Artists: Tiffany Finkton, Crystal Goodwoman and the "Dopetrysts"
Location: Charleston, WV
"DOPETRY"- A new term meaning "Dope Poetry" was established April 2010 by a West Virginia State Student named Tiffany "Miss Talented" Finkton. Miss Talented came up with the idea early February of 2010 and simply had a goal of creating more of an outlet for poets who were truly into the art of poetry.
Most recently several "Dopetrysts" (term coined for someone who speaks dopetry) were asked by Poet Crystal Goodwoman to join her in S.P.A.C.E. in the downtown Charleston, WV area. This was an experience unlike any other participated in by any of the poets.
Once this time was over the dopetrysts all came together and stated that, "This opportunity was inspirational and is something that should really be done everyday. The opportunity to touch someone's heart with few written words from our souls is a chance that not one of us would pass up ever in life. On behalf of Dopetry, we would just like to thank S.P.A.C.E. for allowing us to participate in something this amazing, and we are looking forward to doing it again!"
Video of the Dopetrysts performing during S.P.A.C.E. can be seen here.
Dopetry can be contacted by emailing misstalented88@yahoo.com. Dopetry: Words of my soul, Vol. 1, was officially released on April 27, 2010 and featured 8 different poets from West Virginia State and featured all tracks produced by Miss Talented. The album is being sold currently based off of donations towards more products to get the word out about Dopetry.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
TOUCH, part 2
My project for SPACE, Touch, was accepted into the outodoor arts event FIGMENT in New York City! I'll be setting up the interactive performance the weekend of June 11. More specific details soon. For now, enjoy a few of the images, taken by photographer Nikki Devereux (all rights reseved, (c) 2010).
Khadijah Queen
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Cat Fish in Black Bean Sauce by Myron Michael
Artist: Myron Michael
Location: Oakland, CA
Medium: poetry / photography
I wrote and recited a poem “Cat Fish in Black Bean Sauce,” which is pretty much an invitation to anyone inspired to attend the kind of party I’d like to host (have hosted). A millennial party, if you will, where, figuratively, a piece of everyone is offered, one with another, with the goal of equal exchange, cross culturally, in mind--participating in SPACE was a pleasant way to interact with the public and get people talking.
My initial idea was to recite a poem and record it with my Canon Power Shot SD 1000 while walking through the Farmer’s Market. But on the day of, it was impossible to do (there were too many people shopping and enjoying the sun). So I improvised.
I bought an eggplant from the local grocer and saw this beautiful lavender quadriplex that made for a soft backdrop behind the eggplant and the clothes I wore. I decided on the eggplant because of its deep purple color—but too, because it has an ingredient called nasunin, which is a free radical scavenger; it also lowers cholesterol and is good for the brain! (Good food, good poetry, word!)
After reciting the poem, I thought it would be a good idea to hit the street and see who’d be interested in attending my party. I got about 12 people interested. Twelve people in support of healthy minds and bodies!
There was a turning point in the project when I asked a friendly man who was waiting at a bus stop in San Francisco—who said he is 100 percent Italian—if he’d attend my party. He kindly turned my offer down on the ground that, he said, among Italians “The eggplant is a derogatory symbol for black people.” I asked him to pronounce it, and then spell it so that i could look it up on my smart phone, he couldn't.
The closest I got was a literal translation, Melanzana, which means eggplant in the Italian language. I was like, “Daaaamn! But shit, that’s why you should come to my party. An eggplant is just an eggplant--and it’s good for you!”
all images (c) Myron Michael 2010
Talking to Strangers - by Tommye Blount
Read Tommye Blount's account of his participation in SPACE with fellow poet Nandi Comer at a Chili's in Detroit:
Click here and scroll down to the end for video!
When the invitation to participate in SPACE: simultaneous public acts of creative expression pinged in my inbox, why did everything in me want to type No, no, never!? Just the mere word public is frightening & turns my stomach into an upturned bowl of hot porridge. I revert to the chubby kid all the schoolboys & family members would tease relentlessly, ashamed of his voice & body. Not only was I being asked to venture out into the great void of Public, but also to share my work with Public, this monster that I had thought could care less about anything I had to say, but against all reason—because I had to have been insane—I agreed to participate then ran to the bathroom.
Not only was I a wreck about the act of public performance, but the question of where to read & to whom was also a cause for stress. And then there was my mother's birthday with which I had to contend.
