The Collage / Montage Form in Creative-critical Writing: An Embodied, Affective Response to Travis Alabanza’s Sound of the Underground

A Manifesto to Rust More Machines a.k.a. How to Disrupt Your Workplace

The workplace is a well-oiled machine. Until you arrive on the scene, cogs glide together perfectly. Everything connects, contact points touch, and electricity flows. One, to another, to another. Factory settings program each worker to function in an efficient line. Each individual cog makes its own noise, has the semblance of its own identifiable difference, but really, they all work together in unison.

We, the rust, are disruptive. We cannot help but clog the flows of normality, capital, white cis-hetero-patriarchy. [1] We are brown, black, and irritative. We, the rust, are unapologetically queer: we refuse to hide our difference. We simply cannot conceal our colours.

Machines anxiously quiver at us. When we come into contact with mechanical parts, we instantly erode. We refuse to sit in silence, and we refuse to accept the easy, naturalised pattern of the workplace. We cannot be washed away, or scrubbed out. We exist, and so, we disrupt.

At first, the machine feels discomfort with us there. Nothing too dramatic: just the knowledge that we are not meant to be inside machinery can chafe a little. But after a while, the proud, flamboyant nature of rust becomes aggravating. Rust doesn’t shut up, nor does it promise to be anything but rust. Soon, it starts picking away at the cogs, roughing up the edges that fit so neatly together. Once one cog feels this difference, it spreads outwards, inflaming others so that the perfect, smooth, silver machine starts looking run-down.

Cogs can be replaced, but once rust is in the entire system, the machine is fucked. Individual cells might not mind us, but some do, and those elements make themselves known. They shout their homophobia, transphobia, racism at us, expecting us to shut up. The machines label us unnatural, inhuman. But we feed on oxygen and water; they demand crude oil and ecological decimation.

They don’t know that we shout back. Or that we’re angry. We face eradication at every space we exist in: this machine doesn’t know what it has inflamed. Rust does not get scared by conflict. We call you out. We defend ourselves against the overwhelming strength of an oppressive system. We use our voices, capable of vindictiveness. And once we start the process of corrosion, nothing can stop us. Mechanic flows do not know the power of destructive, unstoppable force. We are it.

The line-manager must intervene now. He takes his handbook, instructed by his boss, and attempts to oil the machine. Pouring dark, sticky grease into the machine is meant to help. He tells his rusty employees to be silent, non-corrosive, compliant. He tries to convince us to be quiet about our mistreatment. Racism, transphobia, homophobia, misogyny: in gaslighting us into believing that these issues don’t exist in the workplace, he benefits from these very same systems. Sliming us into obedience, into acquiescence. He wants us to stop preventing flows of profit and normality in the workplace. Stop disrupting the machine.

We are rust. We cannot help but disrupt. We gain energy and power from our community of rust.

We will not stop for machines. We are born to destroy, multiply, infect. Cracks start showing as we unsettle the turning cogs. Destruction cannot be contained, once we’ve taken over. We are unforgiving and we inflict hurt. Rust corrodes; machines break. Man-made materials are nothing compared to us. We ravage vast machinery, rejoice in ruination, and devastate the mechanical processes that exclude us. Our very existence threatens the system. We are inside, and once we’re there, we provoke. Rust cannot be disciplined, cannot be policed by respectability politics. If nothing will change, and the machines do not accommodate us, we tear down capitalistic technologies of oppression. We do not fear them; they fear us.

[2]

  1. ‘Performance clogs the smooth machinery of reproductive representation necessary to the circulation of capital’, Peggy Phelan, ‘The ontology of performance: representation without reproduction’, Unmarked: The Politics of Performance, (London: Taylor & Francis Group, 1993) 146-66, p.148.

  2. Private message to author from a friend, anonymity preserved, 16 February 2023. Permission for use granted by sender. ‘superstore’ is a reference to East London queer club, Dalston Superstore.

love / grief / solidarity letter

To you / us, 

 

I want to first say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m writing to you in times of sorrow and loss, rather than in a period of joy and self-discovery. I wish, from the deepest ocean floors of my heart, that I was writing about kinder topics. You deserved to experience the soaring heights of self-expression, love and bliss that come with growing older. [1]

 

Instead, I write to you feeling fear, sadness, anger, grief.

