“Art is a practice.
Community is a practice.”
In the wake of the culture wars and the AIDS pandemic that ripped its way through the US in the 1980s and ’90s, affecting largely gay communities, artists took action, drawing upon this sociopolitical and biopolitical climate to inform their work. The stage became a space to reflect on the political and collective imperatives of asserting one’s identity, to rail against homophobic press and policies, and to present acts of love and intimacy. Live performance also revealed the body’s frailty, as artists living with HIV/AIDS insisted on still performing, insisted on the urgency of performing and performing now.
In a wide-ranging interview, civic-minded, anti-racist artist and organizer Eleanor Savage discusses the era and its impact on performance and activism with Gwyneth Shanks, curator of A Different Kind of Intimacy: Radical Performance at the Walker, 1990–1995, a new exhibit in the Walker’s Best Buy Aperture. Savage, previously the director of Events and Media Production at the Walker, reflects on her time working with artists at the center as well as her role as the MC and curator of the cabaret-style performance platform, Dyke Night.
Gwyneth Shanks
Thank you so much for talking with me, Eleanor. Between 1990 and 1995, the time period on which A Different Kind of Intimacy: Radical Performance at the Walker is focused, you were the director of Events and Media Production at the Walker and worked on all of the performances included in the exhibit, shows by artists like Ron Vawter, Karen Finley, and Ron Athey. What did your position entail?
Eleanor Savage
My responsibility was to facilitate the production requirements for all of the performances, coordinating the technical elements (lights, sound, video, sets, and props) and dealing with scheduling, staffing, and budgeting. I was at all of the performances and working very intimately with the artists to make the shows happen.
GS
I spoke informally with John Killacky about his time as the performing arts curator here, and he mentioned that the vice squad was called on Karen Finley, as they feared her performance was obscene or profane in some way. Do you remember the incident?
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Karen Finley performances We Keep Our Victims Ready, as part of Cultural Infidels: Film and Performance for Consenting Adults, January 13, 1990. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
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Karen Finley performances “We Keep Our Victims Ready,” as part of Cultural Infidels: Film and Performance for Consenting Adults, January 13, 1990. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
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Karen Finley performances “We Keep Our Victims Ready,” as part of Cultural Infidels: Film and Performance for Consenting Adults, January 13, 1990. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
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Karen Finley performances “We Keep Our Victims Ready,” as part of Cultural Infidels: Film and Performance for Consenting Adults, January 13, 1990. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives.
ES
The vice squad had heard that there was going to be full-frontal nudity in Karen’s performance [We Keep Our Victims Ready]. They showed up at the theater and John talked with them, and they eventually went away after he explained more about the show. But we didn’t say anything about the chocolate smearing, and they didn’t ask. [During the performance, Finley smeared her body with chocolate sauce to, as she described it in 1990 op-ed in the Washington Post, symbolize “women being treated like dirt.“]
With Finley and with many artists from that time, one of our challenges was to support many unusual requests for the stage crew and to comply with all the fire and safety ordinances—from nudity to sex to blood and beyond. The extreme actions designed to confront or challenge audiences can also test the comfort zones of the staff.
GS
In light of these types of rather specific challenge you mention, I’m thinking of Ron Athey’s 1994 performance. What’s your recollection of the process of working with Ron and his
ES
Yes, it was at Patrick’s Cabaret, which at the time was a small, informal performance venue. We knew from talking with Ron that there would be cutting, piercing, and erotic bondage involved in the performance. In addition to researching the relevant health regulations for how to deal with the blood during and after the show, I had to find a crew that was willing to work a show where this was happening. I had to hire an external crew to run the show because none of the Walker staff was willing to work the show.
GS
That’s interesting. I didn’t realize that was the case. Was the crew’s discomfort around blood?
ES
Yes, blood and the idea of piercing and cutting, which is not something everyone has encountered. The crew members who worked the show were all queer and trans people who had an appreciation for Ron’s work, understanding piercing and cutting as elements of ritual.
GS
How amazing the show was presented at a queer venue and run by a queer and trans crew. What was the performance itself like? What do you recall about the work?
ES
We spent a lot of time and energy prior to the event planning for various audience responses to the work, everything from people getting sick or fainting to people getting angry and trying to disrupt the show.