Every year, on or near her birthday, I make the trek across town to clear a year's worth of overgrown grass, grubs & worms from the edges of my mother's headstone. This year, I decided to read a poem there & mentioned the idea to Nandi Comer—a daring Detroit poet & dear friend—who loved the idea & asked to tag along. Of course, I took her up on the offer as I didn't trust myself to go through with it alone.
After the headstone was cleared, I read a poem, Teetering on One Foot, I Slipped, but I don't think I was reading to contribute to SPACE's goal of simultaneous public acts of expression. No, this was a more pared down act; it felt like prayer—me there in the all-too-real world trying to project my voice through the air, through the ground, in all directions, in hopes that the message somehow reaches her ear-that-is-no-longer-an-ear. In other words, I had failed the project.
Having left the cemetery, we decided on Chili's for lunch. It all happened organically: I grabbed my poems & camera along with the car keys & cell phone while Nandi tucked her poems inside a copy of Ai's Cruelty. With our strange cargo, we settled ourselves in a booth. We decided right there & then to read poems to the wait staff starting with our waitress. We ordered our food, but I could not muster the moxie to ask this stranger if she would dedicate her time to hear my simple little poems.
Nandi, without a thought, asked the waitress, Would you like to hear a poem?
Sure, let me put your order in & grab a chair, the waitress answered.
I don't know what I thought the reaction would've been, but I was sure it wouldn't be well received. When I looked up from the first poem—that for so long had made its hermitage on my computer's motherboard & inside my head—I was floored by the glint in the woman's eyes; her look of surprise.
She asked, Is there more? Is that it?
Yes, I said, there is more.
Nandi went to the bar & read her poem Bartender, her words mingled in with the sound of glasses settling against each other, the crunching of ice being scooped into a blender for one of the onlooker's El Presidente Margarita. It was as if this place—this public place—was where the words belonged all along. Although the poems didn't spark much discussion about art or big questions of that sort, it did break down whatever wall that existed between us, Nandi & I, & these people with which we've just shared a piece of ourselves.
Over the course of this experience, I have been thinking a lot about the way artists—particularly poets in Detroit—use the phrase art or poetry for the people. It is one thing to read one's work before an audience seated in carefully placed rows of chairs or to have one's work sprawling the pages of some gorgeous volume shelved in a Borders store for a reader willing to reach & pay, but it is quite another to lay ones work out in the open on a lunch table between a plate of Wings Over Buffalo & Southwestern Egg Rolls before a stranger leaning in closer, wanting to hear every word as if it was important, as if it could save her life. When I told that bartender my name, she looked at me as if she knew me & said, I have a brother named Tommy.
Click here and scroll down to the end for video!
When the invitation to participate in SPACE: simultaneous public acts of creative expression pinged in my inbox, why did everything in me want to type No, no, never!? Just the mere word public is frightening & turns my stomach into an upturned bowl of hot porridge. I revert to the chubby kid all the schoolboys & family members would tease relentlessly, ashamed of his voice & body. Not only was I being asked to venture out into the great void of Public, but also to share my work with Public, this monster that I had thought could care less about anything I had to say, but against all reason—because I had to have been insane—I agreed to participate then ran to the bathroom.
Not only was I a wreck about the act of public performance, but the question of where to read & to whom was also a cause for stress. And then there was my mother's birthday with which I had to contend.
Every year, on or near her birthday, I make the trek across town to clear a year's worth of overgrown grass, grubs & worms from the edges of my mother's headstone. This year, I decided to read a poem there & mentioned the idea to Nandi Comer—a daring Detroit poet & dear friend—who loved the idea & asked to tag along. Of course, I took her up on the offer as I didn't trust myself to go through with it alone.
After the headstone was cleared, I read a poem, Teetering on One Foot, I Slipped, but I don't think I was reading to contribute to SPACE's goal of simultaneous public acts of expression. No, this was a more pared down act; it felt like prayer—me there in the all-too-real world trying to project my voice through the air, through the ground, in all directions, in hopes that the message somehow reaches her ear-that-is-no-longer-an-ear. In other words, I had failed the project.
