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.

Matthew Draughter: Vision and Voice

The reason for our departure will be

splashed across newspapers, it will be investigated.

Known by all, known to everyone as the day

of our separation—noted by a day and time,

noted by a heat index. A temperature so hot

that the blue balloons of your birthday party

burst, and the helium dispersed into the air.

A time when we retreated because we confused

the popping of the balloons with gunshots. A date

remembered by few. We are absent from the body,

no longer tied, but free.

 - from the poem, “The 1200 Block of Simon Bolivar” – For Brianna Allen

by Matthew Draughter

I first met Matthew Draughter at his Certificate of Artistry reading at Lusher Charter High School in New Orleans. Lusher focuses on the arts and academics, giving students interested in creative writing, fine arts, music, and arts media a conservatory-style education. Matthew’s voice stood out to me, and I was included in his senior thesis defense. His bright, wise way of answering questions during the defense is also reflected in his writing. When I read his words, I hear strains of Carl Sandburg and E.E. Cummings in his poetry, and threads of Virginia Woolf and Flannery O’Connor in his prose. But these are only my impressions. His literary influences surprised me, arriving not only out of his creative writing classes, but from his interest in gender and the female voice. I love his responses and am very happy to share them here.

Matthew Draughter

 Photo credit: Lila Molina

Matthew, you are a native of New Orleans, and your writing is infused with a sense of place, a love of place, which in a way becomes an allegiance to the city. Can you speak a little about how your stories and poetry are influenced by the city and community? For example, in your poems, “X – a city,” about how the city was marked and marred in the aftermath of Katrina’s flooding, and “The 1200 Block of Simon Bolivar Avenue,” a tribute and a cry out for Brianna Allen, the little girl at a birthday party killed in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting in May 2012.

To be honest, when I first started writing, I thought New Orleans was boring, and I hated writing about the city. But in the past year I began to realize there was a voice here, and that voice began to speak to me. Until I put it on the page, I didn’t realize how lyrical and full of imagery that native voice was. When I started writing more and more about the city, I was able to grasp what the voice of New Orleans was trying to tell me, and that’s when the real writing came. The city began to influence many parts of my writing, and it was never so much about being aware of the setting or having a sense of place—to me it was just writing about where I’m from as it relates to where I am in my life now. It’s funny, you never know how beautiful your home is until you stop, stand back, and look at where you came from.

As it relates to my work, like “X- a city” and “The 1200 Block of Simon Bolivar,” there is a sense of tribute, but also a sense of what I’ve learned from events in the city. This past year I felt driven to find out things about myself, including the connection to my home. I love my city, and there is so much I’ve taken from all of the areas of New Orleans. Each section of the city has spoken to me, and that is where my connection comes from. These particular pieces act as homage to events that have caused tremendous loss. For “X” it was Katrina, and for “The 1200 Block” it was a murder. Both events are ones that hit the city hard, but most importantly these events touched me and made me think more about where I am really from and how much the city means to me.

I was fortunate to attend your Certificate of Artistry thesis defense at Lusher High School this past May. Your senior thesis, titled “Ways of Women,” is a very thoughtful and beautifully sequenced collection of stories and poetry, in which the female narrative voice is predominant. Tell us about how you decided to focus on this perspective, and about your purposeful use of gender in writing.

Gender roles have always been something I’ve been interested in. Whether it’s the unstoppable femme fatale, or a strong female figure. The truth is, women have always come across as more interesting characters to me. I am a male, and I know what it’s like to be one. That’s why I like writing about women. I feel that as a writer you should never be in your comfort zone, and you should always find a way to challenge yourself. I do that through gender roles. My thesis, “Ways of Women,” is a compilation of works inspired by women in my life. Through these works I’ve recognized the importance of gender roles in literature, but I’ve also discovered what has captivated me most about women. In each of my pieces there is a mystery behind the woman—that idea of secrecy is what has inspired me to focus on women, especially in stories like “Hive” and “Bonnie.” What is unknown about women intrigues me—that’s what makes me dig deeper. As it relates to my characters, I think that there are some secrets they can have, even from me. I want my literary women to be just as mysterious to me as they are for my readers. This allows me to dig and discover, but it also gives me the chance to realize when to step back.

Gender roles allow me to think more about the big picture of the work, and ultimately, what everything means as a whole. A female character can give the narrative a sense of depth that not all male characters can. It’s just more interesting that way.

In your story, “Hive,” the use of metaphorical language reveals a woman trapped in a hive of memory. Virginia Woolf inspired this piece, yes? Would you speak about the use of metaphor and the very close viewpoint of this story?