GS
That’s so interesting. It seems, then, in press coverage of the performance that audience responses during the film screenings and the performance were conflated.
ES
Mary Abbe, who wrote the Star Tribune article describing bloodstained towels over the audience’s head, was not even at the performance. During the show, Ron cut a design into Darryl’s back with a scalpel, then he pressed paper towels over the cutting and hung them on a clothesline that was rigged in the space. The cutting was not deep and the amount of blood was small. The blood on the paper towels was like an inkblot. The clothesline went up at an angle from the stage to a couple of columns in the space, but not over the heads of the audience. It was a very visceral performance and a unique experience for Minneapolis audience members outside of the BDSM community. Ron’s work uses body modification as a way of entering ritual space. This scene, an excerpt from Ron’s evening-length performance Four Scenes in a Harsh Life, centered on homophobia and the panic around HIV/ AIDS as well as Ron’s evangelical childhood and experiences with mental illness, reaching for physical transcendence from the constraints placed on us by family, religion, and gender. The work is as extreme as these experiences are in the lives of many.
GS
For you, as the events director, what was the broader context for the work you were doing and for the performances you were helping to produce regarding HIV/AIDS, which for so many artists of
ES
There was so much fear at that time around AIDS. Queer and trans people were being targeted and killed—Brandon Teena, Paul Broussard, Talana Kreeger [Teena, a young trans man, was raped and murdered in 1993; Broussard, a gay man, died after being severely beaten in 1991; and Kreeger was murdered in 1990, after meeting her killer in a lesbian bar]. Of course, this is still happening today, but it is not as sanctioned as it was 25 years ago. And so many artists were dying of AIDS. We lost a generation to the disease.
GS
Did these type of considerations play into Dyke Night [originally titled Dyke Nite], which, for many years, you curated and emceed? What was the impetus to start that evening programming?
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Publicity photo of Chris Cinque for Dyke Nite at the Walker Art Center, 1993. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
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Publicity photo of Eleanor Savage for Dyke Night at the Walker Art Center, 1994. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
ES
Dyke Night started actually before my curatorial involvement. John started it in conversation with Chris Cinque, who was a performer in town. At the time, many of the small cabaret spaces were dominated by male, predominately white male, performers. Seeing the absence of queer women performers, the impetus was to create space for dyke performers.
GS
What were the politics behind using the term “dyke”?
ES
Like the term “queer,” “dyke” is one of those words used as a derogatory slur that was reclaimed by the community as a term of empowerment. It was claimed with pride as a marker of being out and politicized! It was a reaction to the momentary pop culture lesbian chic of the ‘90s—here I’m thinking about Vanity Fair’s Herb Ritz photo of Cindy Crawford “shaving” k.d. lang). It was fueled by organizing for LGBT—Q was added later—rights and directly taking on homophobia. In addition to Dyke Night, I participated in starting the Twin Cities Lesbian Avengers, a direct-action group, the annual Dyke March, and a monthly cabaret, Vulva Riot. There was a lot of organizing under the moniker of “dyke,” both locally and nationally, stemming from a desire for greater visibility and empowerment for the
GS
What were some of the arts practices that you were interested in once you began working on Dyke Night? What was your curatorial perspective?
ES
With Dyke Night, the aesthetics were wide open with a curatorial goal to bring all parts of the community to the stage. I was intentional in collaborating with dyke artists of color, local as well as national artists, traditional and experimental artists. I was also interested in intergenerational conversations and engaged young dykes from the Teen Arts Council at the Walker as well as members of the organization Old Lesbians Organizing for Change.
GS
If I were to go to Dyke Night what might a typical evening of performance look like?
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Lois Weaver (left) and Peggy Shaw, founders of the lesbian theater group, Split Britches. Publicity photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
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Morgan Thorson and company. Photo: Bobby Rogers, ©Walker Art Center.
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Musician Toshi Reagon in performance
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Kristin Van Loon (left) and Arwen Wilder of HIJACK. Photo courtesy the Walker Art Center Archives
ES
It was always a variety show, cabaret-style. Depending on the year, you might see Butch/Femme baton twirling; a lesbian klezmer band [the Tsatkelehs]; writers and poets—from radical to erotic; burlesque; a guitar chorus doing “I’m a Believer”; dykes and their dogs; a montage of lesbian pulp fiction covers; experimental and documentary video; a concert by Toshi Reagon [the American folk, blues, gospel, rock and funk musician]; theatrical jazz performance by Sharon Bridgforth (whose new show is currently up at Pillsbury House Theatre); experimental dance by HIJACK [Arwen Wilder and Kristen Van Loon] or Morgan Thorson; queer feminist theater by Peggy Shaw and Lois Weaver [performers who founded the company Split Britches] or Stacy Makishi; the homocore band Punky Bruiser; Dykes Do Drag. There
GS
What was the desire for that kind of mix?