 

The UK government now tumbles head-first into authoritarian right-wing ideologies, knowingly endangering trans*, gender-nonconforming, queer people. Blocking Scotland’s political autonomy in regard to the Gender Recognition Bill, and renewed attempts to adapt the 2010 Equality Act to narrowly define sex as “biological sex” are just some of the latest anti-trans legislation that our nation-state has decided to implement.[2] Public scrutiny on trans rights has never been higher. Mainstream media in the UK stoke up the flames of hatred and intolerance, and negative portrayals of transgender people in news reporting continues to skyrocket alongside rising levels of anti-trans hate crimes. [3] Wealthy, white women pour capital into funding trans-exclusionary feminism, linking transgender existence to violence against women, rather than the systemic oppressions of cisheteronormative patriarchy. [4]

It is not a coincidence that in our hazardous climate of anti-trans sentiment that the same government, media and wealthy individuals perpetuate violent racism, such as the UK’s treatment of migrants and the imprisoned. Hostile environment policies, Rwanda deportations, Labour’s election promise to be “tough-on-crime”, the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act of 2022, the proposed Illegal Migration Bill: racist, neocolonial, xenophobic legislation that is reinforced by racial stereotypes of Black and Brown people as dangerous. Alyosxa Tudor reminds us:

The strategy of accusing trans people of sexual violence echoes a discourse

that externalizes sexual violence as taking place somewhere else, outside the West,

or that is ascribed to migrants, Black and Brown persons, or Muslims…[5]

The twinned discourses of transphobia and racism highlight the brutality against the most marginalised groups in the UK, and the intersection of those of us who face both violent hegemonies. Transgender Black and Brown people are punished by the nexus of white cisheteronormative capitalist oppression.

 

I am afraid and angry. These emotions bubble outwards, spilling into my body, down my arms, leaking out of my fingers, touching everything I touch. I continue to grieve every soul that is lost prematurely to transphobic violence. Grief is terrifying and all-consuming. Grief takes up time that our capitalistic, productivity-fetishizing society deems wasted. Grief fills up a space, not unlike air. Grief hurts.

 

But I do not grieve alone. And I do not grieve in vain.

 

bell hooks writes: ‘Our mourning, our letting ourselves grieve over the loss of loved ones is an expression of our commitment, a form of communication and communion’. [6] Allowing myself to experience grief is my commitment to myself, my loved ones, and my queer community. I have discovered within my emotional responses to state-sanctioned violence that my grief is not a fault.

 

My grief, that comes nowhere near to touching the grief of those who personally lose loved ones to oppressive violence, is love. My grief is one way I experience love, and love is one way that I express solidarity. Solidarity is community, mutuality and love: things that continually renew each other in vibrant and profound ways.

 

I write this love / grief / solidarity letter to those whose names I will never know, and the names that I do know and will forever feel inscribed in my heart. I dedicate myself to community.

 

Just before I sign off, I leave with a promise from the final lines of Travis Alabanza’s play, Burgerz:

 

“I vow to make sure that everyday I go outside I realise that I am not alone, that I am together, with you, the plural, and me, the plural – that there cannot be singular anymore.” [7]

 

Love from me / us.


[8]

  1. On 11 February 2023, sixteen-year-old teenager, Brianna Ghey, was murdered in an attack which police deemed revealed ‘no evidence’ to the motivation of transphobic hate. Memories of Brianna from her friends can be read in Ben Hunte, ‘“We’re Her Trans Sisters”: Friends Pay Tribute to Stabbing Victim Brianna Ghey’, Vice, 14 February 2023, <https://www.vice.com/en/article/7k8gja/brianna-ghey-killing> .

