erika. Society has asked some of its members to shoulder the burden of stepping outside the confines of civilized behavior for the benefit of the state. However, when soldiers return home, they are implicitly expected to cross back into the civilized space and shed their warlike habits and attitudes. It seems to me like the perfect scenario for a ritual. Before you enter the peaceful city, we require you to put away warlike things; and because we are the ones who sent you to war, we will honor your service by helping you disarm. Of course, this is precisely what we don’t do for our veterans. We tend to be pretty good about the “welcome home” part, and this is usually carried out on the unit level, but I think it’s the ritual disarming that’s really the key to the process. That’s what we don’t do. My sense is that the reasons we don’t do this are tied up with an American warrior culture that tells us we must always be warriors, always ready for battle. In particular, this message is directed at young men, but to the extent that it is reflected in the Second Amendment it is directed at all of us.

Relationships are approached in multiple ways, from Erika skyping with her parents and speaking one-on-one with her Sociology professor to studying with other college students and when Todd “Doc” Clark, a friend from her old battalion, shows up for a visit, revealing the soldier she was and the woman she’s become. All of Erika’s encounters disclose what it’s like for a female combat veteran to re-enter civilian life and especially university life. The occasion that really stands out is the one in which Erika tells Todd of the necessity “to dwell in the boredom.” We understand here how the lack of action and adrenaline is entirely unsettling for returned soldiers. This is a phenomenal way of describing this circumstance that certainly all who’ve been in combat must experience, and how it’s pretty damned frightening to come up with coping strategies for simply engaging in everyday, dull-as-all-get-out life.

And so the question: would you tell us how you found your way through the maze of relationships in the film, all in service of Erika’s character and her story, and how you managed to fold them all so expertly together?

Xydias: Brian’s screenplay first introduced these characters and their relationships, to be sure. But ultimately what we see on the screen is as much a product of the actors and environment of the set. Erika’s relationships with other characters on screen are characterized by both tense interpersonal conflict as well as tremendous warmth. An audience can share in these dynamics because our actors worked really well together. They worked well together in ways that are not possible to anticipate; they created something new.

Hauser: Thank you; that’s an awfully kind way to phrase the question. As I wrote the script, I was aware of the ways that Erika was responding to different people. She was respectful to professors and staff, unless one of them seemed disrespectful to her. She was less impressed with her classmates and neighbors, and even with people she identified as peers she came off as gruff. She is only really open and warm with her Army buddy, Todd, and their conversations are sprinkled with some of the harshest language in the film. My experience in the military was full of that kind of interaction: harsh exteriors masking the personal. It’s a defense mechanism a lot of the time, and it’s one that Erika finds very useful in college. Though a number of characters reach out to Erika in the film, it’s really her fellow nontraditional student, Laurel, that does so in the most powerful way, and Laurel could only do that by mustering a kind of interpersonal courage. Erika is not an easy person to get close to, but Laurel chooses to fight for the opportunity. Looking back on it, this might be one of those unconscious themes at work in the film: people can be strong and competent by themselves, but it’s only in their relationships that they can be heroic. Heroism is transitive.

In Nontraditional, communication plays an immense role, from college essays to military acronyms, from understanding to misunderstanding, from classical music to jazz. Within these parameters Erika reveals her remarkable powers of deduction, as well as her loss of comprehension.

 In the army, there are “tasks, conditions, and standards” — the goal is clear. In college, however, process replaces goal in terms of thinking: “Always revise. Always experiment. Always question.” Erika’s considers the wider spaces of possibility and seems to lose her footing, but then bears down into a place of understanding, the Rhetorical Triangle as her compass. Every communication as a trilateral relationship and each point of the triangle bearing some responsibility for the success of the communication, from credibility to consistency to imagination, from form to idea to force. This shape, this new way of seeing the world is related to an old way of seeing the world, as revealed by Erika’s notebook drawing of the symbol for the 18-Deltas (Special Forces Medics) — an 18 inside of a triangle. These kinds of connections are forthright, brave, and even scholarly.

In writing the screenplay did you realize the representation of the triangle, rhetorical and otherwise, would then lead to Erika’s ability to communicate more effectively by drawing from the past, while letting it go, and moving toward the future? Or is this something you came upon and worked through during production?

Hauser: I did not have the triangle associations in mind when I sat down to write the script, but they were definitely in place by the time I finished the first or second draft and well-thought out before we started shooting. I did know that the rhetorical triangle was a fairly didactic tool to stick into the middle of a film, so I was happy to stumble upon the link between that triangle and the “delta” of 18Ds. That also made me think of the triangle/delta as the chemistry symbol for reaction or change. At that point, I knew there were enough connotations that I could build on the motif; it was fertile ground for a character epiphany.

Are there any other stories you’d like to tell about discoveries made in the writing and in production?

Xydias: Making a micro-budget movie is the context for lots and lots of discoveries! We self-financed production, which was freeing (because no external funders controlled technical or creative details) as well as terrifying. Even though we did not produce the film expecting to make a profit per se, it felt like gambling with an enormous amount of our income. At every turn, we made decisions that balanced creative vision with very pragmatic questions of what we could afford. As producer, I constantly wondered whether we were investing enough to create something beautiful; as production manager, I stressed over how fast we went through hummus. (Incidentally: the cast and crew consumed approximately 50 pounds of carrots over the course of principal photography!)