ES
The desire was to expand the conversation between artists locally and nationally. At the time, being able to tour was not easy for artists based in the Twin Cities or for artists elsewhere. It was incredible that the Walker Art Center made the resources available to bring in artists such as Sharon Bridgforth from Austin, Texas or Peggy Shaw and Lois Weaver from New York City—all artists who have continued to have a relationship with other artists and arts organizations in the Twin Cities. Think of it as cross-pollination.
GS
Dyke Night lasted from 1991 and ended in 2005. What was the impetus for ending the program?
ES
The focus of the event around “dyke” identity felt not as relevant as when the event first began. Over the course of 15 years, there was a shift from a focus on combating homophobia and advocacy for the visibility of women within the “gay and lesbian” paradigm to advocacy for trans identity. With my value around producing inclusive events, “dyke” became too confining. Also, in 2005, we were dealing with the Bush presidency, the aftermath of 9/11, and the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. I felt compelled to invest my energies in a broader social and human rights agenda.
GS
In light of our current political climate in the US, do you think Dyke Night, or some variant on it, is a curatorial platform that could or should come back?
ES
I think in many ways, the curatorial stance of “dyke” night is included within the current taxonomy of “queer” performance. I think that there is an ebb and flow to how queer narratives and imagery are accepted and then rejected—I never trust that the tides won’t turn in terms of the rights that have been so recently achieved in many places in the world, but certainly not all. When I was a kid, “queer” was a dirty word, and no one in their right mind went around claiming they were queer. Though I don’t know many people that identify as dykes these days, in the 1990s, it was an important identity. I think now the exploration is more about the kind of breadth of identities and the multiple layers of identity that people have, whether it’s related to sexual identity or gender identity or racial identity.
GS
One of the things you’re really pointing out is the way the LGBTQ movement, in terms of activism, theory, and artistic practice, has shifted from the 1980s and ’90s to the present. There has been a real shift away from a focus on cis-gay men, and in particular white men, towards a politics that is far more intersectional and fluid, far more dependent on a term like “queer.”
ES
Yes! How do we embrace ambiguity and the potential for constant change while authentically claiming our history, struggles, and ways of self-expressing? The times are changing and we need to radically imagine ways of coming together that begins to address the trauma of the past, is accountable for systemic oppression, and gives us ways of seeing how to be together with our differences. Dealing with power—who has it, who doesn’t, and how do those with power influence what is artistically/culturally seen and supported—is what is on my mind.
GS
Absolutely—the importance of thinking through and about social, political, racial, economic, gendered power is so key. Thinking back to your time as the events director, were there performances that were in conversation with these notions of ambiguity and power? Or felt connected to the importance of having certain types of conversations now, as you’re mentioning?
ES
I can’t help but to compare the time we’re living in now with the ’90s, because on a daily basis I feel like my values are under attack. There’s no time like the present for the cultural sphere to take on the discomfort around values! Indeed, many arts organizations, particularly focused within specific cultural communities, are continually engaged in this work.
One show I’m thinking of, in particular, is Reza Abdoh’s The Law of Remains from 1992; it was particularly complex. The work commented on a range of issues related to race, sex, gender, sexuality, pleasure, power, death, violence, and domination, using Jeffrey Dahmer [the serial killer, active between 1978 to 1991, who raped and killed 17 young men and boys; the majority of his victims were of color], stands out as content. The show was in an offsite venue, an abandoned freight house that has since been demolished. The scale of the production was huge and required a large crew to make happen, and many conversations. The content of the work really pushed people’s limits around conversations you don’t usually engage in a work environment, mostly navigating comfort levels with
GS
What does artistic or community support mean for you now?