  2. Aubrey Allegretti, ‘What would changing the Equality Act mean for trans people and single-sex spaces?’, Guardian, 5 April 2023, <https://www.theguardian.com/law/2023/apr/05/what-would-changing-the-equality-act-mean-for-trans-people-and-single-sex-spaces#:~:text=A%20significant%20change%20to%20the,book%20groups%20and%20hospital%20wards> .

  3. The Daily Mail published 115 articles on transgender issues in January alone, with 87% of those articles representing transgender people in negative ways - Ell Nolan, ‘Welcome to Terf Island: How Anti-Trans Hate Skyrocketed 156% in Four Years’, Novara Media, 20 February 2023, <https://novaramedia.com/2023/02/20/welcome-to-terf-island-how-anti-trans-hate-skyrocketed-156-in-four-years/> .

  4. A notorious example is children’s author, J.K. Rowling, whose repeated online attacks against transgender people garnered global media attention. See Ellie Muir, ‘A timeline of JK Rowling’s comments about women and transgender rights’, Independent, 20 February 2023, <https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/news/jk-rowling-trans-rights-controversy-timeline-b2285947.html> .

  5. Alyosxa Tudor, ‘Decolonizing Trans/Gender Studies?: Teaching Gender, Race, and Sexuality in Times of the Rise of the Global Right’, Transgender Studies Quarterly, 8.2, (May 2021) 238-256, p.244. <doi:10.1215/23289252-8890523>.

  6. bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions, (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2018) p.92.

  7. Travis Alabanza, Burgerz, Hackney Showroom, October 2018. Script from Travis Alabanza, Burgerz, (London: Oberon Books, 2018), p.39.

  8. Corinne Cumming via Instagram, ‘On Monday I had the honour of being asked by the cast of Sound of the Underground to take photos of their performance at @royalcourttheatre. I would tell you to go before the run ends this week but it’s all sold out and for good reason. A brilliant and beautiful piece of theatre that moved me to tears both when I went to watch and when I went to shoot. So incredibly proud of these humans ❤️’ (@capturedbycorinne, 24 February 2023).

The Body of the Spectator in Travis Alabanza’s Sound of the Underground

In February 2023, I watched Travis Alabanza’s play, Sound of the Underground, at the Royal Court Theatre. Sound of the Underground is an interwoven mesh of performative modes, following eight icons of the underground queer club scene in London. A joyous collection of drag and cabaret performances, political messages about the mainstream sanitisation of queerness and a demand to pay performers for their labour, the play is a celebration of queer culture that is not often explored within arts institutions or theatres. The play notably hosts its own drag/cabaret show in the second act, where each performer exhibits their act. The inclusion of drag kings, disabled performers, Black and Asian performers, trans* and cis queens, highlights how underground queer spaces have always comprised diverse bodies, yet remain under-represented in mainstream drag, such as Rupaul’s Drag Race (who becomes the target of a comedic murder plot within the play). My focus here is on my subjective spectator experience, whereby my body and emotions are drawn into the play’s meaning and creative process. The deeply embodied and affective nature of the play intrinsically interpellates an embodied response, due to my subjectivities as a queer, Brown femme-presenting person. My argument follows Sara Ahmed, in The Cultural Politics of Emotion, who considers ‘how emotions work to shape the “surfaces” of individual and collective bodies’. [1] I suggest that the emotions created by the play interact with the experiences archived within my body, in ways that shape each other.

When I watch Sound of the Underground, I feel joy in watching Sadie Sinner the Songbird’s beautiful cabaret, and Ms Sharon Le Grand’s and Midgitte Bardot’s humorous lip-syncs. I experience anger at transphobia in the UK when hearing Chiyo discussing violence against transgender and gender-nonconforming people. I am frustrated when performers discuss low wages during times of our present cost of living crisis. I am warmed by depictions of queer community onstage, in the auditorium, and outside the theatre. The radical queer politics of the play intentionally induces these affective responses in the audience, doing so successfully, as every night of the show’s run received standing ovations.