In creative terms, I’d like to mention how hugely collaborative our set was. As producer, maybe I can’t claim to speak for the entire crew in describing it as egalitarian, but promoting a collaborative context was certainly one of our principal goals – and every day, everyone made suggestions and solved problems. Many of our core crew members are very young, and I found it so exciting to watch them assert their own creativity.

Hauser: Kat Evans really jumped into her role as Erika and did a lot of work to make that character come alive, and she also worked closely with the other actors on set to flesh out new dialogue (often saving me from myself as a writer). I invited and expected those kinds of collaboration and discovery.

What I didn’t quite expect was the way that the Bach soundtrack would fit together with jazz. I was looking for a piece of music in the Public Domain that I could reasonably use for the end of the film, something to say that Erika and her music class had moved on from Bach. By asking my music-savvy friends and through my own research I surmised that a lot of early jazz was on the Internet Archive. This seemed like a reasonable solution. It’s a big temporal jump from baroque to jazz, but in a music appreciation class like the one Erika is taking these periods of music history tend to jostle one another. I settled on The Original Dixie Land Jass Band’s “Livery Stable Blues” mostly because I liked the sound of it and the recording is in the Public Domain. However, when it came time for my brother, Kurt, to record the guitar version of Bach’s cello suite that forms the majority of the film’s soundtrack, he was suffering from a severe neurological disorder, thankfully from which he is now recovering. At that point, though, there was no way he was going to be able to play the suite on classical acoustic guitar, because he had lost nearly all the feeling in his left hand. In addition to being profoundly freaked out by what was happening to him physically, he was devastated that he wasn’t going to be able to provide the music we wanted. I remember when he called to tell me all this, he said, “So, when the plan fails, what does a soldier do? Improvise.” (Kurt was a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne.) The music he could record for us was a series of gorgeous improvisations based on the six movements of Bach’s cello suite no. 6. The improvs on electric guitar make the entire soundtrack seem a bit more jazz-inflected than I originally expected. This wound up becoming an important change to the feel of the film, and in a subtle but powerful way it also emphasized the importance of the jazz motif as a way forward for Erika.

And last of all: Drive-ins, multiplex cinemas, or independent single-screen theaters?  

Hauser: Independent single-screen theaters primarily, but I would also add in newer distribution platforms like streaming, VOD, and mobile devices. This is an intimate film and one that we would like to get in front of the people who might have an interest. Since it’s not a genre film, my guess is that it wouldn’t play well at multiplexes (though I would be happy to be proven wrong!). Thinking about digital distribution will hopefully allow us to get the film in front of more people who want to see it.

Xydias: Independent single-screen theatres. Ours is a beautiful film that is best appreciated on a bigger (theatre) screen — And it’s an independent drama, which independent-single-screen-theatre-goers are more likely to be drawn to!

Thank you both for the great conversation and for your time, which is quickly leading up to the film’s premiere! Any final thoughts you’d like to share?

Xydias & Hauser: We’d just like to thank you for letting us talk about our film with the readers of Hothouse!

Brian R. Hauser

Brian Hauser grew up in Sylvania, Ohio near Toledo. He attended public school, watched too much television and too many movies, and played a lot of video- and role-playing games while he lived there. He later attended The Ohio State University, eventually taking a B.A. and M.A. in English and a Ph.D. in film studies. For several years in the 1990s and again in the early 2000s, Brian served on active duty with U.S. Army intelligence. He is now an Assistant Professor of Film at Clarkson University in Potsdam, NY, where he lives with his partner, Christina Xydias, and their two cats.

Christina Xydias

Christina Xydias grew up listening to NPR, running and skiing long distances, playing classical piano and cello, and reading reading reading. She’s one of those people who did all of her homework and didn’t have a fake ID. Christina studied political science at Brown University (A.B., 2003) and then at The Ohio State University (Ph.D., 2010). She is now an Assistant Professor of Political Science at Clarkson University in Potsdam, NY. She talks with her hands, is a meticulous recycler, and always tries to listen to the other side of the story.

 *

The Poppy: An Interview Series

Four to six questions begin as pods, then burst open with answers, bright lapis, 

black-stamened, conspicuous—ornament, remembrance, opiate.

*

First posted at Hothouse Magazine.

The Gaze of Emilie Staat

“But tango begins before the dance, with a subtle yet terribly important gaze I haven’t yet

mastered. The cabeceo is an invitation, without words, and involves direct and sustained eye

contact, often from across the room. If a leader catches the eye of a follower and nods to the

dance floor, he is inviting her to dance. If she maintains the eye contact, smiles, or nods, she has

accepted. This is perfectly elegant in theory, but fraught with peril in practice.”

