Artistic Statement

Artistic Statement

I’m a revolutionary. I think. It’s a bit early to tell. But all signs are pointing to it. As a playwright/producer/solo performer/occasional rapper and burlesque dancer/outspoken feminist and gender activist, I am definitely carving my own path. I’m inspired by artists like Taylor Mac, Amanda Palmer, and Young Jean Lee, who are fearlessly weird, often political, and who blur the line between the art and the artist. And, they all write their own rules—and then break them.

I think I’m at the very beginning of discovering all the rules I’m about to break. My plays certainly have a lot of common threads: there tend to be a lot of women and queer people, falling in and out of love and lust with people who are often bad or them, enacting tenderness and brutality on each other in unequal measure. There are very few clear-cut villains or heroes; everyone’s at least a little bit screwed up, and a little bit earnest. There’s usually humor. There’s often dancing. There are rarely easy answers, and I try to avoid preaching.

I get labeled a “feminist playwright” sometimes, and it’s certainly accurate, but it’s only 1/100th of the picture. I’m a feminist playwright who is obsessed with the ways in which people sabotage themselves, who listens for power games in small talk, who’s been told repeatedly, “Your play made me want to be a better person.” I've been told that my plays should come with a disclaimer: “WARNING: You’re not as dead inside as you thought.” I never seek to be provocative for provocation’s sake, but I don’t avoid provoking either; I just want to tell stories truthfully. But a comment I get a lot is, “We were talking about your play all night.” I start conversations.

But - and here is where breaking one’s own rules comes in - I rarely start conversations in the same way twice. I’m just as likely to write an intimate, naturalistic three-hander about grief as I am to write a sprawling, dystopian black comedy about rape culture. Or I might create an immersive “party play” in an apartment in Queens, or do a solo show about my (real!) experience becoming the birth mother to the son of gay parents. And that’s not even touching on my work as a producer, curating events like The Sex with Robots Festival (one-act plays about sex with robots), Pussyfest (monologues about the body for actresses, written by everybody from neophytes to Jose Rivera), the Live Action Music Video Festival (theater set entirely to music), and the Brick Theater’s F*ckfest (a fringe festival of full-length plays about sex). I do what I want, when I want, without waiting for permission or approval. Sometimes that means writing, sometimes it means producing, and sometimes it means covering myself in glitter and taking my clothes off before rapping about how much I love vegetarian girls.