Amanda Anastasi speaks to Sapologie curator, Green Room Award winner, and Slamalamadingdong Grand Slam Champion, wāni.
How and where did you first discover spoken word?
Through a collective I found when I first arrived in Melbourne. It was the first space I’d ever felt truly free to be able to explore forms that weren’t always so readily available to me.
One of the most interesting and moving spoken word pieces I have heard recently is your poem ‘Silence’. In it, you demonstrate the gaps in our speech if we removed the lies and half truths from our daily narrative. Why do you think it is so hard for us to speak plainly and truthfully?
I think perhaps it’s because of the way we’ve been socialised and conditioned to exist. It seems as if we have to be and exist in a particular way that perhaps is different to who we feel we actually are, and vulnerability as well as honesty is exposing and that’s risky, so we tend to hide behind masks we create. Perhaps.
I have often considered spoken word and poetry to be the most direct form of artistic expression. Is this part of its appeal for you?
Yes, most definitely. It tends to cut through the b.s, I feel. It allows both the giver and the listener to penetrate parts of each other that aren’t often received in the same way through other forms – not even conversations – because of the assumptions that it often carries with it at times.
Your performances are paced and phrased very deliberately through your clever use of pauses, silences, and acceleration. What are the things you have learned so far about performing poetry that you would like to share?
That there are no rules to it except the ones you make for yourself. For me, it allows me to enter a space where I can better understand myself and the world around me, in a way that opens me up to share it with those willing to hear me. It also allows me to explore new ways in which to deliver things t
I recently saw your show ‘Don’t Worry, I’ve Got it Covered’, which was a cabaret tour de force! Your presence and authenticity onstage in something many performers aspire to. How important is it for you to be completely yourself onstage, and why is this important?
I had so much fun on stage that night! It was a real joy. Hmmm…being myself…what does that mean? Ok, I won’t go down that rabbit hole! I know what you mean – I am pretty relaxed onstage – these days, after years of performing and experientially working out what not to do!
I’d have to say it’s pretty important for me to feel relaxed and allow myself to be seen in all my flawed and fabulous glory onstage. I aim to be as uninhibited as possible so that I can ‘get out of my own way’ enough to honour the wild and wacky and messy and juicy human experience. Hopefully then people can connect and feel more ok with their humanness. I feel like if I’m ‘pretending’ people won’t trust me and will be less likely to let their hair down and come on the journey. Obviously, I don’t always manage to be 100 percent authentic, but it feels like every year I shed another layer of giving a shit, and that’s’ great! I’ve always loved authentic performers who are really uninhibited and eccentric and vulnerable. If someone is loving what they do, and allowing themselves to be seen, you feel super comfortable looking at them and it can be so engaging.
I remember when I used to life model, the art teacher would always tell the students not to try to draw a face the way they think it looks – not to make it up. If you actually look at it, the eyes are wonky and the mouth is not as you imagine, and the skin colour has greys and purples and blues and oranges. But if you try to paint what you think the skin colour is, it won’t be nearly as nuanced and beautiful.
Maybe this is a good analogy for how I feel about performers being authentic. I don’t want a perform
You wrote a poem about last year’s tragic Bourke Street incident, which was read at the Bourke Street Memorial Service in January by the Deputy Lord Mayor Arron Wood. What were you feeling, hearing your poem read by a public official at a major event?
I didn’t watch the poem read live at the venue or on TV. Let me explain why. One of the survivors of the Bourke Street attack is a friend of mine. As the first anniversary of the attack approached I found myself dwelling on those days. It was a difficult month. My father had died a few weeks before, in terrible circumstances. One day I was talking to my friend about what happened to my father, trying to make sense of it all. Then, a week later, I was visiting that friend in the Alfred Hospital, trying to make sense of such a senseless act.
So, a year on, I was thinking about January 2017 when the organisers of the Memorial emailed to ask whether I knew any poems that might be appropriate to read out. That email triggered me. I spent the next three days trying to write a poem about the events of January 2017. Before I sent the poem to the organisers, I told my friend what I’d done. I guess I was seeking his permission. He told me to send it, so I did. On the day of the Memorial I watched a bit on the TV, then turned it off. Once I heard from my friend that he liked the poem, I went back and watched the video. I thought Arron Wood did a great job with the reading. As for me, I was just relieved my friend thought it was OK.
Most of your poems are rather economical and look as though they are suspended and solitary on the blank page. Others are longer, less spaced out, and laid out in neat lines. What dictates the way a poem looks on the page?