- from Emilie Staat’s memoir-in-progress, Tango Face: How I Became a Dancer and Became Myself

Portrait of Emilie by French artist Gersin

Emilie Staat surprises me. Her gaze is open, and her conversation eager and engaging. I’ve come to know her as an incredible reader and editor, and on a sunny May morning in New Orleans, I listened to her stories and later read a few chapters of her memoir-in-progress. Her written words have taken me by surprise all over again. Here, she reveals her love of tango and how the dance has led her on a journey of self-discovery.

Emilie Staat & Casey Mills perform at the 2012 Words and Music Literary Festival – Photo Credit: Sheri Stauch

Emilie, in your award-winning essay, “Tango Face,” you write of the cabeceo, or unspoken invitation to dance, the difficulty of the gaze, the “initial awkwardness” that comes from “the proximity of the embrace.” As a writer, language is your strength. How is the experience of moving into the world of tango, a world with a completely different vocabulary, nuanced and wordless, a world that you describe with thoughtful, passionate prose, deepening your work as a writer?

Originally, I thought tango would help me better understand the main character of my novel, a circus performer who has a visceral relationship with the world that’s very different from my own. And tango did increase my understanding of her physicality. But it became less about research and reached me personally. I think it has made me more generous and empathetic as a person, because you can feel your partner’s nervousness, or distraction, or happiness in their body as you dance together. It’s hard to dance that closely with someone for ten or twelve minutes without feeling connected to them. I’m also more aware of how wrong I often am about what people are thinking or feeling. My best interpretation still contains a seed of me—my experiences, prejudices, and assumptions filter my interpretations. Knowing that helps me set aside the me more cleanly and think about them—my partners, my characters.

In my work, tango has given me a new set of tools, changed my syntax, made me more mindful of the effect the words I choose will have, maybe like music. Recently, I had the opportunity to take workshops with Silvina Valz and Diego Pedernera while they were in New Orleans, including one focusing on the chacarera, a folkloric dance from Argentina that is vastly different than tango. I was struck by the fact that the whole dance is a working toward an embrace at the end. Instead of the intense embrace of tango, there is eye contact as each dancer performs their part, eye contact that becomes itself an embrace. The chacarera made me reconsider the cabeceo, my struggles with it and how intricate and elegant nonverbal communication can be and by contrast, how purposeful and powerful your words should be.

 Silvina Valz & Diego Pedernera perform in New Orleans at La Milonga Que Fatalba

“How did I end up… surrounded by $800 worth of shoes, both excited… and terrified of them?”

– from “Comme il Faut,” an essay-in-progress by Emilie Staat

Tango, two-step, or tarantella?

I had to look up the tarantella because I had only a vague notion of what it is. Not that I know much more now, but what strikes me most is that it seems like a dance that is much harder than a casual observer would think. Which is true of most dances, that they are easy to do, but difficult to do well. There is an enormous gap between the verb and the noun, so while I love dancing other styles like two-step, salsa and swing, tango is the only dance that has made me a dancer.

Cicely Tyson

Ernest J. Gaines

When you were awarded the gold medal for “Tango Face,” the Faulkner-Wisdom Nonfiction Prize

 winner, the organizers of the Words and Music Literary Festival invited you to perform. Would you tell us about the experience of dancing the tango on the same stage that writer Ernest J. Gaines and actress Cicely Tyson had just shared?

I’d only been learning tango for about a year, and while I was a good beginner, I wasn’t at performance level. When Rosemary James, who organizes the festival, said I should perform, I said no at first. But then, every night for a week, I dreamt about performing. I knew the room, I knew who my partner would be, what dress I would wear and what song we would dance to. Every night, it was such a vivid dream, and I realized how badly I wanted to perform, even if I wasn’t ready. When I asked Rosemary if it was too late, she was utterly gracious and suddenly, everything that seemed like a problem fell away.

The night of the performance, I was humbled by Cicely Tyson’s incredibly intimate and commanding performance and when Ernest Gaines spoke about his career and Faulkner, I was standing just alongside the stage, waiting with my partner to go on, but also just a few feet from what was, and felt like, a very important literary moment. The writer in me, analytical and cerebral, came forward and pushed the dancer back. I got in my head at the worst moment and I was so stiff and terrified. What I like best about the photo of our dance is that Sheri caught the instant, nearly a minute into the performance, that I utterly surrendered to the experience, to the song and to my partner.

Louisiana graffiti 

Emilie Staat, director Steve Herek, & actor Jose Zuniga worked together filming “The Chaperone”

As is typical of most writers, you have a day job and an intriguing one at that—as a script coordinator on films such as Twelve Years a Slave, Oldboy, HBO’s True Detective, Now You See Me, and 21 Jump Street.

 But your work is far from typical in that film projects can last for intense and long periods, and once they are complete, you take off a block of time to write. Would you tell us about your experiences in some of these projects? The highs, the lows, the stamina needed to survive long hours. And is the balance of all film work and then all writing working well for you?

Sometimes, I think my day job is too interesting, too distracting, and it doesn’t allow me a lot of time to write. But it does satisfy something necessary and I’m building toward a future in film that is more creative. I can’t quite give it up because my entire being lights up when I get a film job, or when I watch a movie I worked on. When I’m not working on a film and I pass by a set, I feel a pang. So, as all-consuming as that life is, I have to make space, find balance. I worked two of my biggest, longest shows (Now You See Me and Twelve Years a Slave) back to back in the year I first started to learn tango. I think it was my way of socializing, having something of a life, because it’s easy to lose that while working. But it also sparked my creativity, fueled my imagination in ways I didn’t expect. I’d been seeking balance for a long time, and tango forced me to work on it in a very real way that filtered into every aspect of my life.