“Hive” was inspired by Virginia Woolf—specifically, Mrs. Dalloway. I was drawn to the fact that Woolf was so intimate with her characters’ points of view. The focus on her characters allows readers to enter their perspectives, their minds, even when the narrator isn’t in first person. That’s the effect I wanted in “Hive.” Through details, I gained a precision that entrapped my main character. The entrapment she feels is a product of the events from her past, and I decided to expound on that. For the point of view I didn’t want to have a first person narrator because the entrapment Charlotte feels could be extremely overbearing to readers. Third person limited gave me the chance to explore her world. Through metaphor I was able to extend the senses and the idea of how Charlotte’s memory works in the narrative. This gave me a sense of control and allowed me to find her character. I became Charlotte while I was writing this story. I had to be able to think like her; that was the only way I could create her. I also had to step away and realize there were certain aspects I didn’t want to know. This is where the idea of the “hive” came from. I wanted her to have secrets that not even I knew. When I created her memory of the bees, the metaphor came on its own. She’s a very intriguing character, and there’s a side to her that I still don’t know. As a writer, of course, you need to know your characters. But, to me, I don’t want to know them as well as some other writers know theirs. That’s why my fiction is mostly character-driven. It gives me a chance to explore and understand how far the exploration will go. In that way, the metaphor of “Hive” came to be.

Some of your stories include details such as texture and fabric.  And so: raw silk, chiffon, or taffeta? 

Chiffon. I like the way it layers. It just flows a way certain fabrics don’t.

Influences? Writers, artists, designers.

In fiction, Flannery O’Connor and John Cheever and Ralph Ellison, as well as Virginia Woolf. I love how their range is so different, how they have different methods of characterization. I’ve learned so much from each of these writers.

In poetry, I’m a huge fan of Anne Sexton. She’s always inspired and influenced my thoughts about structure and diction, and how they work together for a poem. And ever since I started writing, I’ve loved William Butler Yeats. Recently, my work has been inspired by contemporary poets, like Ntozake Shange, Terrance Hayes, Kevin Young, and Langston Hughes. I’ve studied and drawn from them as I’ve began to find my own voice. “X – a city” was actually inspired by Terrance Hayes. The rhythm was a response from “Blue Seuss.” I was flattered when you mentioned E. E. Cummings because I think he’s brilliant. “The 1200 Block of Simon Bolivar Avenue” wasn’t influenced by another poet; it was just me and everything I’ve ever wanted in a poem. It wasn’t a response, rather a creation of something that had been on my mind for a very long time, and I finally had the chance to write it. Something triggered that poem’s creation.

In terms of designers, I admire Chanel and Alexander McQueen. These two have changed the face of the fashion industry. I love Givenchy and Marchesa because of the construction of their designs. I love when designers take fashion risks, as that parallels the risks I take in writing. That’s why I love fashion as much as I love writing. The risks are endless, and when you mess up, you can just start over. They both seem to go hand in hand, and it’s all art—and that’s the most important thing for me.

Matthew Draughter

Photo credit: Cassidy Driskel

Congratulations! You’ve graduated from Lusher and will be attending Loyola University in the fall. What are your academic plans?  What are your hopes and dreams?

I plan on majoring in International Business. I feel as though college is where you find yourself, so anything can happen between now and the time I graduate. I also want to continue to pursue my writing. Loyola has great literary magazines, and I would love to have the opportunity to have my work published in one of them. After college, I would really like to work for a fashion company to see how design, writing, art, and business come together. I want to go to school for design and eventually work toward an MBA. I’ve always seen life as a book—you can decide to make it as big as Moby Dick or as tiny as a pamphlet. I see myself taking more risks, because that’s the only way I’ll ever know what works and what doesn’t.

In terms of my writing career, I won’t ever stop. It’s what I have to do. After graduation, I hit a point in time when I thought, “Now what?” I started reading like I used to, and reading always sparks my imagination. Reading and writing are counterparts: you can’t have one without the other. As long as you’re reading, your imagination for writing is stimulated. I’ll keep writing about what intrigues me, about the things I love. Eventually, I’d love to be a published writer. I’d love to have three books by the time I’m thirty-three. But for now I just want to be able to finish the story I’m currently working on. I’m going to take it a day at a time, so I’m always enjoying life and can always experience something new.

And because we love a little lagniappe in New Orleans: your favorite music?