I examine how the play provokes these emotions in me, the spectator, by interrogating the assumption of a hierarchical relationship between performer and audience. When theatre is understood conventionally as an audience looking at performers onstage, it appears as ‘a sealed object displayed for but separable from its audiences’. [2] Yet, perhaps performance should be understood as an ‘act of communication’, as Frances Babbage argues. [3] This idea of ‘communication’ implicates the relationship between performer and spectator as instead a reciprocal, dialogical relationship.

This reciprocal relationship is explored within Sound of the Underground as the performers frequently engage audience participation. The play begins with the eight performers walking through the auditorium, chatting and interacting with the audience. I was immediately drawn into the play from the beginning, as Lilly SnatchDragon, an Asian-British queen and founder of The Bitten Peach, a queer Asian cabaret, told me that she loved my jhumkas (earrings). This short exchange engenders personal experience from the interplay of queer and Asian identities in my own body. When Lilly SnatchDragon later discusses the exclusion and erasure of Asian bodies from mainstream queer spaces, my body is interwoven with this history. Sara Ahmed asserts how racist and homophobic norms create narratives that ‘shape bodies and lives’, [4] and this social shaping of my queer Brown body engages my interpellative emotional response.

One of the most urgent moments occurs towards the end of the second act, where Chiyo stops midway through his strip-tease to speak about how whilst receiving applause and appreciation within queer spaces, he continues to face the violence of transphobic hate, precarious pay and homelessness. Their anger is clear, emphasised by the cutting out of background music and forceful disruption to the show. This monologue, where Chiyo directly confronts the audience, becomes a gestic, climactic moment for Sound of the Underground. The play is a call to arms for the audience to support the trans community, not only by appreciative applause, but structural change. Chiyo’s message silences the rowdy audience enjoying the acts, and emerges as the most affectively-charged scene. Just as the show is brought to a stop, I also feel an important pause. As we watch drag acts within the play, we are interrupted by visible anger and pain. This pause is my emotive response to Chiyo’s performance.

As a spectator, my affective reactions are informed by my experiences. Ahmed’s writing on emotions shaping bodies highlights the intrinsically embodied nature of affects. This embodiment thus becomes key to the role that spectators play within a performance. Diana Damian Martin suggests of the critic:

The critic is an embodied presence in the performance encounter, navigating a landscape of meaning. Yet for the critic, this event does not end once she leaves the performance space; it carries through into the thought processes that begin to take shape during the performance and linger well beyond it. [...] we carry performance with us, enmesh it in a process of thinking and articulation that is contextualized by a cultural and political landscape. [5]

As a critical spectator, my embodied and empirical knowledges are present within performance. Consequently, my affective responses to the play are from the beginning, and even after the performance event, already interwoven with my thought processes and political landscape.

Yet, my emotional responses are not only reactive, but also intrinsically productive to the show’s meaning. Babbage argues for ‘an audience-led [research] “practice” of attending performance’, that involves ‘a practice of watching, thinking, feeling, interpreting…and – sometimes – of moving, speaking, doing’. [6] She asserts that when theatre is understood as ‘an act of communication… the spectator’s role is revealed as vitally creative’. [7] I want to combine Babbage’s idea of the creativity of spectatorship with Martin’s argument for criticism as a ‘politicized practice’, [8] to assert that critical spectatorship can be politically generative to performance. Via the dialectical relationship between performers and their audience, the audience reciprocates and produces emotions invoked by the performance. When my body and affects are interpellated into Sound of the Underground, they are simultaneously generating the radical queer politics of the play that arise from the visible emotions of its performers. Inevitably the liberatory message I suggest the play expresses, is constructed by my affective role as a spectator. My body as a spectator is interconnected with the performance, thus the dialogue between the two is politically and artistically generative.

[9]

  1. Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004) p.1.

  2. Frances Babbage, ‘Active audiences: spectatorship as research practice’, Studies in Theatre and Performance, 36.1 (2016) 48-51, p.50, <doi:10.1080/14682761.2015.1111013>.