Umbrella Tango in Times Square

Favorite place to write/dance.

For the first five years I lived in New Orleans, I wrote almost exclusively at a coffee shop by my house, which closed on New Year’s Eve almost two years ago. We jokingly called this place Cheers and it was a lot like Central Perk on Friends, very central to my life. Several people asked me if I was going to move when it closed (it took me more than a year, but I did move). I have a tendency to get rooted in one place. So these days, I’ve embraced the rootlessness of not having a steady writing home. It makes me more flexible and more focused on what I bring to the table each day, rather than where I write.

The same is true of my dance venues. There are aspects I appreciate about all of them, but I’ve yet to find a spot that is a perfect combination of elements – floor personality, space, temperature, music, crowd, etc. But I enjoy them all and I try to focus on my dance, rather than the limitations or advantages of the particular space.

Favorite writing tool/tango heel.

I’m ambidextrous in my writing tools. Sometimes I write by hand, very often I type. My iPhone is a tool and so are physical journals. Shoes are similar. My first pair of tango shoes were a pair of suede Comme il Fauts, which many consider the top of the line, with steel-reinforced heels. I call these my “old faithfuls” now cause they’re so worn in. My main pair currently are silver and black Darcos heels that are very sexy and go with everything.

Favorite writer/tango dancer.

I appreciate so many writers and dancers for the things they do particularly well, or what they have to say about craft. And, in both writing and dancing, my favorites have changed as I’ve matured and learned more about myself.

My favorites in my dance community are often people I’ve danced with many, many times and we’ve developed a style, almost a language, together. One of my favorite dancers might be a man I danced with only once, when we were both visitors at a Chicago dance event, and who I’ve never seen again. Or maybe that’s just one of my favorite dances.

I’ve been lucky enough to learn from world-class professional dancers who visit New Orleans, couples like Homer and Cristina Ladas, one of the first visiting couples whose workshops I took. They’re coming back to New Orleans in December for a mini tango festival, together with Ney Melo and Jennifer Bratt, and we’re incredibly lucky to have those two couples visit our community.

As for writers, I’m forming my “memoir tribe” now, with fierce writers like Cheryl Strayed, Melissa Febos and Claire Dederer. I just finished reading Rob Sheffield’s Turn Around Bright Eyes, and I’d definitely put him in my tribe. Dean Koontz and Alice Hoffman are both long-standing favorites who I’ve read since I was a teenager aching to be a writer and they have really formed me in immeasurable ways.

At present, you are working on your memoir, Tango Face: How I Became a Dancer and Became Myself, and you also have a novel-in-progress, The Winter Circus, in the wings. What are your dreams—in terms writing time, space, and subject—for the future?

I’d like to get these two books out into the world, of course. The novel’s been in my life since 2004 and now I’ve been working on the memoir for almost two years. There are more projects in the queue that I’d like to get to, including two t.v. shows and a feature script I co-wrote earlier this year. And as much as I love New Orleans, I miss traveling and I’d like to make it a bigger part of my life. A friend and I are discussing taking a road trip to all the major U.S. tango cities next year, maybe even turning it into a blog or film as we go. We’re looking into crowd-funding, so we’ve been working out the budget and which cities we’d visit. It’s starting to feel like a very real possibility.

Emilie’s Banksy tattoo

& Banksy’s original image

Lagniappe question!

I remember your fascination with graffiti artist Banksy, and your story about getting a Banksy tattoo. The image reminds me a little of your view of the world, holding on and letting go, as in dance and writing. Would you share that story? 

I have five tattoos, which I got between the ages of 25 and 30. My tattoos, the project of picking what I would permanently display on my flesh, is about making myself at home in my body, which I struggled to do throughout my teens and twenties. Each of the images is a reminder to myself. Your comment about holding on and letting go is perfect. I’ve never thought about it precisely like that, but I’ve always liked that Banksy’s image is both positive and pessimistic, depending on who is looking at it or where they are in life, or at the moment they see it. It’s about yearning and losing, childhood and hope, love and nostalgia. Contradiction and complexity is what makes it such a fascinating and universal image. It’s the closest to an “off the wall” tattoo I have, since it’s someone’s art exactly and not an image that I designed with the tattoo artist. Yet, you’re right that it does depict my world view.

Emilie Staat

Emilie Staat’s essay Tango Face won the 2012 Faulkner-Wisdom Nonfiction Prize. She is working on a memoir about life and tango under the same title as well as a novel. When she is not working as a script coordinator for film and television, she writes book features for 225 Magazine and blogs at NolaFemmes and her personal blog, Jill of All Genres.

Feature photo: Emilie Staat – in the French Quarter, at the Words and Music Festival, New Orleans   Photo Credit: Che Yeun

 *

The Poppy: An Interview Series

Four to six questions begin as pods, then burst open with answers, bright lapis, 

black-stamened, conspicuous—ornament, remembrance, opiate.

