Tasked with exploring the landscape for queer live performance in Manchester, this project took me from the basements of Canal Street to a 1700 seat theatre. Despite the huge variety in tone and scale, there were some common themes in the work I saw. Every piece was interested in inheritance and legacy (whether paying homage to ancestry, activist heroes, or Princess Diana), and many celebrated transformation and the joy of creating yourself. But what I found most interesting was the form of the work, and what this meant for how it was made, platformed and received.
SAUNIGA from Queer Indigenous Art Collective FAFSWAG established many of the questions that would guide my listening. Firstly: what are the opportunities and challenges of making work that is formally queer, resisting traditional categories and binaries? Staged at HOME as part of MIF, SAUNIGA is not a “show” but a cultural ceremony exploring land, nature, and Samoan heritage. During a Q&A, Creative Director Pati Tyrrell spoke about the “fa’afafine” (third gender) quality of the piece. There is a direct link between the interdisciplinary, fluid nature of the work and the artists’ identities, resulting in a unique, striking experience for audiences.
But making art that is not immediately ‘legible’ to venues/programmers comes with certain challenges. FAFSWAG described the discomfort of taking traditions from outside the Western cultural framework and presenting them within that framework. They were acutely aware that in staging SAUNIGA at HOME, they would be engaging with staff and audiences who knew nothing about Samoan culture. On this, one artist said, “we are the embodiment of the rub. Sometimes it’s a nice rub, sometimes it’s abrasive.” There are opportunities for playful subversion in presenting queer work in mainstream institutions, but there will also be frustrations and compromises.
I found examples of this ‘rub’ (both nice and abrasive) to varying degrees in other places. The performers of the Miss Chief Cabaret at Festival Square, for instance, were given the theme of “Manchester” by MIF. Faced with a playlist of white men, they presented tongue-in-cheek Oasis covers, which felt especially pointed given the real deal were performing on the same night, and host Banksie joked their fans might “punch you in the face and steal your wig.” Although light-hearted, this quip felt indicative of the friction the artists might experience in being celebrated as performers but subject to hostility as queer and trans+ people day-to-day. Being platformed by large cultural institutions can give queer artists opportunity to challenge the status quo, or even reach audiences who perhaps most need to hear them. But it also asks them to navigate certain limitations or preconceptions, which can pose a risk both in terms of wellbeing and professional development.
I spoke to local interdisciplinary artist mandla about taking mandla’s show as british as a watermelon to the Edinburgh International Festival in 2022. It received a spectrum of reviews, from two to five stars. Critics were divided over whether it was live art or theatre, and the lack of familiarity with reading queer experimental work was compounded by a lack of familiarity with the intersectional experiences informing it. “I don’t set out to make overtly political work,” mandla told me, “but I’m talking about colonialism,” so the work becomes politicised automatically. mandla is currently developing a new piece exploring the relationship between colonialism, language, and queerness, and is having to think carefully about how and where to position it. As venues become more risk averse in platforming ‘political’ work, there are greater barriers for those whose art is seen as such by default.
Bolstered by a loyal community of artists and audiences, the ‘rub’ is perhaps less abrasive in smaller, grassroots, and/or non-theatre spaces. For example, on the night I attended Canal Street Kings at The Brewers, overtly political work was platformed alongside outright silliness, experienced performers alongside newcomers, and there was a raffle with prizes including a donated piece from a local queer artist. Whilst the newcomers were only paid “ten pounds and a can of Vimto,” this is clearly a valuable platform for artists to find community and test material in a welcoming, low-risk environment.
The informality of such events can make them accessible (your first performance could be just an Instagram DM away), but there are caveats. A drag queen I spoke to elsewhere summed it up by saying, “there’s no HR.” Given the sway of individual personalities, a fallout with a host can mean losing a regular gig. Whilst Equity has a drag network, those starting out are unlikely to be aware of existing support structures when things go awry. And though grassroots, DIY and smaller club/cabaret venues might be more financially accessible, they are often inaccessible in other ways (e.g., no step-free access, late starts/finishes and the prevalence of alcohol.)
Social Experiment from Word of Warning is perhaps a more formalised early-career opportunity – a live art gathering at Contact Theatre which Programme Manager John Franklin-Johnston says regularly attracts queer artists. Such as Ben Hodge, who gave a one-to-one performance, sitting down with me on a ‘date’ to discuss fatness. Artists are paid an honorarium and there are structures in place to promote career progression. For example, an artist testing material at Social Experiment may later be commissioned as part of their Emergency Festival. And, at the other end, they release a newsletter to publicise and build audiences for future work.
This focus on progression and connecting audience with talent development feels important. If Canal Street Kings’ open mic represents one end of the queer live performance spectrum, then my final show, The Diana Mixtape, represents the other: five high-profile drag queens on the Lowry’s biggest stage. But what exists between the two? Several artists I spoke to lamented the lack of midscale opportunities in Manchester. The Diana Mixtape represents commercial success in one style of drag, but what does career progression look like for other queer and experimental artists? What spaces exist for them to upscale? And what ‘rubs’ might they encounter in doing so?
As a playwright, when creating work informed by my own queerness, I’m aware that my whiteness, class, and non-disabled status go a long way to protect me from any potential ‘rub.’ Which is to state the obvious and say underrepresented queer artists might encounter less ‘abrasiveness’ if the creative industries were generally more accessible, secure, and diverse. But small things can also make a difference. For example, having a clear and consistent point of contact for wellbeing (with an eye to the safety of queer artists not only in making work but e.g., in using public transport to/from rehearsal, or being platformed on social media); a venue asking if there is a difference between the pronouns artists wish to use internally and externally; and using a starter form to create space to discretely flag any pre-emptive concerns about e.g., questions that might be asked during marketing/publicity. Again, at risk of stating the obvious, I have felt most supported when I am met as an individual, with no assumptions made about my identity, nor my comfortability with discussing it outside the context of the work itself.
Ultimately, in reflecting on this project as a whole, I returned to something FAFSWAG Producer Elyssia Wilson-Heti said during their Q&A. Surviving and progressing when making work as a queer artist – particularly for those with intersecting marginalised identities - can mean working with but testing the limits of established cultural institutions, traditions, and practises. “Ask: where are the edges? How do I fuck with the edges?”