I don’t know the answer to that question. The truth is that, for me, writing poetry is all about the process. I only write a poem when I feel something I don’t understand. Once I start writing, the poem shows me its form
In the lead up to the launch of her debut collection, ColourBlind, MSW’s Amanda Anastasi interviews Sharifa Tartoussi on going to the Australian poetry slam, loving her culture and examining privilege.
Sharifa, you won the Victorian Poetry Slam last year, qualifying you to compete in the Australian Poetry Slam at the Sydney Opera House. What were the things you gained from this experience?
I think the biggest thing that I gained was connections. I mean that both as an artist and as a person. I was able to connect with other artists from around the country and internationally. I was able to get to know more about them as people, about the creative projects that they are working on, the causes they hope to champion and the nature/vibe of the scenes that they came from. It was not only eye-opening in that sense, but hugely enriching, when it boils down to the best thing about this particular gain; I made new friends from around the country based on shared interest and these are now not only people I can collaborate with in the future, but people I get the feeling will be lifelong friends in some instances.
I also gained a huge amount of exposure, winning the Victorian final meant that there were radio interviews, news articles, a title I could put in the bio section of applications. It got people paying a lot more attention to me as an artist and to the conversations, I am hoping to prompt people to have more. I also got to perform at the Opera House which exposed me to a whole other arena of audience members and prospectors, which is always welcomed. It means that you have more people listening and likely to take heed of what you have to say.
Being on that big a stage also meant the I was forced to grow both as a person and an artist. It got me thinking about what was next for me and how I could keep advancing and challenging myself. Although initially, it meant that there were growing pains, I feel it helped me achieve a healthy e
Scott Wings talks to Amanda Anastasi about his Melbourne Comedy Festival show Colossi.
In Colossi, you draw on myth and fairytale, as well as a sense of play, to explore ideas on dealing with negativity, anxiety and strength. What, in life, is your ‘troll-resistant armour’?
I was talking about this with an artist friend of mine the other day and how all our friends are artists. My troll resistant armour is my non-artist friends. The ones I play video games and go fishing with. The ones who don’t care about the “industry” or the perils of it. And while they ask how I’m going and enquire about my career, I can share my life with them. It quickly becomes bad puns, mum jokes and a conversation about the new X Men movie. We make a bonfire and smoke a blunt and just chill the fuck out, ya know? You need that. Hanging out with artists too much quickly becomes an “inmates running the asylum” scenario. It’s not good for me to constantly have. So my mates are my grounding and the ones I turn to when I need to remember what life is actually about.
Tell us about your childhood imaginary friend.
Ironically I didn’t really meet Jack until I was working on this show. I was raised a single child and you’d assume I had one. But nah. Me and my ninja turtles toys got along just fine. But I was talking to a lot of people who had imaginary friends. One of my Brisbane friends had an imaginary friend who would cop the blame for all of her bad behaviour. Until she had to kill her imaginary friend so they “died in a fire.” Seriously. People’s brains are amazing. Now that Jack and I get to play a lot in COLOSSI I think often of how he would handle situations. Jack helps a lot. He’s handy to have around. Adults need more imaginary friends I think. As long as it’s not crazy for you.
Colossi would appeal to the child in all of us and is so refreshingly imaginative. It is
(Alternate Title: Part Two of the MSW article A Guide To Behaving Poetically Correct, in case you clicked on it but didn’t actually read it.)
The poetry gig convener is both a revered and detested breed of poet on the Melbourne poetry scene. He/she/they are a poet turned event manager, for little to no pay. We are somewhat saint-like creatures, really. We are the wheel that keeps it all moving, organising a night of poetry that is not our own (though that doesn’t stop some of us from making it about us. We’re only human…)
Often we don’t know if you’re being friendly to us because you genuinely like us, or because you’d like a gig. As poets, we are astute observers of the intricacies of human behaviour and see through your faux charm immediately. We simply smile through our tears, and soldier on. For poetry.
However, we would rather the slightly exaggerated interest in our work and chit chat that wouldn’t otherwise happen, to the unsubtle “How do I get a feature here?” or “I would like to feature here.” It’s like requesting sex without taking us out on a date or at least exchanging a few niceties. It’s a bit frightening for us. If we could afford security, we would call security.
The convener then feels uncomfortable. We are quite sensitive, you know. We’re poets. We wrote about our feelings in a notebook since we were six. If the convener does not want to feature you for some reason (which would be a perfectly reasonable one, be assured), they are now in a position where they must either reject you directly (not advised) or reply with polite excuses. Awkward. Contrary to your intention, it is not helping your career. It will only make the convener walk in the other direction when they see you. If the convener was intending to feature you already, you will never know that you were about to be asked. You will think you got the gig because you asked for it…and you are kind of missing out on the thrill of