*

This interview first posted at Hothouse Magazine.

DOMA and the Arts Revisited

While I wrote the introduction to this interview, outside my study, five men with chainsaws and ropes were cutting down a dying oak tree. Nearly three hours into their work, the trunk was dismantled. Like DOMA. Dismantled. And I admit I considered the analogy, how large and unwieldy an act DOMA was, like the enormous midsection of oak, swinging in the air from the massive claws of a backhoe. If the trunk had fallen onto the street, the impact would have broken the asphalt into pieces. Now that the Defense of Marriage Act has fallen, the impact is considerable. And yet.

What about the thirty-seven states that still do not recognize same-sex marriage? The U.S. Supreme Court’s ruling in the case of United States v. Windsor is historic and yet clouded by the fact that the decision will affect gay couples on a state-by-state basis. On June 26th I felt elated, overjoyed for many of my friends; the next day I felt baffled by all the work that still needs doing. Why is awareness so hard for so much of the world?

Of the six writers and artists interviewed in the earlier post, “DOMA and the Arts,” all of them live in states where same-sex marriage is considered illegal and, therefore, they are still inside the long wait for equality. In the original interview, Shannon Cain said, “As a queer artist who draws upon movements for social justice as inspiration and creative fuel, I expect the passage or failure of DOMA to have exactly zero impact on my work.” I wonder now what the others interviewed think of the decision and its impact, and how it applies to their lives as artists. And so I’ve asked several. Joining the conversation is a writer who lives in Massachusetts, where her marriage has been legal since 2004.

Here are their responses.

David Covey in silhouette

Photo credit: David Covey

Dave, your work as a lighting director and choreographer has taken you from the Ohio State University’s Dance Department to Europe and several countries in Africa. As an artist and professor in the field of dance, how do you think the dismantling of DOMA will affect the artistry you bring to students and to other artists, nationally and internationally?  

Right now I have no idea if the demise of DOMA will affect my work as a gay man, lighting designer, or educator in higher ed. The creative process and teaching, for me, are cultivated through life experiences and hard work. That the federal government will now acknowledge the union of same sex couples legally will probably have no direct impact on my work, or my personal life. I have never personally been a big fan of the institution of marriage, but I am happy for those who choose to be married, that a major hurdle has been removed for the LGBT community, and I hope the remaining states where it is not “legal” will quickly see that they are on the wrong side of history and take action to put this nonsense to bed.

I view the demise of DOMA as a sign that big and important change in attitudes and policy are possible. Given the current state of our government with partisan politics and obstructionist practices where nothing is accomplished and the country continues to pay the salaries of fat, bald, white men who do nothing but advance their hateful policies, in the face of the struggle of so many people, on so many levels, this decision to confirm “gay marriage” stands as a symbol to me that important positive change is still possible.

Over the years I have been fortunate to have traveled and performed across Europe. And last year I spent a month in three countries in Africa. Reflecting on this, the people and cultures in both Europe and Africa have a much different perspective on what happiness and success means. In Europe I was constantly embraced by the openness and generosity of our hosts. Our collective goal was to create art-magic, but unlike here in the United States, where I constantly feel like I am “fighting” to make a creative action occur, in Europe it is part of their collective consciousness. Life is beautiful and together we can make it even more so.

Same thing in Africa, except those beautiful people face a much more extreme existence of life and death—pure survival. What they deal with on a daily basis makes all of the problems we in America face seem incredibly trivial. No food. No water. No house. No doctors. No retirement. No bed. No car. No father. No mother. All dead from AIDS. And we are worried about… what?

But yet again, in working with them to make art-magic, they were transformative in their hunger to learn and graciousness to share. And again, I found this to be core to their existence. The power of art, the power of beauty, the power of connecting to someone who shares in that, is the truth that I have learned, that I embrace, and hopefully will have some influence on the world where we all can live together in peace and love.

This is what the end of DOMA means to me, and how it might affect my work as an artist and professor. We are all equal. And that is the fucking truth. I dare anybody to tell me differently.

David Covey, a professor in The Ohio State University’s Department of Dance, serves as Production Coordinator and teaches dance lighting, production and composition. His research interests include lighting, choreographing and various aspects of visual arts. He received a BESSIE award for lighting BAM Events choreographed by Merce Cunningham in 1998.

Marlene Robbins – NYC by night

Photo credit: Karin Cecile Davidson

"Because of today's Supreme Court ruling, the federal government can no longer discriminate against the marriages of gay and lesbian Americans. Children born will grow up in a world without DOMA. And those same children who happen to be gay will be free to love and get married, the way I did, but with the same federal benefits, protection and dignity as everyone else." - Edie Windsor - June 26, 2013

Marlene, as a dance specialist, working with 5- to 12-year-old children in a school that relies on the arts as part of the curriculum, how do you think the decision on DOMA will modify your encouraging and inspirational role in the children’s lives?