This question makes me smile. Honestly, I appreciate all types of music. I love listening to R&B, and I like some Rap. Sometimes I just like to sit and listen to Tchaikovsky and meditate on parts of Swan Lake. Other times I like to blast Kanye West. Then there are those moments when I feel like listening to music from my childhood: Destiny’s Child, The Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears. No matter what, I love music that tells a story. For me, there needs to be a beginning, middle, and end. That’s why I respect artists who still create albums. Singers like Alicia Keys and Adele have songs that have layers. That’s what I feel writing should have. That’s why, for me, music and writing are synonymous.

My favorite artist of all time is Mariah Carey. All of her songs do things lyrically that other artists can’t achieve. Her albums work as units, and there’s an element that drives each song from start to finish. This is why I love all of her music. Whether she’s singing about an enduring love story, or about missing an ex, there’s a narrative. She also has an amazing voice, which makes me happy no matter what. The element that Mariah uses in her albums—the thing that drives them—that’s what I look for when I write. My favorite Mariah album, Daydream, has a summery haze that coats every song. I feel that when you write, there should be an element—a summery haze—that coats each and every piece you write in its own way. Strangely enough, that’s the album that I listened to when I wrote “Hive.”

Most recently, one of my favorite albums is Justin Timberlake’s The 20/20 Experience, which I love for its cohesive body of work. From start to finish, it flows. That’s how every poem, short story, and novel should be. Each song in an album should speak to the others, just as every line of every literary work should, in turn revealing what is versatile and unique about the whole piece.

Matthew Draughter is a writer from New Orleans. He attended the Kenyon Young Writers Workshop in 2011 and received Gold Key Awards in the 2011 and 2013 Southeast Louisiana Regional Scholastic Young Art and Writing Competition in Fiction, Poetry, and the Senior Portfolio categories. He recently graduated from Lusher Charter High School, where he competed in Track and Cross Country and completed his Certificate of Artistry in Creative Writing, and will attend Loyola University in the fall.

 *

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

 *

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.

Buckets Of Rain

It's raining and raining and raining today. Snowing everywhere else but here it's all rain. Buckets. No joke. And for every raindrop, there's a tear in the world. For the sweet children of Sandy Hook, for poet Jake Adam York, for those in Syria. There's even the murmur of Doomsday, the last day ever. And just for that, since life is too short, here's a little Dylan.

Buckets of rain
Buckets of tears
Got all them buckets coming out of my ears
Buckets of moonbeams in my hand
You got all the love honey baby
I can stand.

I been meek
And hard like an oak
I seen pretty people disappear like smoke
Friends will arrive friends will disappear
If you want me honey baby
I'll be here.

I like your smile
And your fingertips
I like the way that you move your hips
I like the cool way you look at me
Everything about you is bringing me
Misery.

Little red wagon
Little red bike
I ain't no monkey but I know what I like
I like the way you love me strong and slow
I'm taking you with me honey baby
When I go.

Life is sad
Life is a bust
All ya can do is do what you must
You do what you must do and ya do it well
I'll do it for you honey baby
Can't you tell?

Feufollet - the storytelling in the music

Feufollet - the sweetest Acadian band around - has an album out that moves into new territory while keeping to traditional standards.  The songs of En Couleurs have an old feel to them, with moments that are lovely and new.  After listening over and over to the album, it becomes clear that the arrangements move through old patterns, in turn evoking new ones.  The instruments - fiddle, guitar, accordion, bass, drum, glockenspiel, omnichord - and the voices blend in a way that reveals the deep allegiance to Louisiana and all things French Acadian.  The foundation and tradition of Cajun songwriting and performing is revealed and then opens up into dimensions that are quirky, beautiful, somehow sad and imperfect.  But what seems imperfection is in essence a new kind of truth.  The old crosscut with the contemporary results in a new kind of Cajun music, chansons colored with reeling, playful attitudes.  

And here, inside of these songs, is the kind of storytelling that you can dance to.  Sad narratives set to lively music, surreal and longing tales surrounded by the haunting sounds of fiddle and lead singer Edmiston's layered, ever-changing vocal chords.  To understand the stories, you don't necessarily have to know French, though that certainly makes the experience all the sweeter.

Merci, merci!  A beautiful album by a group of talented, inspired musicians!

Anna Laura Edmiston - lead singer, guitar 
Chris Stafford - vocalist, fiddle
Chris Segura - fiddle
Philippe Billeaudeaux - bass
Michael Stafford - drums
Andrew Toups - keyboard

Au Fond du Lac

The Making of Feufollet's En Couleurs