  3. Babbage, p.50.

  4. Ahmed, p.145.

  5. Diana Damian Martin, ‘Criticism as a Political Event’, in Theatre Criticism: Changing Landscapes, (London: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2016) 219-235, p.219.

  6. Babbage, p.48.

  7. Babbage, p.50.

  8. Martin, p.220.

  9. Artur Widak/NurPhoto, ‘A vigil held in Dublin for murdered teenager Brianna Ghey.’, via Ell Nolan.

Critical Analysis

My creative writing piece follows a collage/montage of three different moments that occurred around the same time, physically amalgamating the fragmented experiences that form my affective and embodied spectatorship of Travis Alabanza’s Sound of the Underground in February 2023. The piece involves a manifesto about disrupting workplaces, a love letter to the trans* community, and an embodied critical analysis on the emotional experience of watching Alabanza’s play. I also include three images that involve the subject matter of my creative piece, as visual reflections of the anger, love and community that circulate throughout each section.

The manifesto is a fictionalisation of my experience of quitting my job, after being implicated as a “disruption” for challenging homophobia and transphobia in the workplace. I chose to fictionalise this experience as I do not want to re-traumatise myself in discussing this exploitative personal experience. I focus on the idea of disruption via the image of rust in a machine, representing the outspoken queer “disruptions’’ as angry and powerful, in response to being disempowered within a white capitalistic, cis-heteronormative patriarchy that prioritises profit over social equity. The language of this section is inspired by Donna Haraway’s ‘A Cyborg Manifesto’, but I subvert her ironic writing on ‘women in the circuit’ by suggesting that queer people may instead disrupt the “machine” of a work environment. [1] My comparison of queer people to an inanimate thing - rust - is not to dehumanise queerness, but to highlight the ways in which queerness has been historically excluded from the label of “human”, following Dana Luciano and Mel Y. Chen’s post-humanist provocation, ‘Has the Queer Ever Been Human?’. [2]

The second part is a letter in response to recent violence against transgender people and transphobic rhetoric in the UK, particularly after the murder of Brianna Ghey. [3] This section counters the forceful delivery of the first part, instead invoking a sense of power through love and community in times of grief. I triangulate love, grief and solidarity in this letter, heavily inspired by Black feminist writer, bell hooks, whose book All About Love was foundational. [4] I am also influenced by Alabanza’s debut play, Burgerz, in which they explore themes of active solidarity in the face of anti-trans hate crimes.

I write about anger, fear, grief and love in the first two sections, in order to highlight these affects as temporally and spatially present within my embodied spectatorship of Sound of the Underground. These two sections culminate in the final review where I consider the ways in which spectatorial subjectivity is constructed by personal experiences and political climate. This final section takes a more conventional academic style; however, the subject matter is based on interior emotions, as I present an affective encounter with this performance event.

The fragmented exploration of emotions relates to my creative form here as one of collage/montage, which I create via differing written and visual forms in seeming disorder. Responding to Gregory Ulmer’s writing on ‘The Object of Post-Criticism’, I engage his idea for post-critical writing that utilises avant-garde artistic methodologies of ‘collage’ as a ‘transfer of materials from one context to another’, and ‘montage’ as ‘the “dissemination” of these borrowings through the new setting’. [5] Ulmer suggests that collage and montage ‘lift a certain number of elements from works, objects, preexisting messages…to integrate them in a new creation in order to produce an original totality manifesting ruptures of diverse sorts’. [6] He indicates how weaving together different works produces new meanings that extend beyond the representational. This links to Martin, discussing how criticism emerges from ‘amongst the scraps of notes, the memories, the detailed descriptions we want to render present in our critical texts’. [7] The messy expression of emotions within my creative-critical writing mimics the ways in which thoughts rarely form in a linear pattern whilst writing performance criticism. Ulmer suggests that montage ‘mounts a process…in order to intervene in the world’, [8] thus I write a creative composition that indicates the process behind my critical response to Sound of the Underground.