As I reflect on how the ruling against DOMA may affect my classes at school, I find that I feel at odds with how difficult and complicated the situation still is. On one hand there is a huge step forward, acknowledging the civil rights of all citizens regardless of their sexual orientation, but gay families in Ohio (and 36 other states) still face the same problems. As I work with classroom teachers in creating an integrated curriculum based on studies of our constitution, I think this ruling reiterates that we stand for some things in principle but not in reality. For the children, we as adults have a role and responsibility in working together to make these ideals a reality within the laws of this country.

Marlene Robbins is the dance specialist at Indianola Informal K-8 in Columbus, Ohio. She has a BA in Dance and MA in Arts Education from the Ohio State University, worked as a staff member of the Ohio Arts Council, and received the 2013 Ohio Dance Award for excellence in contribution to the field of dance education.

Eliza T. Williamson and Heather Klish 

Photo permission: Eliza T. Williamson

Eliza, you are the only one interviewed here who lives in a state where your marriage is recognized as legal. How do you think the dismantling of DOMA will impact you as a writer and an Amherst Writers and Artists writing workshop facilitator?

Heather and I just celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary, and within the month we will be afforded all the rights of hetero married couples. In a very nuts-and-bolts way this will allow us the opportunity to focus more on the creative and less on the bank. For us, the financial impact will be fairly significant because of our tax brackets—which is exciting. I write and facilitate writing workshops based on the method developed by Amherst Writers and Artists (as a certified facilitator and affiliate member). I don’t imagine the ruling’s impact to be earth-shattering in terms of my own writing and teaching, both of which are based on my belief that there is a wellspring of power and magic in giving words to what feels unsayable. The repeal of DOMA goes miles in righting the seventeen-year legal inequities it imposed upon LGBT couples—and I imagine that the absence of legalized bigotry will, over time, impact even the most skeptical in our collective conscience. In that vein, the writers with whom I work may feel less encumbered in their work. That said, we are a long way from achieving equality: this progress marks the beginning again.

Eliza Williamson lives and writes in Metro-west Boston. She and her wife committed to each other for the long haul six years ago, legally in Massachusetts, and in heart on an island off the coast of Maine. 

Brad Richard – Motion Studies 

Photo permission: Brad Richard

Never ourselves, looking in

on bodies we want to inhabit,

ghosts in a drama of seeing

our desires come close to nothing.

- from "Three Essays on Thomas Eakins' Swimming (1885)"

- by Brad Richard

Brad, you’re an inspiration to your students and an important voice in the world of poetry, LGBTQ and beyond.  In what ways do you think the DOMA decision might impact your role as a creative writing teacher, and how will it influence your work as a poet?

I think the decision will further embolden me to encourage LGBT students and their allies to speak up, in their writing and otherwise. That kind of encouragement usually happens by just making sure everyone knows that the classroom (and my school’s Gay-Straight Alliance, for which I’m the advisor) is a space for tolerance. In my own work, I already find myself thinking more critically about these issues. How does one portray desire and love as experienced in a world that still refuses to fully recognize the lived expression of those things—a world in which what’s normal for most straight people is still denied to most queer folks? I don’t ever want to lose the meaningful otherness of queerness—not in life, and not in poetry. On the other hand, I don’t want that otherness to exclude me and my beloved from full participation in American civil life, which is, in fact, the case as things now stand.

Brad Richard – Facebook status on June 27, 2013

To my friends in marriage equality states: yesterday was wonderful, but please don’t forget those of us in the other 37 states. There are still many unanswered questions that are particularly unclear for us, but they basically come down to this: will we be able to fly to one of your states, marry, return to our state, and receive full federal recognition and rights? Until the answer to that is a definitive yes (which it is NOT right now), I reserve the right to remain skeptical and grumpy—although truly happy for you.

Brad Richard is the author of Motion Studies (The Word Works, 2011) and Butcher’s Sugar (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2012). He chairs the creative writing program at Lusher Charter School in New Orleans. He is married to Tim Watson , documentary film writer, editor, producer, and owner of Ariel Montage, Inc.

Tim Watson – Photo credit: Brad Richard

How will the DOMA ruling affect your career as a New Orleans documentary film editor, writer, and producer?  And will the ruling’s outcome change anything for the filmmakers you work with and the artists who share creative space in your Bywater studios?

First, let me reiterate my position that the government has no business tying anyone’s marriage and money into a knot; it is taking money from unmarried citizens and giving it to married ones. Further, it causes some people to get or stay married for the wrong reasons.

Now, DOMA’s death: For me and my filmmaker/artist colleagues, a new challenge has surfaced. We have to fight even harder against those in Louisiana who are now working to strengthen our gay marriage ban. If we lose, I fear we (supporters of gay marriage, and gays who want to marry) will begin an exodus to gay marriage-friendly states. We would lose the lives, careers, and artist communities (and workspaces!) that we’ve built here; Louisiana would lose everything we have to contribute; and I dare say life would not be near as fun for those who would remain.

After an 1854 national effort to end slavery, Lincoln detailed the subsequent four years of legislative, judicial, and popular attacks on that effort. He warned against a house divided. So, now, we must not be content with the supreme court rulings on gay marriage; we have to come out slugging.