Having left the cemetery, we decided on Chili's for lunch. It all happened organically: I grabbed my poems & camera along with the car keys & cell phone while Nandi tucked her poems inside a copy of Ai's Cruelty. With our strange cargo, we settled ourselves in a booth. We decided right there & then to read poems to the wait staff starting with our waitress. We ordered our food, but I could not muster the moxie to ask this stranger if she would dedicate her time to hear my simple little poems.
Nandi, without a thought, asked the waitress, Would you like to hear a poem?
Sure, let me put your order in & grab a chair, the waitress answered.
I don't know what I thought the reaction would've been, but I was sure it wouldn't be well received. When I looked up from the first poem—that for so long had made its hermitage on my computer's motherboard & inside my head—I was floored by the glint in the woman's eyes; her look of surprise.
She asked, Is there more? Is that it?
Yes, I said, there is more.
Nandi went to the bar & read her poem Bartender, her words mingled in with the sound of glasses settling against each other, the crunching of ice being scooped into a blender for one of the onlooker's El Presidente Margarita. It was as if this place—this public place—was where the words belonged all along. Although the poems didn't spark much discussion about art or big questions of that sort, it did break down whatever wall that existed between us, Nandi & I, & these people with which we've just shared a piece of ourselves.
Over the course of this experience, I have been thinking a lot about the way artists—particularly poets in Detroit—use the phrase art or poetry for the people. It is one thing to read one's work before an audience seated in carefully placed rows of chairs or to have one's work sprawling the pages of some gorgeous volume shelved in a Borders store for a reader willing to reach & pay, but it is quite another to lay ones work out in the open on a lunch table between a plate of Wings Over Buffalo & Southwestern Egg Rolls before a stranger leaning in closer, wanting to hear every word as if it was important, as if it could save her life. When I told that bartender my name, she looked at me as if she knew me & said, I have a brother named Tommy.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Poetry as Tourist Attraction - by M.L. Brown
I approached a couple of tourists on a Santa Barbara, CA beach, and asked if they wanted to listen to a poem about a blue whale. They reacted with enthusiasm, which made me happy since I was feeling shy about the whole endeavor, but was determined to forge ahead. The most amazing thing was that they seemed to actually listen to the poem!
Participating in SPACE got me to consider other spaces that might resonate with my poems. I usually think of a place as the thing that inspires a poem, rather than the other way around. Next year I might go into a knitting store and read some knitting poems, or to the Botanic Gardens and read some fire poems. All sorts of ideas started to come!
"Can I touch your hair?"
Saturday, May 1
Today was amazing. Touch, as a part of SPACE, helped me discover several things. I was reminded how liberating it is to make art in public, how fun and uplifting it is to connect with people via the unusual, the spectacle, but also the challenge of convincing them to participate.
I came up with the idea for Touch because strangers often touch my hair without asking. I wanted to try and understand what the compulsion is about by asking strangers if I could touch their hair, let them touch mine, and create a ritual washing of hands before the act in order to make the touching of hair a sacred act that requires both permission and preparation.
I loved how people reacted to the project – so supportive and enthusiastic. I'd say of the people we asked, two-thirds said yes. The ones who said no responded with quizzical disinterest for the most part – the worst response was a large group who ignored me, except for one teenaged girl.
But no matter. The curious yeses drowned out any negativity, and my son's presence lightened the mood. I'd hired him to be my assistant, holding the glass bowl while I poured clear water for us to rinse the sand from our hands before any hair touching occurred. He ended up joining in between his running escapes into the sea ("Hey Mom, here's your bowl – I'll be back after my swim!"), foraging for snacks in the cooler and dodging the hungry seagulls who honed in on his bag of Cheetos.
But I digress. There's so much to tell. Here are some highlights.
Several women's self-consciousness about their hair and their general appearance surprised me. We heard many protests that their bodies were not suited for photographing, even that their hair was not worth touching. Nikki Devereux, the fabulous photographer who documented Touch, and I kept reassuring them that they were beautiful exactly as they were.
And with reservations set aside, we all laughed at the strangeness of touching hair, and the sheer child-like sensation of discovery. Testing physical boundaries in this way felt like transgression at its most transformative, because of the way we framed it. Instead of the piece being about discomfort, it became a way of celebrating the differences in our hair, validating each other's beauty, and sharing in a moment of affirmation.
A memorable image: of all the people we encountered, a woman with tattoos on both hands and elaborately painted Flo-Jo type nails spent the most time rinsing her hands in the water. She fully cleaned her palms, fingers, nails and the back of her hands. I can't wait for that photo.
