#aurin squire

[kevinmchalenews]

Kevin McHale played the role of Actor/William at the private NYC industry readings of Aurin Squire's play sapiosexual (via aurinsquire and thebectonarts)

[kevinmchalenews]

Ato Blankson-Wood and Kevin McHale Will Lead NYC Industry Reading of Aurin Squire's Sapiosexual (Playbill) Aurin Squire's sa•pi•o•sex•u•al will receive an industry reading in New York City for two performances March 27 at 11 AM and 2 PM. Christopher Renshaw will direct the readings, presented by Jim Kierstead.

The play centers on two "sapiosexuals" (people who are attracted to intelligence) who meet on Valentine's Day and turn a flirtatious debate into a brutally honest and darkly funny showdown about love, ego, and the illusion that intelligence can shield us from heartbreak.

The cast will include Ato Blankson-Wood (Cabaret, Slave Play, Hair) and Kevin McHale (The 25h Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, Glee). The production stage manager is Kelly Merritt. Casting is by ARC's Duncan Stewart and Patrick Mara-villa.

[trendynewsnow]

A Wonderful World: A Tribute to Louis Armstrong

Who, having experienced the vibrant tapestry of 20th-century pop culture, could fail to recognize the unmistakable voice that resonates like a truck roaring down the highway? That piercing trumpet, accompanied by an all-embracing spirit, is the hallmark of none other than Louis Armstrong. Yet, he often appears somewhat of a blur in the newly opened musical, A Wonderful World, which debuted at…

A Wonderful World: A Tribute to Louis Armstrong

[feminism-quotes]

Aurin Squire

[fuckyeahgreatplays]

Next week's maxamoo I get to talk about An Octoroon AND The Heidi Chronicles with mildlybitter and Aurin "Not On Tumblr" Squire

So prepare yourselves because it could be explosive

[helixqpn]

I Can Breathe

By Aurin Squire

In my creative non-fiction class we were given the prompt of 'I can breathe' and told to write for 10 minutes. Afterward and when it was time to read our work aloud, students began talking about nature, the mountains, personifying air. I sat there, listened respectfully, and nodded. When I was asked to share what I wrote, I looked at my paper and thought 'Hmmm...this isn't going to go over well. But okay.’

I launched into my essay about white, privileged artists willfully ignoring the struggle right in front of them; creating apolitical, disconnected, aesthetically comfortable, intellectually smarmy, quirky, safe, escapist work in the midst of the obvious evil that supports them.

I read about the 1,000 yard stare me and other artists of color invoke when we're sitting through another story about neurotic, neutered, and privileged dilemmas; that 1,000 yard stare into space that tries to hold in the violent worm thrashing in our throats; that 1,000 yard stare and sigh.

I read aloud about the black and brown kids who pass by Juilliard every day on their way to Martin Luther King High School. The kids who are met with police officers, telling them to 'move along.' An entire fleet of armed cops who suddenly appear on the street, who stand with arms akimbo on their holster belt like the high school jock, who stand there with the singular task of making sure that black feet don't gather on the corner; black voices don't talk too loudly around Lincoln Center, modern jazz, ballet, and opera; blacks bodies move immediately from the high school holding pen and directly to the subway to return to whatever holding pen society has devised for them, move from shipping container to storage facilities, moving past the tall citadels that are within reaching grasp, but they will never enter. Black, brown, and beige kids under the coercive watch of police.

I read about the pernicious virus in our blood: the default comfort and fear of inconvenience. The disease that poisons, blinds, chokes. But 'I...I can breathe.' Afterward there was a LONG silence. I exhaled.

The professor’s eyes scanned across the classroom.

Feedback?

Dead air.

I couldn’t figure out whether this was the shameful silence of white liberalism or the sullen stillness of scorned children. Either way, I’m accustomed to the wake of speechlessness.

I’ve spent my entire life in privileged white establishments: from elementary school, to tennis tournaments, to violin recitals, to national forensic debate, to Northwestern, and now Juilliard. I enjoy the privileges these institutions offer and I’ve grown used to being the one who sits and nods, the one who has a firm grip on my emotions, the one who doesn’t mention the discomfort, the one who smiles with his teeth and not his eyes. The queer. The other. The blackness. When events like the Ferguson protest manage to punch their way through the pre-programmed media infrastructure, then I have a brief respite from the tight-lips and sighs. This is the feeling. Every. Day.  

Since there was no conversation to be had, the professor and I began talking about art and politics. He would occasionally throw a sarcastic quip to the rest of the mute students like 'you guys are talking way too much.' A few people had death stares on their face (for me? You shouldn't have!), while others slowly mumbled their way into the conversation. Once the ice was broken, a few apologists stepped forward to offer excuses for the silence, while others disagreed and said it was shameful (Eric: the only other person of color in the room, an Asian student, a master pianist).

Then it was time to go. Students fled the room like there was tear gas in it. A reluctant and strained dialogue was had by all who wished to engage. Most did not. Did this do anything? I took a moment and sat there in the room by myself. Then I gathered my jacket and bags. Eric was in the hallway waiting for me. We walked down the hall, talking, and wondering what to do. 

_______________________________________________

Photo by Benjamin Lowy/for Getty Images Reportage

[itsdlevy]

As a person of color, 90% of the time when I go to see theater in New York City, it is not for me. But guess what I do: as a person of theater -- and the main aspect of theater is sitting in a room with people and having empathy for people who do not look or sound like me, who come from different backgrounds -- I expand my horizons, which is the point of theater. You don't trick people into pretending like "oh, this is for you" when it's not. You tell them to expand their horizons, and explain why this is important, why you need to, as an older, white person in a metropolitan area, see something that is not about you and actually identify with the universal themes. Because that's what people of color have to do all the time, 24/7 when they look at tv, when they go to theater, when they go see a movie. Otherwise you would go crazy and just be pissed off and never seen anything if you're a black person. You have to become a better listener and a better audience member.

Playwright Aurin Squire, on the Maxamoo Podcast