Tim Watson is an award-winning documentary editor, writer, and producer in New Orleans. He is owner of Ariel Montage, Inc., which produces independent documentary, narrative, and experimental film and video works for national and international audiences. Tim is married to New Orleans poet, Brad Richard.

Painting by Val Coradetti

Photo permission: Brad Richard

 *

The Poppy: An Interview Series

Four to six questions begin as pods, then burst open with answers, bright lapis, 

black-stamened, conspicuous—ornament, remembrance, opiate.

*

This interview first posted at Hothouse Magazine.

Tim Watson: A New Orleanian Now

Tim Watson – Ariel Montage writer, editor, & producer

New Orleans, Louisiana—some are born and raised inside the city’s levees, and some come late to the city and never leave. Tim Watson is a native of Alabama—Mobile, Tuscaloosa, Dauphin Island—and came to New Orleans as a young man. “Best thing that ever happened,” he says. Thoughtful, charming, and quiet, Tim seems to consider his way through conversation, at first serious, then sly, eventually smiling. He possesses a kind of quietude that reflects his art—inspired, far-reaching, arising from a place of calm.

Editor, writer, and producer, Tim has worked on many independent, award-winning documentary and narrative projects through his film production company, Ariel Montage, Inc., from Ruthie the Duck Girl and By Invitation Only to Bury the Hatchet and Bayou Maharajah, to name a few. Many of the films deal with the cultural heritage of New Orleans, showing a special concern for people and place, history and tradition. Tim’s studio, once a warehouse, has been re-imagined into workspaces for filmmakers, a graphic artist, and a painter. Each space opens onto a large garden, and beyond is the Ninth Ward neighborhood of New Orleans known as Bywater, bordered by the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal, and where, since Katrina, artists and longtime residents, like Tim, honor and celebrate the city.

Garden outside Ariel Montage Studio – Bywater

Tim – 1976, Dauphin Island

From your childhood days in Alabama, what are the memories that have stayed with you and perhaps made you interested in film and story?

I imagine southern storytelling in my family has had some influence. We often told old stories and jokes, so much so that in later years they became repetitive and we created a numbering system for the stories. Not unique, but still pretty funny. Someone would yell out, “Number 37, the green motor boat!” and everyone would burst out laughing.

Summers with grandparents in Mobile, Dauphin Island, and Pensacola were terrific and helped me with self-discipline and patience. I recall a moment on Dauphin Island, having caught a fish in Mobile Bay and running up to the house to show my grandfather, who said dryly, “Well, what are you doing at the house when you know the fish are biting?” Sheepishly, I turned around and went back to the dock, knowing I had to work to keep doing better.

Also, there’s Alabama’s place in U.S. history, the strangeness of growing up and developing an awareness of the sometimes-not-great history of one’s home (think civil rights), reconciling love of family/community while despising the human rights views of older community members.  Absolutely shattering as one comes of age and becomes aware. That background has made me hyper-aware, and I’ve ended up working on some films/projects involving social justice and rights.

When I started high school in 1980, working on the high school newspaper was important to me, and eventually marching band played a big role. The band of 200 was pretty well racially balanced. Alabama schools had only been integrated for about 5 years, so we were all still trying to figure it out. We spent hours everyday together: 4-hour band practice weekday afternoons and through the summer, and travel to competitions and football games. It was kind of a “throw everyone together and see what happens” deal, with credit to our band directors and band parents for great guidance.

Big Chiefs Monk Boudreaux, Victor Harris, & Alfred Doucette with Bury the Hatchet director, Aaron Walker, in the Ariel Montage Studio

Tim, you launched Ariel Montage with the mission and dream of doing indie films. Would you describe your earlier years of work—in newspaper, TV, and radio and as program director at the New Orleans Video Access Center (NOVAC), the non-profit media arts center—as the proper foundation for owning and running an independent film production company?

I don’t think of Ariel Montage as a film production company, because I’ve never wanted to make it into a big company. I like it just being me. I know that I can be more efficient by using the great talents of at least one or two other people, so I am trying to transition to that in some ways.

At Loyola University, I went into broadcast production to be a TV producer, with no awareness of independent film whatsoever. I worked on both TV news production (the communication department’s focus) and the college paper. Not many worked in both, and I was quite dismayed then (and now) that each discipline could not see the positive outcome of working together. If there’s anything TV news could use, it’s some good writers. There were a couple of terrific writing professors at Loyola who gave me a good foundation for doc filmmaking: structuring, writing, and so on (what happens long before editing). Every project brings new challenges, and I still find writing and structuring extremely hard.

During college I worked at an AM talk radio station, which helped build some technical confidence, and interned in a local TV newsroom, where I realized how horrible working in local TV news is and that I would never do it. I witnessed unhappy people and addictions galore. I also worked as court reporter’s scopist, listening to audiotapes of deposition testifiers and correcting the court reporter’s transcript. I learned a lot about how people tell stories. I also learned how to transcribe and how to punctuate conversational speaking, which looks very interesting on the page, and the importance of accurate transcripts. I depend on good transcripts for documentary editing, so I’m grateful to have had that job.