Finally, I will just say that it plain felt good to see how people responded to the touching of my hair. They marveled at how soft it is, asked how it got that way, if it's real, what did I put it in it, etc. A hairdresser even took a photo of my hair with her iPhone to take back to her salon. It was almost like conducting a live PSA for natural hair.
And it wasn't just one on one. We had three-, four- and five-way hair touchings – but no, wasn't risqué at all! It was pure, FUN, social engagement, full of laughter. In the span of a few minutes, strangers learned something about each other, about themselves, shared publicly and understood privately.
I'm so grateful for the openness of the people we met. Pictures are forthcoming!
Khadijah Queen
Today was amazing. Touch, as a part of SPACE, helped me discover several things. I was reminded how liberating it is to make art in public, how fun and uplifting it is to connect with people via the unusual, the spectacle, but also the challenge of convincing them to participate.
I came up with the idea for Touch because strangers often touch my hair without asking. I wanted to try and understand what the compulsion is about by asking strangers if I could touch their hair, let them touch mine, and create a ritual washing of hands before the act in order to make the touching of hair a sacred act that requires both permission and preparation.
I loved how people reacted to the project – so supportive and enthusiastic. I'd say of the people we asked, two-thirds said yes. The ones who said no responded with quizzical disinterest for the most part – the worst response was a large group who ignored me, except for one teenaged girl.
But no matter. The curious yeses drowned out any negativity, and my son's presence lightened the mood. I'd hired him to be my assistant, holding the glass bowl while I poured clear water for us to rinse the sand from our hands before any hair touching occurred. He ended up joining in between his running escapes into the sea ("Hey Mom, here's your bowl – I'll be back after my swim!"), foraging for snacks in the cooler and dodging the hungry seagulls who honed in on his bag of Cheetos.
But I digress. There's so much to tell. Here are some highlights.
Several women's self-consciousness about their hair and their general appearance surprised me. We heard many protests that their bodies were not suited for photographing, even that their hair was not worth touching. Nikki Devereux, the fabulous photographer who documented Touch, and I kept reassuring them that they were beautiful exactly as they were.
And with reservations set aside, we all laughed at the strangeness of touching hair, and the sheer child-like sensation of discovery. Testing physical boundaries in this way felt like transgression at its most transformative, because of the way we framed it. Instead of the piece being about discomfort, it became a way of celebrating the differences in our hair, validating each other's beauty, and sharing in a moment of affirmation.
A memorable image: of all the people we encountered, a woman with tattoos on both hands and elaborately painted Flo-Jo type nails spent the most time rinsing her hands in the water. She fully cleaned her palms, fingers, nails and the back of her hands. I can't wait for that photo.
Finally, I will just say that it plain felt good to see how people responded to the touching of my hair. They marveled at how soft it is, asked how it got that way, if it's real, what did I put it in it, etc. A hairdresser even took a photo of my hair with her iPhone to take back to her salon. It was almost like conducting a live PSA for natural hair.
And it wasn't just one on one. We had three-, four- and five-way hair touchings – but no, wasn't risqué at all! It was pure, FUN, social engagement, full of laughter. In the span of a few minutes, strangers learned something about each other, about themselves, shared publicly and understood privately.
I'm so grateful for the openness of the people we met. Pictures are forthcoming!
Khadijah Queen
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A Dream Fulfilled - by Samantha Thornhill
May 1, 2010
Ever since my talk with Khadijah, where she mentioned doing poems in a grocery store, the dream has been relentless. It is a waking dream. It involves me performing my ode to picking blackberries in the produce section.
Today the dream came true, and Elana and Akua showed up to star in it, outside of Whole Foods, our next target. Moses, our filmographer was also there, ready to capture these moments, as he did on the trains with us almost a week ago.
How were we to do it? And how many poems could we get in before security arrived?
We plotted. Weighed the unknowns. But in the end, we headed downstairs not knowing what to expect, much like our unsuspecting audience. And so, as shoppers buzzed past me with their carts and their lists, I pulled out my carton of blackberries and began to recite my poem while eating them--more challenging than I thought. But it felt something like flying, as I approached customers with my discovery, these wondrous blackberries that I came across one day in the woods off the coast of Seattle.
