It's not enough to 'save' theatre — we have to transform how its marginalized artists are treated

With theatre on the brink of collapse, artistic innovators share their vision for the future in the series finale of ​CBC Arts: Exhibitionists, streaming now on CBC Gem.

In the face of almost a year of empty stages and closed doors, there has been no shortage of coverage lamenting the future of the performing arts industry. But the shutdown of venues is only one facet of the mounting cry for change from within the theatre community. A spotlight is finally being shone on the precarity of being a freelance artist, and the impact of the Black Lives Matter movement has enabled Black, Indigenous, POC, Queer, and Disabled artists to unveil the oppression, discrimination, and racism that exists behind our industry's velvet curtains.

While many of our artistic organizations have responded to these testimonies with statements of "solidarity," "diversity," and a "commitment to more anti-oppression training," I find that many artists on the margins have privately (and even sometimes publicly) regarded these promises with skepticism and derision. How can there be true, meaningful change when we always see the same faces sitting at the decision-making tables and the same voices being consulted or amplified? As I read through article after article on "the future of the Toronto theatre," I wondered if I would ever come across a name I haven't already heard from.

So I decided to seek out some artists who felt unseen by our movers-and-shakers, and thankfully a couple of them were willing to speak with this stranger. I had the privilege of connecting with Ahlam Hassan and Gaitrie Persaud about all the unacknowledged work they do to create change in our industry, and the demands they have for our artistic leaders as we look toward the future.

Ahlam Hassan, a theatre maker currently studying at the University of Toronto, doesn't even feel comfortable with being called "an artist" because, as she explains, "I feel that my work is never allowed to be focused on just the acting, or just the studying, or being a [theatre] student, because I find myself in very Mammy-like roles in the spaces that I'm in."

Indeed, most of Hassan's time is spent on performing unpaid labour in support of IBPOC projects and advocating for IBPOC artists. In June of this year, Hassan and a group of students and alumni from UofT sent the Centre for Drama, Theatre and Performance Studies a comprehensive call to action demanding that the Centre "acknowledge and take responsibility for the harm and trauma caused by this institution's systemic racism." While it did result in a town hall meeting, Hassan says, "They refused to respond to allegations [of racism] against faculty," and the response from CDTPS still did not address all of the issues raised by the letter.

When asked what the arts industry can do to support her craft, Hassan expressed a sentiment that is shared by many marginalized artists right now: we need to reexamine who holds financial power in the industry and who is being paid what. "I would like to move out of being a volunteer artist," she says. "Only then can I begin to create."

Hassan also sees a lack of transparency in the industry that can make it difficult for emerging IBPOC artists to seek out creative opportunities. "I see projects that I'm interested in ... but I feel like it's taboo to reach out to people. I'm never in the room so I don't know how work is being made." In an industry where curatorial decisions and hirings are often made behind closed doors, Hassan's experience speaks to the need for more networking mentorships. It is not enough to provide training or conversations over coffee; we need to actively connect artists of colour with professional artistic opportunities.

Gaitrie Persaud — a Deaf Brown Queer actress and ASL performer — had to create her own opportunities because she was tired of seeing artists in the Deaf community not being recognized enough for their talents. So, in the middle of lockdown, Persaud founded a theatre hub called Phoenix The Fire. The hub seeks to "provide workshops, resources, and facilitate partnerships to leverage QTIBPOC Deaf artists and their endeavours."

Even though Persaud acknowledges that she has received some resources from the theatre community, she still urges the industry to dream bigger in their envisioning of accessibility and inclusivity. "Bring more Deaf talents to Canada! More Deaf plays! Give us a chance to work at the theatre company [in leadership roles] so we can get a better understanding of how it runs."

How can there be true, meaningful change when we always see the same faces sitting at the decision-making tables and the same voices being consulted and amplified?- Angela Sun

While the voices of artists like Hassan and Persaud are still largely sidelined in industry conversations around equity and future-planning, I did notice that this moment of upheaval has inspired a few organizations to reassess how they engaged with the wider arts community, and their assumptions around how to best support artists at this time.

One of these organizations is the David Seguin Memorial Award. The award is usually given to Toronto Fringe Festival productions that feature the work of Disabled artists. But when the Toronto Fringe had to dramatically alter their programming this summer, the Seguin family saw the opportunity to serve more artists by repurposing the award into a micro-grant fund.

When I applied to the grant earlier this year, I was struck by how easy the application process was. As an artist with a mental health disability, it was an enormous relief to find out that I did not have to provide a long and arduous proof of my worth during this difficult time. Award administrator Tyler Seguin tells me that the grant application was purposefully simplified with the understanding that most applications are incredibly taxing on artists with disabilities. "We tried to keep it as accessible as possible so people didn't feel like they had to prove anything or tell a story," he says. "You told us you needed it and we would send you the money."

Seguin credits much of this to his consultations with Disabled writer, performer, producer, and previous Seguin Memorial Award recipient Ophira Calof. Although Seguin has lived with a Disabled person (his brother David Seguin, for whom the award is named), he recognizes that because he himself is able-bodied, getting input was crucial. "It was important that we turn to an artist with a disability and say 'Do you mind having a conversation about what's needed, what's necessary, what would be helpful?'"

This consideration for the basic necessities of "artists on the edge" was also a priority for Toronto theatre company Cahoots Theatre when they created their own micro-grant fund Small Change. Cahoots' managing producer Lisa Alves tells me that when they first announced the program, people were surprised to learn that the grant's accessible application process offered financial support to artists without the expectation of an artistic product. But for Alves, their reasons for designing the fund this way was very clear: "We wanted to take care of our community, take care of the person, take care of not the business product but of the human."

Alves says it's all about how Cahoots values artists and the health of the arts community. "Artists are not just a commodity to make art. We can't just be giving people money for product. These are livelihoods that we need to support ... The value of one artist in the sector. I don't think we think about that."

While it was heartening to see these initiatives attempt to rewrite our paradigms around the accessibility of financial support, I believe we still have a ways to go yet. At a time when the wider public is just beginning to confront our long-standing histories of oppression, how do we work toward deep-rooted, wide-ranging, lasting change? How can we infuse the very foundations of our artistic institutions and practices with values of care and community-mindedness?

I posed these thoughts to Queer Afghan working class artist Shaista Latif, whose work I often turn to whenever I needed to be shaken out of my own complacency. Latif does not mince her words: "Workers' rights and equitable labour practices is where we should be utilizing our skill sets as communicators and mobilizers. We should refrain from valourizing the 'million-and-one' hustle mentality and recognize artists are also exploited and precarious workers."

Latif believes that marginalized artists "can experience a collectivity that goes beyond responding only to a sense of lacking and disempowerment by practising coalition-building and community work, and recognizing and aligning with political values and principles." But she recognizes, like Hassan and Persaud, that the industry does not adequately support this work when there is "a lack of advancement and space for critical thinkers and challenging interlocutors from the margins, especially working class people."

Latif ends her email to me with the statement, "The arts have become a luxury." I couldn't stop thinking about the irony of that truth at a time when the arts are supposedly more necessary than ever and we are increasingly reliant on the labour of marginalized artists for education, for healing, and for connection.

So help our artists work and live. Value our time. Compensate us fairly. Ask us what we need — not just some of us, but all of us.

The quotes in this article have been edited and condensed for clarity.