After college I became full-time at the radio station and got really grounded in audio production. Today I find, in terms of editing, I pay attention to audio. Six months into the radio job, a friend told me of a job opening at NOVAC. I was terrified of working for a non-profit, thinking there would be times I wouldn’t be paid. I interviewed and got the job and suddenly was dropped into the worlds of indie film, cable access, and non-profit organization. The six years at NOVAC was great for learning more on the tech side, running a daily operation with budgets, and getting to know the indie film community. Best training ground ever, but also grueling. I’m ever thankful to those who helped me get there.

Ruthie the Duck Girl – Ruth Grace Moulon

Photo by Cheryl Gerber, Gambit News

Rebecca Snedeker in Mardi Gras Queen’s Gown –  By Invitation Only

What is it that you love best about your profession? The people, the process, the original idea, the hours of focus, the final cut?

I love the people and everything I learn with each project. I also love often being able to communicate my views/thoughts through the storytelling of others. So when films involve New Orleans, I sometimes get to say what I think about some aspect of the city through the way a film is structured/written. It’s an intense process, working with other filmmakers day and night for a fairly long period of time, and then it’s over. Once it’s done, I often don’t get to spend as much time as I’d like with these colleagues, because I’m off to another more-than-full-time project.

I think I’m a little different than some editors, because the nature of the projects is not always full-time, while other editors may concentrate the editing into a certain amount of time. I don’t mind it at all, but usually I find that I have about three projects going at once, each 1/3 time because of the energy level—creative energy, storytelling energy, “financial energy,” tolerance level among the filmmakers. So far, this has worked for my colleagues and me. They appreciate that the job is not always focused on editing 10 hours a day, 5-6 days a week. And taking longer to edit can give you more perspective and leeway in developing a story at a slightly slower pace.

Bywater architectural detail

Tell us some things about New Orleans neighborhoods.

The city is ever-changing, and there is no “good” or “bad” neighborhood. While horrible crimes happen here, there are wonderful spontaneous events—like when a band goes down the middle of the street or a guy rides by on a bike in a tutu or dressed like the Incredible Hulk. No one blinks. Really. So many people here seem free to do whatever they want with very few constraints. And then there are the second lines and the Mardi Gras Indians, which are always terrific, though I rarely attend, as I’m usually stuck in the edit room.

Bywater—where my studio is located—is downriver from the French Quarter and the Marigny.  Bywater has a long history as a working class neighborhood, on a downswing for a while, and now on the upswing. A lot of people are moving in, and some are artists. Some are carpetbaggers, so maybe it’s gentrification. Prices are up. Some people who’ve been in the neighborhood for 60 years are getting priced out. By buying a building there, I’m aware I’m participating, but I think I’m a New Orleanian now. I’d been looking for a long time for a permanent space for my office (and affordable space for filmmaker colleagues); I’m not planning to flip the property for a quick profit; and I’ve been working to improve the building from its previous rundown condition. And the people working at the studio all care deeply for the city.

New Orleans has a history of young people moving here: it’s the port, plus historically it’s been a cheap place to live, and usually open to people who may have grown up in small towns where people and views can be more constricted. To me, the influx of young people into the city after Katrina is great, and while it’s sometimes annoying to run into “hipsters” who don’t quite seem to have a direction, the city needs and has always depended on youthful energy to sustain itself, AND for change.

Bayou Maharajah - Lily Keber’s documentary of New Orleans piano legend, James Carroll Booker, III

Sun, moon, or deep blue sea?

All of the above.

Big Chief Alfred Doucette of the Flaming Arrow Warriors

Lagniappe: In the documentary Bury the Hatchet, after returning to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, Big Chief Monk Boudreaux is sewing his Mardi Gras Indian suit. He wears a t-shirt that reads, “There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better” – Bob Dylan. Would you agree with Bob and the Chief?

Absolutely. I had no idea Bob Dylan felt that way until I saw Monk’s T-shirt while editing.

Big Chief Victor Harris of the Fi-Yi-Yi

Lagniappe – in New Orleans, we always like to add a little bit more.

I’m in awe of the time in history I’m living in: industrial, technological and medical advances; civil rights changes; gay rights advances; environmental changes that I feel threaten the existence of my city in my lifetime; and other changes. I mean, REALLY—until now (the past 100 years), people could live their entire lives with no changes like this whatsoever. So I feel like being a part of documenting this time is crucial, both for audiences now and for those in the future, and I feel extremely lucky to play a role in that.

Ariel Montage Documentary Films

Ariel Montage Narrative Films

Tim Watson and Brad Richard outside their Uptown New Orleans home

Tim Watson is an award-winning documentary editor, writer, and producer in New Orleans. He is owner of Ariel Montage, Inc., which produces independent documentary, narrative, and experimental film and video works for national and international audiences. Tim is married to New Orleans poet, Brad Richard. 

Tim and Brad each contributed to the multi-voiced interviews, “DOMA and the Arts,” and “DOMA and the Arts Revisited.”

Brad Richard and Tim Watson’s Wedding

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The Poppy: An Interview Series

Four to six questions begin as pods, then burst open with answers, bright lapis, 

black-stamened, conspicuous—ornament, remembrance, opiate.

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This interview first posted at Hothouse Magazine.