My legs took me all over the produce section as I said my poem to whoever would listen. Some people stopped to behold the activity with clear appreciation, while others scattered like roaches in sudden light at the sight of me--particularly the couple fondling the lemons, the ones I approached to tell them about this marvelous gift.
When I ended, Elana, in the fish section, tapped a stranger on the back and began reciting her poem about eel--the first line mentions her walking to the refrigerator naked. The worker weighing tilapia raised his eyebrows at the sudden intimacy, and as the customer recieved his fish and scurried away, Elana began to continue her poem to the worker, who listened with clear amusement. The moment was beyond priceless, as customers bumped into one another in trying to flee or to catch a listen.
A few people who stopped to listen to me tuned into Elana, who was speaking to the whole store now. Workers scurried around us, not wanting to interrupt or get in the way of the camera, not quite knowing what to do. We simply took over. When Elana was finished, a small applause.
But it wasn't over. Because Akua emerged with a love poem in the flower section, nearby. The repeat customers stood and obeyed the moment, arrested by her words. By then, our number was up. A worker was on his way with a walkie talkie. We found that Whole Foods was less concerned about the fact that we broke out in poems in their store and more concerned with the fact that we were taping, and so Moses was asked to turn off his camera, as Akua finished up her poem and we dipped.
Outside, on the pavement, we rejoiced, eating the rest of my blackberries. A couple from inside, our captive audience, stopped to speak congratulate us and find out more. In true guerilla fashion, no business cards as yet, Elana tore off a piece of her eel poem and I used it to write down the information to this blog.
So nice couple with the cute baby, if you are reading this, thanks for letting us know how much you enjoyed our performances. Your encouragement meant so much. Go tell your friends that today, you got PUPPED!
Click here to follow her blog: http://pupnyc.blogspot.com/
Ever since my talk with Khadijah, where she mentioned doing poems in a grocery store, the dream has been relentless. It is a waking dream. It involves me performing my ode to picking blackberries in the produce section.
Today the dream came true, and Elana and Akua showed up to star in it, outside of Whole Foods, our next target. Moses, our filmographer was also there, ready to capture these moments, as he did on the trains with us almost a week ago.
How were we to do it? And how many poems could we get in before security arrived?
We plotted. Weighed the unknowns. But in the end, we headed downstairs not knowing what to expect, much like our unsuspecting audience. And so, as shoppers buzzed past me with their carts and their lists, I pulled out my carton of blackberries and began to recite my poem while eating them--more challenging than I thought. But it felt something like flying, as I approached customers with my discovery, these wondrous blackberries that I came across one day in the woods off the coast of Seattle.
My legs took me all over the produce section as I said my poem to whoever would listen. Some people stopped to behold the activity with clear appreciation, while others scattered like roaches in sudden light at the sight of me--particularly the couple fondling the lemons, the ones I approached to tell them about this marvelous gift.
When I ended, Elana, in the fish section, tapped a stranger on the back and began reciting her poem about eel--the first line mentions her walking to the refrigerator naked. The worker weighing tilapia raised his eyebrows at the sudden intimacy, and as the customer recieved his fish and scurried away, Elana began to continue her poem to the worker, who listened with clear amusement. The moment was beyond priceless, as customers bumped into one another in trying to flee or to catch a listen.
A few people who stopped to listen to me tuned into Elana, who was speaking to the whole store now. Workers scurried around us, not wanting to interrupt or get in the way of the camera, not quite knowing what to do. We simply took over. When Elana was finished, a small applause.
But it wasn't over. Because Akua emerged with a love poem in the flower section, nearby. The repeat customers stood and obeyed the moment, arrested by her words. By then, our number was up. A worker was on his way with a walkie talkie. We found that Whole Foods was less concerned about the fact that we broke out in poems in their store and more concerned with the fact that we were taping, and so Moses was asked to turn off his camera, as Akua finished up her poem and we dipped.
Outside, on the pavement, we rejoiced, eating the rest of my blackberries. A couple from inside, our captive audience, stopped to speak congratulate us and find out more. In true guerilla fashion, no business cards as yet, Elana tore off a piece of her eel poem and I used it to write down the information to this blog.
So nice couple with the cute baby, if you are reading this, thanks for letting us know how much you enjoyed our performances. Your encouragement meant so much. Go tell your friends that today, you got PUPPED!
Click here to follow her blog: http://pupnyc.blogspot.com/
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