Consequently, the form of my creative writing responds to a research question of what methodologies we use in performance criticism, and why expanding the boundaries of institutional academia is crucial to its development. T.W. Adorno considers the form of the essay, suggesting that the essay ‘thinks in fragments just as reality is fragmented and gains its unity only by moving through the fissures, rather than by smoothing them over’. [9] Adorno writes against scientific methodologies of a ‘logical order’ in essay-writing, as something which presumes the existence of objective truth. [10] Ideas of order and objective truth within the essay form maintain disciplinary views of performance studies, which suits institutional attempts to restrict academic research to hegemonic white, patriarchal standards. This is core to my creative piece: I attempt to expand the boundaries of what is considered academic writing in order to resist the disciplining of performance studies.

In challenging ideas of objective truth within the academic essay, I attempt to decolonise performance research methodologies in order to disrupt hegemonic Euro-centric epistemology. Sruti Bala, in ‘Decolonising Theatre and Performance Studies’, argues for the use of the ‘anecdote’ in performance research, citing its popularisation within oral history and feminist ethnography. [11] She states:

 

To use the anecdotal story form in academic writing is thus not to claim a seamless, verifiable correspondence between experience and social reality, but rather, to make as visible as possible the grounds from which this perceived reality is discursively constructed. [12]

 

This is what inspires my creative writing. I do not talk about my subjectivity and consequent affective responses to Sound of the Underground to suggest that what I see is objectively true. Instead, I use a creative, embodied style of writing to argue for an understanding of how all spectatorship is constructed through one’s own subjectivity. The failings in my creative writing to consider how other audience members interpret the play is purposeful, highlighting how performance studies cannot be encompassed by ideas of hegemonic academic objectivity. By employing creative written forms to represent spectatorial subjectivity and affects, I follow Swati Arora’s proposal that performance studies ‘needs to interrogate what it deems “theory” and embrace a multiplicity of knowledge systems as vital to our pedagogy’. [13] Arora advocates for the decolonisation of performance studies, through its epistemological and material conditions. Thus by resisting Western academia’s tendency to demand objective truth, and instead turning towards embodied, affective and subjective writing, I present the ways in which performance studies can decolonise the production of knowledge. Arora highlights how the embodied nature of performance studies allows for this decolonisation of knowledge when we engage ‘with the affective legacies of Black and Global Majority scholars in our everyday life, pedagogy, and research instead of relegating them to footnotes and margins’. [14] As a queer person of the Global Majority, I reassert the importance of empirical epistemologies within my writing, in order to show how temporal and spatial histories constitute my critical spectatorship of Sound of the Underground. The collage/montage form follows the disorganised nature of the emotions that I discuss in the subject matter, in order to mimic the non-linear, embodied knowledges that are frequently erased from hegemonic academic writing.


This creative-critical piece was originally produced for the Theatre and Performance Research Methods module for my MA.

[1] Donna Haraway, ‘A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century’, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature, (London: Taylor & Francis Group, 1991) 149-181, p.149.

[2] Dana Luciano and Mel Y. Chen, ‘Has the Queer Ever Been Human?’, GLQ, 21.2-3, (2015) 183-207, <doi:10.1215/10642684-2843215>.

[3] See Ben Hunte.

[4] See bell hooks.

[5] Gregory L. Ulmer, ‘The Object of Post-Criticism’, The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (Washington: Bay Press, 1983) 83-110, p.84.

[6] Ulmer, p.84.

[7] Martin, p.220.

[8] Ulmer, p.86.

[9] T.W. Adorno, ‘The Essay as Form’, New German Critique, 32 (Spring/Summer, 1984) 151-171, p.164, <https://doi.org/10.2307/488160>.

[10] Adorno, p.164.

[11] Sruti Bala, 'Decolonising Theatre and Performance Studies: Tales from the classroom,' Tijdschrift voor Genderstudies, 20.3 (2017): 333-345, p.335.

[12] Bala, p.336.

[13] Swati Arora, ‘A manifesto to decentre theatre and performance studies,’ Studies in Theatre and Performance, 41.1 (2021): 12-20, p.17, <doi:10.1080/14682761.2021.1881730>.

[14] Arora, p.17.