Review: Participatory performance with Danielle Braithwaite-Shirley

Desperately seeking authoritarianism.

The blurby bit

Background

Danielle Braithwaite-Shirley (hereafter DBS) first came to my attention because Travis Alabanza (where art thou, my love?) has spoken approvingly many times, then the opportunity to attend this ‘participatory performance’ came up. Like Travis, DBS is a well spoken, middle class, black- & trans-identified male, who makes art focussed on ‘archiving the black trans experience’ (groan) and hailed as a genius by some (okay, possibly just Travis). On the artist’s website there’s a chance to play the computer games that have bought the gaming nerd so much kudos. I have to say, they’re rather intriguing, often terminating abruptly in the way trains of thought do but perhaps also thought-terminating? Anyway, very dream-like and other worldly. They definitely require patience as they are slow paced. However, such praise does come with a qualification: it’s pure propaganda.

Interview with Aesthetica magazine – https://aestheticamagazine.com/space-for-reflection/

Podcast interview with Factory International – https://factoryinternational.org/factoryplus/dream-space/danielle-brathwaite-shirley/

The audience

Predictably, DBS’s rare appearance bought all the boys to the yard. And when I say boys, I mean six foot ferals whose skirts swung awkwardly from snake hips. Once we were allowed in the building (it was held in The Tanks at the Tate Modern outside normal opening hours), the lads stormed the ladies, with one be-skirted gimp disappearing into a cubicle for a suspiciously long time. Later, during the performance, upon feeling a creeping sensation, I turned to be confronted by his lipstick-smudged snarl. Apart from that, the audience were exactly who you’d expect, e.g. right-on Tate members, homosexual and metrosexual men but perhaps mostly heterosexual women, all of whom probably identified as queer. Possibly around a hundred and fifty people, give or take. And mainly white, give or take.

The participatory performance

‘Supremacy is coming‘

In the darkened cave-like space the focus was one large cinema-sized screen but there were also smaller screens. DBS began the performance knelt on the ground, as Sacrificial Lamb, framed by scant lighting, whispering ‘supremacy is coming’ for what seemed like an age, proving that he does at least have the patience to create an atmosphere. Once unfurled, he transformed into High Priestess, encouraging us to connect with the visceral hate inside us; this is what blocked our empathy and shifted our realities. Gliding around the room, the crowd in tow, we were enthralled, but also lost. We were all at risk, apparently, of becoming a supremacist. Eek!

‘Who don’t you like?’

Argh, what can I tell you? Would you be absolutely amazed to learn the crowd hated rich people (ha!), commercialism, capitalism, zionism and individualism? All the -isms basically, apart from the ones beginning COMMUN- and SOCIAL-. Shocking, I know.

The inevitable J. K. Rowling moment

Someone also didn’t like JK Rowling. ‘Nice books but fuck me,’ said DBS, readily agreeing. Supplications to keep our minds open felt rather flat after that.

Making censorship cool

Highlight moment was when DBS divided us into those who were ‘against censorship’ and those who were ‘for censorship’. Unfortunately the instructions weren’t clear, leading to a business of flies flitting between two piles of shit, uncertain where to land. When it did become clear, about a third was still ‘for censorship’. Very interesting. One reason given for being for- was that ‘censorship protects people’. The only other thing it brought home was that Americans are effortlessly loud, whereas the English never seem to miss an opportunity to mumble. Meanwhile, on the screens, the message YOU ARE BEING CENSORED flashed.

‘I’m so fucking scared of what we are becoming, are you scared too?’

Baa! said the sheep. ‘Hope you’re having fun in my fear-driven room!’ chirped DBS. Baa! said the sheep

‘How can we keep this world safe?’

These were genuinely the options we were supposed to comment on:

I know, it makes no sense, does it? Though I suppose you could argue: When did life ever make any sense? The flock faithfully attempted to answer this intellectual google, though the bleating was mainly inaudible due to the boom of electronic music. This didn’t matter much because basically it was hive mind – i.e. mysterious powers were controlling us. A professional photographer worked the room, furiously snapping those magic moments of glazed defiance, and (hopefully somewhere) a pair of rolling eyeballs.

Echuvver

‘Look at each other, not me!,’ DBS scolded. ‘Each other, e-chuvver, e-chuvver, e-chuv-ver. Not the trans girl going the round the room, I need you to look at echuvver. Echuvver, echuvver, e-chuv-ver.’ DBS wanted us to really look at echuvver and see the other person for who they really were. People smiled shyly at the person they came with instead, giving DBS the opportunity to decide we were not quite ready to change our lives. ‘Can you fail?’ DBS warbled suddenly in a sort of impressive mezzo-soprano. Then instructed us to sing: I never met you, which seemed to confirm our failure and quickly became ‘Never metchoo’. Then we had to sing: I need you, another opportunity to berate those looking at DBS, when we needed to look at echuvver! Then DBS lost his farking temper about the state of of the world. Man.

Five minutes for the chorus

Suddenly composed, DBS told us we now had just five minutes left for us to express ourselves. There were several reflections along the lines of social media was an evil. There was also the ridiculous: ‘We could end this all with a three-day general strike.’ One Gen-Z beard boasted he’d made ‘fascists cry and apologise’. A terrible way to treat mum and dad, I’m sure you’ll agree. On the screens we were reminded that the tightness in our chest was a sign of fear. Nice. Finally DBS wanted us to know the reason he did this, was just for us, selfless bastard that he is.

No trans talk

I don’t recall DBS mentioning anything trans-related during the performance but playing out on the screens were nightmarish images, depicting – what is known in the business as – ‘trans bodies’. For example, a drawing of a monster holding a phallus with a speech bubble – ‘Am I a woman?’ Or an alien-looking creature, with a penis-like proboscis – ‘You don’t see me as human’. Allusions to hormone usage and surgeries abounded. In other words, the same old.

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Conclusion

If I was going to critique Danielle Braithwaite-Shirley’s performance, I would say that it was a missed opportunity to have done something fun, but that goes with the territory for trans artistes – too self-centred, ill-disciplined and pretentious to do anything lighthearted. Instead we had manipulation with quasi-hypnotic exercises, some of which had more than a passing resemblance to Scientology communication drills. What he really wanted was for the room to explode – spontaneously – into chants of ‘we-love-you, we-love-you’ and dance round him in a ring a la Wicker Man mode. Desperately seeking authoritarianism, I’m afraid.

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