ES
I don’t separate art from community. Art is a practice. Community is a practice. Both are based in relationship. It is a scary time because of how disconnected we are from one another. Social media is great at broadcasting, but not deeply helpful in developing direct relationships. Our time is consumed by communication not connection. How often are you in a room with family and friends and everyone is on their phone? The practice of being in community, relationship-based face to face communication and engagement, respectful conversation, care for one another—this is what arts and culture practice provides.
GS
Those ideas resonate so much with what I’m hoping to do curatorially with this exhibit, which is to foreground this sense of community amongst performers working at that time, affected and infected by AIDS. There was a sense of a common political context informing the work. So many of them also knew each other, were in each other’s work, and were simply supporting each other.
ES
It was an amazingly connected network of people as well as presenters and spaces. Ron Athey’s cast featured Julie Tolentino, one of the creators of Clit Club in New York City, an iconic dance, performance, and sexy-as-hell event, as well as Darryl Carlton, whose stage persona was Divinity Fudge. Holly Hughes and Ellen Sebastian’s cast for No Trace of the Blonde featured the transgender warrior Kate Bornstein; poet Pamela Sneed; and Dominique Dibbell, one of the members of the theater company, Five Lesbian Brothers. The set for the production was also designed by multidisciplinary artist Janie Geiser.
GS
I’m also thinking of Unsafe, Unsuited, included in the exhibit, and the equally interconnected network of dancers working at that time. That sense of community meant that Ishmael Houston-Jones, Keith Hennessy, and Patrick Scully could all get together from across the country to make that work.
ES
Yeah, absolutely. The relationships are there.
GS
What struck me with such force while researching this exhibit was how many artists who came through the Walker during those years passed away from AIDS-related complications a year, two years after performing here.
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Keith Hennessy, Patrick Scully, and Ishmael Houston-Jones (L to R) in Unsafe Unsuited, movement sequence loosely entitled “Flesh in the Game,” PS 122, March 1995. Photo: Dona Ann McAdams
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Ishmael Houston-Jones (standing) uses his index finger as gun, pointed at Keith Hennessy’s head while Patrick Scully lies on the floor in a version of the “Pulp Fiction” scene in Unsafe, Unsuited, PS 122, March 1995. Photo: Dona Ann McAdams
ES
Absolutely. Many of the artists performing at the Walker in the late ’80s and ’90s were HIV positive. And there were many who I saw for the last time at the Walker—Reza Abdoh, David Wojnarowicz, Ron Vawter, Keith Haring, Will Parker, Derek Jarman, Marlon Riggs. John wrote a great essay about this: “A Performance Chronology: John Killacky Remembers the 1980s.”
During David’s show, he was really sick. It was a struggle for him to get through the rehearsal. During the break before the show he wanted to sleep. He said, “When I wake up, I’m going to be very emotional because that’s what happens because of the medication that I’m on.” He said, “Please wake me up with enough time before the show, so that I have time to gather myself.” When I went back to wake him up, he started sobbing, and he said, “Would you hold me?” And, of course, I did. I sat and held him until he pulled himself together. This is not the typical backstage experience. During the show, he walked off stage and didn’t return right away, which wasn’t what was planned. I was in the tech booth, and I ran as fast as I could to check on him. He was sitting backstage, and he said, “I have to sit down for a minute. I’m sorry to scare you.” Eventually he came back out and finished the
GS
There is still this deep need or desire to perform.
ES
Yes. I think that that is true of every artist. I think about Laurie Carlos, who passed away recently. She came to the Twin Cities to perform in Erik Ehn’s piece Queen at In the Heart of the Beast theater. Between the first and second weekend of the run, she went to the hospital and was diagnosed with stage-four cancer. The folks involved in the show started working on finding an understudy. But Laurie came out of the hospital and went on stage and performed. Attending that show, I remember just bawling because I knew this might be the last time I would see her perform. As sick as she was, there was no keeping her off that stage, and her performance was transcendent. So, I think that until the body just literally can’t, artists will keep going.
GS
I’m continually struck by what a depth of creativity and drive there was at this moment from people so young, which perhaps had to do with the urgency of knowing you might be dead in a
ES
Yeah. Do it now. There’s an urgency. It’s not an elective opportunity. There’s an urgency and a drive to the work. I think that at that time, in particular, because so many people were dying literally daily, you couldn’t take anything for granted. You had to embrace risk, which makes me wonder, “What is the risk of our time that we need to embrace?”
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